How to Fail at Almost Everything and Still Win Big: Kind of the Story of My Life (3 page)
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Authors: Scott Adams
Passion Is Bullshit
You often hear
advice from successful people that you should “follow your passion.” That sounds perfectly reasonable the first time you hear it. Passion will presumably give you high energy, high resistance to rejection, and high determination. Passionate people are more persuasive, too. Those are all good things, right?
Here’s the counterargument: When I was a commercial loan officer for a large bank in San Francisco, my boss taught us that you should never make a loan to someone who is following his passion. For example, you don’t want to give money to a sports enthusiast who is starting a sports store to pursue his passion for all things sporty. That guy is a bad bet, passion and all. He’s in business for the wrong reason.
My boss, who had been a commercial lender for over thirty years, said the best loan customer is one who has no passion whatsoever, just a desire to work hard at something that looks good on a spreadsheet. Maybe the loan customer wants to start a dry-cleaning store or invest in a fast-food franchise—boring stuff. That’s the person you bet on. You want the grinder, not the guy who loves his job.
So who’s right? Is passion a useful tool for success, or is it just something that makes you irrational?
My hypothesis is that passionate people are more likely to take big risks in the pursuit of unlikely goals, and so you would expect to see more failures and more huge successes among the passionate. Passionate people who fail don’t get a chance to offer their advice to the
rest of us. But successful passionate people are writing books and answering interview questions about their secrets for success every day. Naturally those successful people want you to believe that success is a product of their awesomeness, but they also want to retain some humility. You can’t be humble and say, “I succeeded because I am far smarter than the average person.” But you can say your passion was a key to your success, because everyone can be passionate about something or other. Passion sounds more accessible. If you’re dumb, there’s not much you can do about it, but passion is something we think anyone can generate in the right circumstances. Passion feels very democratic. It is the people’s talent, available to all.
It’s also mostly bullshit.
It’s easy to be passionate about things that are working out, and that distorts our impression of the importance of passion. I’ve been involved in several dozen business ventures over the course of my life, and each one made me excited at the start. You might even call it passion. The ones that didn’t work out—and that would be most of them—slowly drained my passion as they failed. The few that worked became more exciting as they succeeded.
For example, when I invested in a restaurant with an operating partner, my passion was sky-high. And on day one, when there was a line of customers down the block, I was even more passionate. In later years, as the business got pummeled, my passion evolved into frustration and annoyance. The passion disappeared.
On the other hand,
Dilbert
started out as just one of many get-rich schemes I was willing to try. When it started to look as if it might be a success, my passion for cartooning increased because I realized it could be my golden ticket. In hindsight, it looks as if the projects I was most passionate about were also the ones that worked. But objectively,
my passion level moved with my success. Success caused passion more than passion caused success.
Passion can also be a simple marker for talent. We humans tend to enjoy doing things we are good at, while not enjoying things we suck at. We’re also fairly good at predicting what we might be good at before we try. I was passionate about tennis the first day I picked up a racket, and I’ve played all my life. But I also knew in an instant that it was the type of thing I could be good at, unlike basketball or football. So sometimes passion is simply a by-product of knowing you will be good at something.
I hate selling, but I know that’s because I’m bad at it. If I were a sensational salesperson or had potential to be one, I’d probably feel passionate about sales. And people who observed my success would assume my passion was causing my success as opposed to being a mere indicator of talent.
If you ask a billionaire the secret of his success, he might say it is passion, because that sounds like a sexy answer that is suitably humble. But after a few drinks I think he’d say his success was a combination of desire, luck, hard work, determination, brains, and appetite for risk.
So forget about passion when you’re planning your path to success. In the coming chapters I’ll describe some methods for boosting personal energy that have worked for me. You already know that when your energy is right you perform better at everything you do, including school, work, sports, and even your personal life. Energy is good. Passion is bullshit.
Some of My Many Failures in Summary Form
I’m delighted to
admit that I’ve failed at more challenges than anyone I know. There’s a nonzero chance that reading this book will set you on the path of your own magnificent screwups and cavernous disappointments. You’re welcome! And if I forgot to mention it earlier, that’s exactly where you want to be: steeped to your eyebrows in failure. It’s a good place to be because failure is where success likes to hide in plain sight. Everything you want out of life is in that huge, bubbling vat of failure. The trick is to get the good stuff out.
If success were easy, everyone would do it. It takes effort. That fact works to your advantage because it keeps lazy people out of the game. And don’t worry if you’re lazy too. Much of this book involves tricks for ramping up your energy without much effort. In fact, the process of simply reading this book might give you a little boost of optimism. I designed it to do just that. So you’re already moving in the right direction.
I’m an optimist by nature, or perhaps by upbringing—it’s hard to know where one leaves off and the other begins—but whatever the cause, I’ve long seen failure as a tool, not an outcome. I believe that viewing the world in that way can be useful for you too.
Nietzsche famously said, “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” It sounds clever, but it’s a loser philosophy. I don’t want my failures to simply make me stronger,
*
which I interpret as making me better able
to survive future challenges. Becoming stronger is obviously a good thing, but it’s only
barely
optimistic. I do want my failures to make me stronger, of course, but I also want to become smarter, more talented, better networked, healthier, and more energized. If I find a cow turd on my front steps, I’m not satisfied knowing that I’ll be mentally prepared to find some future cow turd. I want to shovel that turd onto my garden and hope the cow returns every week so I never have to buy fertilizer again.
*
Failure is a resource that can be managed.
Prior to launching
Dilbert,
and after, I failed at a long series of day jobs and entrepreneurial adventures. Here’s a quick listing of the worst ones. I’m probably forgetting a dozen or so. I include this section because successful people generally gloss over their most aromatic failures, and it leaves the impression that they have some magic you don’t. When you’re done reading this list, you won’t have that delusion about me, and that’s the point. Success is entirely accessible, even if you happen to be a huge screwup 95 percent of the time.
My Favorite Failures:
Velcro Rosin Bag Invention:
In the seventies, tennis players sometimes used rosin bags to keep their racket hands less sweaty. In college I built a prototype of a rosin bag that attached to a Velcro strip on tennis shorts so it would always be available when needed. My lawyer told me it wasn’t patentworthy because it was simply a combination of two existing products. I approached some sporting-goods companies and got nothing but form-letter rejections. I dropped the idea. But in the process I learned a valuable lesson: Good ideas have no value because the world already has too many of them. The market rewards
execution,
not ideas. From that point on, I concentrated on ideas I could execute. I was already failing toward success, but I didn’t yet know it.
My First Job Interview:
It was my senior year at Hartwick College and I started interviewing for real-world jobs. One day Hartwick hosted a career day on campus. The only company that interested me was Xerox. They were looking for two field salespeople. At the time, Xerox seemed like a good company for the long run. I just needed
to get my foot in the door with an entry-level sales job and work my way up. Several of my classmates were interviewing for the same two openings. I was familiar with their academic standings and I knew I had the best grades of the bunch. I figured my academic excellence would be the advantage I needed for a sales position. That is how ignorant I was.
As far as I knew at the time, my interview with the recruiter went well. I explained that I had no sales experience but loved to argue. And what is selling, I asked rhetorically, if not a form of arguing with customers until you win? Yes, I really took that approach.
That failure taught me to look for opportunities in which I had some natural advantage. When I later decided to try cartooning, it was because I knew there weren’t many people in the world who could draw funny pictures and also write in a witty fashion. My failure taught me to seek opportunities in which I had an advantage.
Meditation Guide:
Soon after college, a friend and I wrote a beginner’s guide to meditation. I had meditated for years and found a lot of benefits in it. We advertised our meditation guide in minor publications and sold about three copies. I learned a good deal about local advertising, marketing, and product development. All of that came in handy later.
Computer Game 1:
In the early eighties I spent about half of my net worth buying a portable computer. This was before the age of laptops, when “portable” meant that an adult with good upper-body strength could lift it. I spent almost every night and every weekend for two years trying to teach myself enough about programming to create a space-themed, arcade-type game. I managed to design and build the game, and it worked quite well. But it took me so long to create it that the state of the art for computer-game design had surged ahead, making my simple space game look archaic. I advertised the game in the backs of computer publications and sold fewer than twenty copies.
Note: There is a successful and well-known computer game designer named Scott Adams. I’m not him.
Computer Game 2:
I decided to take another run at a space-themed game, this time with a point of view from the cockpit of a spaceship as you navigated through the stars and hunted satellites to blast from the sky. This was a much higher level of difficulty than the first, and it took all of my free time for a year. The game worked, but I’m the only person to ever play it. The technology of the time was too primitive to build the game I imagined. Or maybe my skills were inadequate. It was probably a combination.
Psychic Practice Program:
I wrote a computer program to track and graph the “psychic” ability of users. It was a simple program that involved picking the right on-screen card from a choice of four. The idea was to see if you could stay above 25 percent. I don’t believe in psychic powers, and my random-number generator was less random than I would have liked, but that didn’t matter. It was just for fun. The fun was derived from the fact that sometimes, by pure chance, you could stay above 25 percent for a brief run. During the above-average runs you would have the sensation of being psychic, or at least lucky. The way our brains are wired, the lucky streaks feel good even if we know they are nothing but chance.
For months I dedicated all of my spare time to creating the program. It worked well, but I decided it wasn’t special enough to be worth the trouble of marketing it. It just wasn’t exciting.
All of my computer-game ideas failed, but in the process I learned enough about personal computers to look like a technical genius in those early days of computing—the eighties. That knowledge transferred to my day job at the bank and later to my cartooning career as well.
Gopher Offer:
During my banking career, in my late twenties, I caught the attention of a senior vice president at the bank. Apparently my bullshit skills in meetings were impressive. He offered me a job as his gopher/assistant with the vague assurance that I would meet important executives during the normal course of my work and that would make it easy for him to strap a rocket to my ass—as the saying went—and launch me up the corporate ladder. On the downside, the challenge would be to survive his less-than-polite management style and do his bidding for a few years. I declined his
offer because I was already managing a small group of people so becoming a gopher seemed like a step backward. I believe the senior vice president’s exact characterization of my decision was “F#@*&G STUPID!!!” He hired one of my coworkers for the job instead, and in a few years that fellow became one of the youngest vice presidents in the bank’s history.
I worked for Crocker National Bank in San Francisco for about eight years, starting at the very bottom and working my way up to lower management. That career ultimately failed when I hit the diversity ceiling, but during the course of my banking career, and in line with my strategy of learning as much as I could about the ways of business, I gained an extraordinarily good overview of banking, finance, technology, contracts, management, and a dozen other useful skills. That allowed me to jump ship to a much higher-paying job at …
Phone Company Career:
I worked at Pacific Bell for another eight years, mostly doing financial jobs—budgeting and writing business cases for projects. But I also worked as a fake (literally) engineer in a technology lab, and I had a finger in strategy, marketing, research, interface design, and several other fields. That career hit the diversity ceiling just as my banking career had, but in the process I learned a huge amount about business from every angle. And my total corporate experience formed the knowledge base upon which
Dilbert
was born.
Zippy Ship:
I spent about a year writing a program in my free time to make modem-to-modem file transfers easier. This was before e-mail could easily send large files. I turned my little condo into a technology lab. By then I was working my day job at the phone company while also producing
Dilbert
.
I’m sure the Zippy Ship name is taken, but that was my working name for the program. Its coolest feature was the menu. When you fired up the program, a zipper appeared on-screen and quickly unzipped with an appropriate sound effect. The rectangular menu popped out of the zipper sideways in a suggestively phallic manner that I thought would get people talking about it.
I put an enormous amount of work into getting the technology to work across all modem types, but it was a lost cause. Modems
weren’t standardized enough to pull it off with my meager resources and know-how. The best I could accomplish was making it work on two specific modems. That was useless. I stopped working on the product, and while I didn’t gain any new technical knowledge that helped me later, I did gain a clearer understanding of how hard it would be to gnaw through a wall to make something work.
Crackpot Idea Web Site:
I like crackpot ideas because I find them inherently interesting, and often they inspire ideas that have merit. I also like coming up with my own crackpot ideas, sometimes several per day. I figured other people might like the same thing. I created a Web site through my syndication company for user-submitted crackpot ideas. I hoped that perhaps it could change the world if someone were to accidentally come up with a great idea that wouldn’t have found oxygen in any other way. The site was a subsidiary of
Dilbert.com
, which had plenty of traffic, so it wasn’t hard to get exposure. The problem is that the ideas people submitted were so awful they didn’t even rise to the level of crackpot. It didn’t take long for the site to be populated with so much well-intentioned garbage that it became worthless. We shut it down.
In the process of failing I learned a lot about Web site design and implementing new features. That knowledge has served me well on several projects.
Video on Internet:
During the dot-com frenzy I was approached by the founders of a start-up that planned to allow anyone with a computer to post videos on the Internet for the collective viewing pleasure of all. They asked me to use my
Dilbert
spotlight to help get the word out. The start-up didn’t have much funding, so they offered me a generous chunk of stock instead. I accepted. I talked about the new service in my
Dilbert
newsletter, posted my own funny videos, and did some interviews on the topic.
Several years later, Google bought YouTube for $1.65 billion and the shareholders made a fortune. Unfortunately, the video service in my story was not YouTube. It was a service that came before. The company I worked with was premature because Internet speeds were not quite fast enough for online video sharing to catch on. The company struggled for a few years and then shut down. YouTube got the timing right. This was about the time I
started to understand that timing is often the biggest component of success. And since timing is often hard to get right unless you are psychic, it makes sense to try different things until you get the timing right by luck.
Grocery Home Delivery
: An engineer friend and I decided to work together to create technology that would make home delivery of groceries more practical. The idea was to create technology that would allow a delivery van to open your garage door so the driver could place the delivery inside even when you were not home, perhaps in a cooler. Our plan was to sell the technology to grocery stores that wanted to start delivering. I know, I know: lots of security concerns. I’ll spare the details, but we thought we could design some safeguards to bring the risks to nearly zero. We could have a long debate on whether that was possible, but it didn’t matter because my friend got busy on other projects and bowed out. The idea didn’t get far enough to generate any benefits in knowledge or talent, but I hadn’t put much effort into it either.
Webvan:
Some years later, in the dot-com era, a start-up called Webvan promised to revolutionize grocery delivery. You could order grocery-store items over the Internet and one of Webvan’s trucks would load your order at the company’s modern distribution hub and set out to service all the customers in your area. I figured Webvan would do for groceries what Amazon had done for books. It was a rare opportunity to get in on the ground floor. I bought a bunch of Webvan stock and felt good about myself. When the stock plunged, I bought some more. I repeated that process several times, each time licking my lips as I acquired ever-larger blocks of the stock at prices I knew to be a steal.
When management announced they had achieved positive cash flow at one of their several hubs, I knew I was onto something. If it worked in one hub, the model was proven, and it would surely work at others. I bought more stock. Now I owned approximately, well, a boatload.
A few weeks later, Webvan went out of business. Investing in Webvan wasn’t the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s a contender. The loss wasn’t enough to change my lifestyle. But boy, did
it sting psychologically. In my partial defense, I knew it was a gamble, not an investment per se.
What I learned from that experience is that there is no such thing as useful information that comes from a company’s management. Now I diversify and let the lying get smoothed out by all the other variables in my investments.
Professional Investors:
After my Webvan disaster I figured I might need some professional investing help.
Dilbert
royalties were pouring in and I didn’t have the time to do my own research. Nor did I trust my financial skills, and for good reason.
My bank, Wells Fargo, pitched me on its investment services, and I decided to trust it with half of my investible funds. Trust is probably the wrong term because I only let Wells Fargo have half; I half trusted it. I did my own investing with the other half of my money. The experts at Wells Fargo helpfully invested my money in Enron, WorldCom, and some other names that have become synonymous with losing money. Clearly my investment professionals did not have access to better information than I had. I withdrew my money from their management and have done my own thing since then, mostly in broad-market, unmanaged funds. (That has worked out better.)
Folderoo:
In the early days of
Dilbert,
when floppy disks were still in widespread use, it was common to hand a coworker a document along with a floppy disk in case the coworker needed to make changes. The problem was that there was no elegant way to attach a floppy disk to a piece of paper. My brilliant idea was to invent a manila folder with a kangaroo-type pocket on the front to hold the disk. It wouldn’t cost much more than a regular folder to produce, and it would be twice as useful. I figured the product could have a
Dilbert
tie-in because Dilbert has a shirt pocket much like I was putting on the folder. I made a prototype (which took five minutes) and pitched it to my syndicate, United Media, which I hoped could find a licensee who would produce and market the product while we collected royalties for the
Dilbert
association. This idea went nowhere because United Media was in the licensing business, not the product-design business, and this idea was out of its strike
zone. I assume the name Folderoo is owned by someone else at this point. Eventually some folder companies made and sold folders with pockets for disks. I don’t know how well they did.