The Monk and the Riddle: The Art of Creating a Life While Making a Living
Page 1
Copyright 2010 Randy Komisar
All rights reserved
The Web sites or URLs mentioned in this book originated in my imagination. Some of them may coincide with the names or URLs of real sites. This is fortuitous, and no resemblance should be inferred. All references to my life — personal and professional—are based in fact, but they reflect my interpretation of events. Lenny, Allison, and Frank are composite portraits of would-be entrepreneurs and venture capitalists with whom I interact daily. Their characters and their dialogue, however fictionalized, are true to my experiences.
CONTENTS
Preface to the New Edition: POSTMORTEM
Prologue THE RIDDLE
1 THE PITCH
2 THE RULES OF THE GAME
3 THE VIRTUAL CEO
4 THE DEFERRED LIFE PLAN
5 The ROMANCE, NOT THE FINANCE
6 THE BIG IDEA
7 THE BOTTOM LINE
8 THE ART OF LEADERSHIP
9 THE GAMBLE
10 THE WHOLE LIFE PLAN
Epilogue THE ROAD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Praise for The Monk and the Riddle and Randy Komisar
“[Komisar's] advice for people in any business to junk the ‘Deferred Life Plan’ and live for the moment is a message everyone can appreciate.”
—Publisher's Weekly
“Komisar delivers this inspirational advice with a Zen-like detachment…. The result is part instruction manual, part visionary manifesto for humanizing a cultural revolution whose get-rich-quick optimism may be only a version of old-fashioned boosterism recast for an entrepreneurial millennium.”
—Washington Post Book World
“So interesting and well-written you almost don't want to put it down.”
—Fortune.com
“A disarming … book that injects some welcome spirit into a stiff genre.”
—Wired
“The Monk and the Riddle is a reminder that we do not need to sacrifice our lives to make a living. Komisar offers a long-overdue antidote to today's cash-in—cash-out mentality.”
—Stewart Alsop, Columnist, Fortune
“This book makes you laugh. It makes you want to cry. But most important, it makes you stop and think.”
—Bruce Judson, Author, HyperWars and Net Marketing
“Mentor, guide, chief strategist and even spiritual adviser … For Komisar, perfecting the role of virtual CEO has been an opportunity to pare leadership to its essence.”
—San Jose Mercury News
“[Komisar is] part sensitive coach, part tough-talking businessman.”
—Business 2.0
THE MONK
AND THE
RIDDLE
THE MONK
AND THE
RIDDLE
THE ART OF
CREATING A LIFE WHILE
MAKING A LIVING
RANDY KOMISAR
WITH KENT LINEBACK
For D2 and T2
Every moment some form grows perfect in hand or face; some tone on the hills or the sea is choicer than the rest; some mood of passion or insight or intellectual excitement is irresistibly real and attractive to us—for that moment only. Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end. A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated, dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy? To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.
—Walter Pater, Studies in the History of the Renaissance (1873)
Preface to the New Edition
POSTMORTEM
IT HAS been only two and a half years since Kent Lineback and I sat down to write The Monk and the Riddle and a short year since its release, but things have certainly changed dramatically.
The millennium celebration marked a decade of prosperity that had boiled over into giddy enthusiasm for a future limited only by our imaginations. The Internet epitomized this boundless optimism and permeated every corner of the media. The stock market became the barometer of our exuberance. But today people fear the future with the guilt of a child who has had too much fun and expects to pay the price.
A year ago, the NASDAQ was soaring at over 5,000; now it sulks at less than 2,000. Last year, dot-coms were proclaimed the monarchs of the so-called New Economy; now even the blue chips of the technology industry such as Cisco, Oracle, and Microsoft are trading near fifty-two-week lows. In 1999, venture capitalists could not get their fill of dot-coms; today promising teams and ideas starve without capital. A year ago, carpetbaggers and speculators poured into startups pronouncing themselves smart and rich; but in the wake of today's dot-com bankruptcies and layoffs, many young wannabes are slinking off to work their way up the corporate ladder instead. Day traders once exchanged suits for T-shirts and tasseled loafers for sandals, making money thoughtlessly as they clicked away on keyboards; today they are all but washed out. And it seems like an eternity since Amazon's Jeff Bezos smiled at us triumphantly from the cover of Time as 1999's Man of the Year. This year, he is downsizing and jettisoning unpromising business units just to stay afloat.
What the heck happened?
I WISH I could say that I saw all of this coming. Like a few other skeptics, I felt certain that the dot-com bubble would burst. The Monk in fact employs the metaphors of death and funerals not just to poke fun at the silly excesses of the mania, but more importantly to foreshadow its demise. Still, the severity of the boom and bust, the polarity of investor optimism and pessimism, and the devastating impact on the best of companies surprised even me.
When I started to write The Monk, I was unsure of how the book would be received by my close friends and associates as well as by the market at large. I felt distinctly alone looking the dot-com gift horse in the mouth. I had partaken of its gifts most willingly and was not happy to conclude that they were unsustainable. But people I greatly respect were certain that I was being alarmist.
I wrote the book anyway.
I focused on a critical weak link in the chain: the human side, the entrepreneurs and their motivations. While investors, analysts, and entrepreneurs were mesmerized by the brilliant horizons of the New Economy, I questioned whether the rickety ships we had launched with their inexperienced captains could ever get there. While the market momentum seemed inexhaustible, I wondered if beyond greed there was enough passion to fortify the startup crews when the seas got rough—and they always do.
Business is tough. Tenacity and endurance are key to business success. But tenacity is seldom sustained simply by the drive for riches. Endurance most often wanes in the face of persistent obstacles if money is the overwhelming objective.
During this time of reflection and commercial penance, the messages of The Monk seem more applicable than ever. No matter how hard we work or how smart we are, our financial success is ultimately dependent on circumstances outside our control. (Ask any once high-flying startup that is currently looking for a life-saving round of financing in these bleak times.) In order to find satisfaction in our work, therefore, we should train our attention on those things that we can influence and that matter to us personally.
The Monk encourages us to consider how we spend our time, not our money. Marrying our values and passions to the energy we invest in work, it suggests, increases the significance o
f each moment. Consider your budget of time in terms of how much you are willing to allocate to acquiring things versus how much you are willing to devote to people, relationships, family, health, personal growth, and the other essential components of a high-quality life. Rather than working to the exclusion of everything else in order to flood our bank accounts in the hope that we can eventually buy back what we have missed along the way, we need to live life fully now with a sense of its fragility. If money ultimately cannot buy much of life's total package anyway, why waste precious time earning more for its own sake? The Monk encourages us to make work pay, not just in cash, but in experience, satisfaction, and joy. These sources of contentment provide their own rewards and are durable in the face of adversity. We still have an opportunity to retune the balance between passion and drive—to express ourselves holistically in what we do, rather than to defer what is important until it is too late.
Don't be mistaken. Following your passion is not the same as following your bliss. While passion is a font of expressive, creative energy, it won't necessarily deliver pleasure and contentment at every moment. Success, even on your own terms, entails sacrifice and periods of very hard work. Following your passion will not necessarily make you rich, but then again it won't hurt your chances either, since most people are far more successful working at things they love. You have to engage passion realistically, with an eye toward what is achievable given your circumstances.
I have been delighted and gratified by the ardent response to the messages in The Monk. I heard from a young woman who had pursued the big payoff by working at a series of failed startups. The Monk reinforced her feeling that life is too short to spend it chasing elusive riches, and she left her job to try her hand at her passion, writing. A professor in Texas wrote and produced a marvelous short performance piece, a monologue, exploring the Deferred Life Plan. A number of entrepreneurs on the money-raising trail told me that after reading The Monk they had been emboldened to focus on the lasting value they wished to create rather than on their exit strategy. Many educators have included The Monk in their courses to encourage their students to think more holistically about their careers. And a few of the most respected venture capitalists let me know that The Monk captured the underlying passion and reason for doing what they do—the chance to turn ideas into viable enterprises that can change the world and to prosper in the process.
I have also heard from people who agree wholeheartedly with the messages of The Monk but question whether they apply only to a select few privileged with substantial options regarding work and career. Surely things are different for an underskilled single mother of three barely scraping by on minimum wage. But even so there are people who tell me that The Monk has inspired them to improve their circumstances—to find jobs that are more consistent with their interests and values, to learn new skills that provide satisfaction and growth, to reach for more rewarding opportunities and engaging challenges. I am reminded that finding meaning and fulfillment in one's work should not be an elitist notion.
A few readers were disappointed that The Monk never attempts to address specifically how to create a successful business. I don't have a prescription for financial success, nor do I think one exists. In truth, The Monk is not primarily a business book; that is, it is not about buying low and selling high, but rather about creating a life while making a living. It is about the need to fashion a meaningful existence that engages you in the time and place in which you find yourself. It is about the purpose of work and the integration of what one does with what one believes. The Monk is not about how, but about why.
SINCE The Monk WAS PUBLISHED, I have ridden my bicycle across the extremely challenging Himalayan landscape of Bhutan, a country that measures its prosperity by Gross National Happiness rather than Gross National Product. Things are different there. The volume is turned down; the clock slowed. The pace of life is gentle. Fancy things are few and far between, but those precious qualities of life that seem to vanish in a Western society intent on measuring everything are not forgotten in Bhutan.
It was a gorgeous adventure. As I am wont to do, I spent some time visiting several Tibetan-style Buddhist monasteries that are home to communities of friendly monks in crimson robes. At one point, I had the rare privilege of an audience with a distinguished eighty-year-old lama who practiced the art of medicinal Buddhism. His nephew made the introduction and interpreted for us.
Two friends and I sat in a semicircle at the foot of the lama's raised platform. The temple was dark, streaked with smoky light that gave the room a mystical air. Behind us was an altar of large sitting Buddhas. Yak butter lamps sputtered in the foreground. The main walls were covered in beautiful paintings detailing Buddha's life and the introduction of Buddhism to Bhutan by Guru Rimpoche some 1,300 years ago. Many of the images were Tantric, depicting the struggling union of wisdom and compassion in the orgasmic joining of man and woman. The paintings were covered by colorful wall hangings to protect them from the elements and untrained minds. Elephant tusks arced heavenward at the corners of the altar, a reference to the crucial role of the white elephant in the birth of the Buddha.
Before us sat this lovely old lama. A few days' growth on his chin and head, he constantly stroked his scalp, luxuriating in the feel. His teeth were obviously not all there, and he scrunched his lower jaw in the fashion of an old man who has forgotten his dentures. His once-white long johns showed under his heavy robe, insulating him from the early-morning chill. Behind him, the light penetrated through the filthy old windows that looked out 14,000 feet over the valley and beyond. All around the windows were piles and piles of bright red chilies—hot chilies—to warm the Bhutanese bellies and hide the blandness of their cuisine.
Each member of my party was permitted to ask the lama one question. I would come last. As each query was made in turn, I used the time to come up with a question worthy of such an eminence. What could I possibly ask that would not embarrass me by its triviality? How could I tap this holy man's wisdom?
Finally it was my turn. The lama looked down at me with compassion and perhaps a little boredom. His nephew stared at me imploringly. I sat, quiet.
After a long moment, I asked softly, “Your holiness, with your great age, experience, and wisdom you have encountered many things. You have certainly answered many questions. What question still perplexes you? When you sit in meditation, what question do you still ask yourself?”
The lama's nephew wrinkled his brow and haltingly translated my question. He launched into an explanation far lengthier than my own while the old lama nodded, peering occasionally in my direction.
I feared I might have crossed a boundary, perhaps offended him. But after an instant of contemplation, the old lama turned to me and fixed his eyes on mine. Then he spoke gently, and ended with the lilt of a question in his indecipherable Bhutanese.
He continued to stare into me as his nephew said simply, “The lama says he still doesn't understand why people are not kinder to each other.”
That was it. We got up slowly, made our bows, and climbed down the steep ladder to the dark, cold living quarters and the walled open-air courtyard. As we entered into the bright morning light, we could see the clouds dispersing from the valley. The young monks went about their business, sweeping the grounds and cleaning the morning dishes, smiling at us whenever we caught their eyes. As we left the compound and started down the mountain, we turned to see the old lama staring at us and waving from his dirty, chili-festooned windows, still fondling his scratchy scalp and munching down on his toothless jaw.
Another monk, another riddle. And, as with The Monk and the Riddle, the answer lies not in dollars and cents, but in who we are and what we believe.
—Randy Komisar
March 2001
THE MONK
AND THE
RIDDLE
Prologue
THE
RIDDLE
IT'S FEBRUARY 1999, and I'm motorcycling across the most arid expanse of
Burma, now officially Myanmar. The boundless landscape is relieved only by one ribbon of life: the rich river basin of the Aye Yarwaddy that drains the Himalayas and wears a groove through the middle of this starkly beautiful country. My destination is Bagan, an ancient city studded with more than 5,000 temples and stupas over thirty square kilometers. The group I have been traveling with—American bicyclists mostly—are far ahead. Having loaned my bicycle to one of my compatriots whose bike never arrived for the trip, I have been waylaid and detoured pleasantly for hours.
I spot a makeshift taxi ahead, a rickety, Chinese-made truck onto which thirty or so passengers are clinging and clambering. Many of the riders, men and women alike, wear colorful longyis—simple pieces of cotton or silk that have been sewn into loops and resemble long skirts—to reflect their tribal affiliations. Most of the women and some of the men have streaked their cheeks, foreheads, and noses with a mudlike paste made from the bark of the thanaka tree, which serves as both cosmetic and sunscreen. Standing on the rear bumper is a young monk, his plum robes pulled over his head to block the sun. He motions toward me, communicating emphatically, if wordlessly. He wants a ride on the motorcycle. I nod in equally silent assent and stop angling to pass the truck, instead trailing it until it stops to lose some and gain some. The monk hops off the truck happily and walks slowly toward me, flashing a warm, penetrating smile. Unleashing my backpack from the seat behind me, I gesture for him to put it on. He dons it and tries to shove a wad of grimy, threadbare bills, kyat, into my hand.