No matter how worthy an idea, you are not entitled to blind trust. There will be weaknesses in your arguments. And others will rightfully use them as a rationale for their obstinacy. The good news is they will push you to be better. I’ve learned that everything is feedback. It’s all data to plug into the process. Try, fail, iterate, try again.
Each rejection suggests a new approach. Think too large, or become too emotional, and you become paralyzed. You have to focus on the process, on the one thing you can do today to keep momentum. It helps to break down the larger vision into smaller, more manageable bites that can be acted upon. It allows you to exert control. With the NBC Experience Store, each time we presented it to Bob, we had more detail baked into the plan—assumptions became grounded in real costs, partners, and technologies. At each meeting we presented something tangible—for example, a sample product or the diorama of an immersive theater in which to experience NBC’s history.
While I was in the top PR job, Ed Scanlon and I became friends. He took me under his long, skinny wings in the aftermath of the launch of MSNBC, during which period I spent time with GE CEO Jack Welch and Microsoft boss Bill Gates. (And this time I made sure they remembered my name.) But unbeknownst to me, Ed served as my agent, talking me up behind my back.
And then the phone rang.
CHAPTER 2
THE OUTSIDER INSIDE
The Starmaker
Hi Beth,” the voice on the line said. It was Rosanne Badowski, Jack Welch’s secretary. “Jack would like you to come upstairs please.”
It was July of 1998, and the mood inside NBC was exultant. NBC was killing it. The network had made a startling transformation since my arrival in 1994. My role as vice president of NBC News had helped launch me, and I had helped launch the network back to relevancy. After becoming a senior vice president of corporate communications at NBC in 1996, I’d settled into my new leadership role as an executive and strategist. I’d built a tight, cohesive team; we were energetic, creative, and hungry to push boundaries and do more.
I knew Jack Welch a bit, but not well. I was on his radar from regular business updates and especially the annual performance reviews Bob Wright conducted as part of GE’s process to evaluate senior managers. Since I had played a big role in the noisy launch of MSNBC, I interacted directly with Jack. One media event I created, a Jack and Bill “unplugged” session, brought them together with a dozen handpicked editors and no agenda other than to discuss the state of the world. Anxious and sweating everything, I even fretted over whether the smudges on Bill Gates’s eyeglasses might show up in the group photo.
I grabbed my notebook and headed for the elevator. Practically from the moment GE bought NBC in 1986, there were rumors it would be sold. So I assumed Jack was calling me in to discuss details of a sale, which would be my job to position to the media.
Rosanne pushed a small, unobtrusive white button to make his impressive wood door slide open; through a window, the Empire State Building came into view, and I walked into Jack’s office.
After a bit of media gossip, Jack cut to the chase. But it wasn’t the chase I’d expected.
“I want you to come work for me at GE,” he said.
No one had given me a heads-up, or even a hint.
The job he proceeded to define was entirely about change. Jack was just about to transition from his twenty-year tenure as CEO. But first he was looking to cement his legacy. And what he had in mind was a “horse race”: a very public, multiyear contest in which three men would vie for the leadership of one of America’s biggest companies. My job would be vice president of corporate communications and advertising—a position that would become, basically, the stage manager for one of the most public sea changes in American business.
Moving to GE was never something I had contemplated. GE managers frequently moved internally from business unit to business unit, and they loved being assigned to NBC. But rarely—if ever—did someone venture from NBC to GE. Media people wanted to be media people, not industrialists. I felt completely in my element pushing the boundaries inside NBC. GE would be something else entirely.
I muttered something to Jack about our successes at NBC, but he cut me off. “No, the question you have to ask yourself now is: Are you ready to leave media?” he said. “And I hope you are, because this will be fun.”
Ed Scanlon—the Grim Reaper turned mentor—was waiting for me when I left Jack’s suite. As I walked into his office, he stated the obvious (with a smile): “You know you can’t say no, right?”
But I already knew my answer. This was a path I had to follow, even if I had no idea where it was leading me.
* * *
—
When I accepted Jack’s offer, it meant I’d have to live near GE’s offices in Fairfield, Connecticut. I immediately called our Realtor and had our New Jersey house on the market within forty-eight hours. By this time, my family had grown. I had married Chris. He had left journalism to become a “new media” executive, exploring early forms of data for television. We’d had a daughter, Meredith, when Katie was six. We all loved our life, living now in the vibrant community of Montclair, New Jersey. We’d recently finished renovating a run-down old Victorian; it had been hectic and hands-on, with Chris and me undertaking aspects like painting and wallpapering on weekends. Moving to quasi-rural Fairfield County inspired all kinds of doubts, but it had to be done.
Life was chaotic enough as we juggled parenting and careers, and we certainly weren’t looking to take on more. I often think back to this time and wonder how we managed it all. I don’t know how; we just did. I had too much going on to be tired. Chris and I tried to stick to our goal of having one of us home each night, and we rarely both traveled at the same time. Most travel was manageable, but there were the occasional rows over schedule conflicts, with an undertone of questioning whose job was more important. We had a series of babysitters, many of whom lived with us in a spare room. Some were great, others less so. But I believed my kids were well looked after and loved. I enjoyed our weekends, which were filled with crafts and renovation projects. I sewed a bit back then, a hangover from high school home economics classes. I could stitch together Halloween costumes: Meredith as characters from her beloved Wizard of Oz, Katie as the New Jersey Turnpike (a classic!). And there was “our” fifth-grade science project. Honestly, the idea was brilliant: “Hairostotle,” the world’s smartest hairbrush. “So smart it cleans itself.” It was so good, it went all the way to the regional fair. I got really carried away with Katie’s great idea, micromanaging it, almost to the point of filing patents. I had the thrill of seeing my kids’ imaginations (and mine) fulfilled. There were inevitably the badly timed calls from work and endless chores that somehow got taken care of. The point is, we weren’t perfect, but we did all right and we made room for curiosity and imagination.
Chris supported the move to Connecticut, although it meant a much longer commute for him at his job on Long Island. But my daughter Katie was another story. She was at sleepaway camp at the time, and there was no texting, mobile phone, or e-mail back then. But the truth is, I had the tunnel vision that comes with being in “get it done” mode and didn’t even try to contact her.
I hadn’t thought she would learn about my change of job until I told her. But the day Katie returned, driven home by the mother of a friend, our new Realtor had installed For Sale signs adorned with distinctive, fluffy sheep on the front lawn. You couldn’t miss the fact that our house was for sale.
When Katie entered the house she burst into tears. Why were we moving? Where were we going? What about her friends? As she wept, Katie looked much smaller than her twelve years. To this day, I feel terrible about the unintended consequence of my career change. I’m reminded of the importance of communicating early and often as change is happening.
The Table of Lost Dreams
I jumped on the GE horse with unbridled determination, if pe
rhaps too much haste. But the tape loop in my head kept reminding me, This is GE! My successes at NBC had validated my belief that effecting change is about focusing on what might be, always looking for new and better ways of doing things. And my new job was an opportunity to take those practices to the business world’s largest stage. Although in truth, I wasn’t really a student of business at that time: one of my first conversations with my new team had them talking about the upcoming 10K, and I thought they were talking about running a marathon, not filing financials.
When I got to Fairfield, my new office was bare, as if no one was expecting me. A lone phone sat on the carpeted floor, tethered to the wall by a long, tan cord. “Welcome to GE,” I thought.
I came to find out that office space in our Fairfield headquarters had been designed in the 1970s with the hierarchy utmost in mind. One could determine an employee’s rank by counting the number of ceiling tiles overhead: six across for managers, eight for a vice president.
I was out of my comfort zone. Fairfield was new, the people were new, even the day-to-day language, filled with acronyms and sports metaphors, was new. And I didn’t fit in.
The company was a very male-dominated place back then—at GE’s annual Boca Raton retreat, female executives had to made do with a makeshift restroom off the hotel kitchen because event organizers turned conference-hall ladies’ rooms into men’s rooms. And nowhere was this male culture more evident than at GE headquarters. A number of the executives—all men—had a reserved table in the Fairfield cafeteria where they ate every day and cut people down to what they thought was the right size. They called it “The Table of Lost Dreams.” It was a black hole of negativity. No imagination. No excitement for the future. And P.S., they couldn’t stand me.
The treatment I got from an Ivy League-educated functional leader was indicative. He was competitive with me and dismissed my ideas out of hand. He just couldn’t believe that this woman, with zero pedigree—and from PR no less!—was increasingly involved in the kind of strategic decisions he considered his domain. In retaliation, he didn’t invite me to important meetings. So I began what would become a career-long habit of inviting myself, sometimes warning people beforehand, sometimes just showing up. (Once this backfired when I showed up for a technical meeting, mistaking it for a sales meeting—you have to be especially prepared when you invite yourself.)
These guys weren’t change-makers, they were gatekeepers, cheerleaders for the status quo. And they resented the fact that this new It girl from NBC, the fluffy land of media, had Jack’s ear and was being given power over their fiefdoms. I didn’t know the corporate world, and I was a woman.
Early on, I misjudged the GE culture and my role in it. I approached every day, every project—even small ones—as a wide-eyed explorer, unsure of the final destination at times but certain that there was something amazing just around the bend. And that sense of exploration and adventure always begins with asking “What if?” or “Why not?”
But the GE mothership and Jack weren’t ready for that from me. Not yet, at least.
Jack loved getting press clips every day, just the way they appeared in the paper. We had a team that would come in at 5:00 a.m., cut them out, and get them ready with a glue stick so that when he arrived, he could see not only his story but where he was on page 3, or whatever.
The Introvert’s Advantage
Let’s face it: business is an extrovert’s arena. I’ve had to get comfortable adopting the extrovert’s way to succeed. I’ve worked hard to “overcome” my introversion. But I also appreciate the advantages it brings. Introverts tend to process information internally; we prefer to express our ideas after they are well formed. We may not always speak up at meetings, but we’re not hogging the conversation either. You can bet we’re processing the discussion thoughtfully, taking it all in. I believe my introversion has helped me be a keen observer and listener—what I’ve come to call the introvert’s advantage.
Introversion is just one aspect of my character, not a label to define me. I think it’s important to understand who we are and how it may help us. If we don’t appreciate who we are, how can we ever fully focus on what we have to contribute, or what we’re capable of?
I challenge myself to ask one question or make one comment during a meeting, thinking about it in advance so that it doesn’t distract me from the conversation. Bosses and colleagues who know this about me will also help by asking me for an opinion in a meeting when I’ve not spoken up.
I follow up meetings with a note to my manager or the project leader summarizing what I heard and offering additional ideas and comments on how to be successful. I’ve become good at synthesizing discussions into core themes, and this, too, gives me a role in discussions as “the synthesizer.” And it shows that I’m engaged.
I’ve learned to focus intently on the idea, not making it about the person with the idea or a potential attack against me. To me this is part of the introvert’s advantage—having the perspective and distance to give an idea attention and enthusiasm, and not make it personal (it’s hard sometimes not to be sidelined by personal dynamics!).
I’ve learned how to conserve and replenish my energy. I’ll take a walk or go somewhere to be alone after an intense meeting or discussion. I will often pass on a night out to go home, or call in room service on a trip, to “recharge my batteries.” Be careful that you don’t use this as an alibi because you are actually nervous about socializing.
FOR THOSE WHO MANAGE INTROVERTS: It is important to realize that the introverts under you have a lot to say, even if they aren’t speaking up. Tell them up front that you are going to call on them, or ask them after the meeting for their thoughts. When trolling for new ideas, be sure to plan both group brainstorming and individual and small-group time, to get the best out of the introverts who work for you.
I decided we could do that more efficiently in an electronic format. And, hey, there was nothing Jack liked more than efficiency. So one day, as we took GE’s helicopter to New York City—because that’s the only time we had to meet—I said to Jack, “Okay, here’s a little thing we’re doing with your clips. We can do this in half the time.” And I gave him printouts from the web—the Internet was just beginning to explode. It seemed like an easy innovation to me.
Jack made a grumpy sound, like a garbage disposal grinding to a halt. “What do you got? What do you got?” he said, almost barking, and threw the papers at my face.
I was stunned, shocked that something so simple seemed to matter so much to him. But I was naïve. I didn’t know Jack’s mind yet. This wasn’t a change he was interested in.
“That’s for the next guy,” he said dismissively. “I’m not going to do that.”
Becoming the Outsider Inside
Despite his tough demeanor, I enjoyed working with Jack. He was an enormous contradiction, a man of immense generosity and confidence and clarity and intensity (I can still see his blue-eyed laser-like focus on me or whoever was in his line of sight). And yet, despite the change mandate that had made him famous—after being made CEO he was initially known as “Neutron Jack” to the media for shutting down factories so fast that only the buildings remained—he was pretty set in his ways. I remember asking him a few months after I arrived if there were any “sacred cows” on my team. I wanted to know where I could make changes and what was off-limits. His reply was telling: “Just one, Bill Lane,” he said, referring to his longtime speechwriter. “And we’ve done pretty well to this point without you. Meaning, I like things the way they are.”
No one I’ve encountered can make everything personal the way Jack could. He made it personal for every GE employee, and that’s tough. It’s a brilliant managerial feat to create a culture in which, beyond not wanting to let your colleagues down, 300,000 people didn’t want to let Jack down. There were lots of handwritten notes, and ther
e were stock grants and bonuses when you least expected it. Jack used to say that the GE process was all about chemistry, blood, sweat, family, and feelings. No detail was too small: At GE’s big annual meetings, Jack would personally work out the golf foursomes and his dinner-table seating. He kept records so that he didn’t repeat the pairings. GE was 300,000 individuals to Jack, not dozens of business units. That takes time and effort.
With Jack, there was no distinction between “I am this company” and “I lead this company.” He became the face, voice, and embodiment of everything GE stood for. He was GE, and he felt it to his bones.
I’ve worked with celebrities my whole career, but I have always been struck by Jack’s charisma. He oozed it. He’s small in stature, he stutters, but he genuinely loves people and loves connecting. You could see it at our annual shareholder meetings. Shareholder meetings were like financial rock festivals. Old ladies came and they would be shaking in Jack’s presence, as if their teen idol had shown up. Jack loved the little old ladies. He’d ask them what they did with the money, loved that they bought a second house or sent their kids to college because of GE’s rising stock price.
You always knew where you stood with Jack. To this day, I try to channel Jack’s raw directness, making my leadership style as transparent and straightforward as possible. That meant getting over my small-town ideas about “niceness” that I learned while growing up. Because being direct is actually being nice: Clarity, telling people where they stand, is a form of kindness. It is fair.
Imagine It Forward Page 5
