When
I was fourteen I built a short wave radio. I wasn't one of those whiz
kids or anything, so I don't know why it was that I developed an early
interest in electronics. But for most of the summer I had saved my
allowance and the money I earned from mowing lawns in order to buy
a kit from the Allied Radio catalog. That kit contained hundreds of
parts—all kinds of colorful wires, capacitors and tiny resistors—each
of which had to be carefully soldered into position on the radio's
chassis. I loved the smell of the burning solder.
It took me about
a week to build the radio, and as I got down to the end of the project
I stayed up all of the last night to get the job done. It was the
first time I ever skipped a night of sleep. In the wee hours of the
morning I strung an wire antenna around my bedroom, plugged in the
set's electric cord and anxiously turned it on. To my almost utter
amazement, it worked. Within a few minutes I was listening to a broadcast
in English from Quito, Ecuador.
Over the next
few days I tuned in stations from all over the globe. And soon I discovered
the ham radio frequencies. Here was a whole new world of amateur radio
operators who spoke to each other in a mysterious language of call
letters, handles and airwave jargon. Some of them even used Morse
Code, which I did not master until years later when the army determined
that I had an aptitude for it (a more useless skill I never acquired).
Although I was
fascinated by the ham radio operators, something about them soon began
to bother me. It was probably the first real rock in my shoe. What
bothered me was that they never talked about anything except their
hobby. Mostly their conversations revolved around their equipment,
their radio "shacks" and the number of QSL cards they had
collected from other hams with whom they had made contact. It was
all about transmitters, receivers, frequencies, and antennas. They
never seemed to explore any other interests or ideas, or talk about
what was going on in each other's home town or state. I don't even
recall them ever talking about the weather, except as it had an effect
on their transmissions.
I initially flirted
with the idea of getting a ham radio operator's license myself. But
before too long I was asking myself, What's the point? The only practical
reason for learning the craft would be to assist in national disasters,
and I didn't exactly feel an urge to go rushing into the wake of tornados
or floods. So—since I couldn't see myself chatting about transmitters
with a bunch of old bandwidth bubbas and high-frequency propeller
heads—I disappointedly abandoned any fantasies about becoming
an amateur radio operator. Besides, I was getting the theatre bug
about that time so I guess I figured I would still become a ham one
way or the other.
Fast forward to
the future. In the past few days I've attended a couple of meetings
of New York City's computer users groups. Since I know a little bit
about computers, I thought it might be nice to share my interest with
others and, hopefully, learn something. And, indeed, I did learn a
few things. But both meetings proved to be the ham radio experience
all over again. No one seemed to be really interested in all the creative
things that today's personal computers can help you do. Instead, the
discussions revolved around gigabytes, megahertz, motherboards and
monitors.
At the first meeting,
there were representatives from Microsoft. Now the Microsoft guys
are pretty slick. After all, they invented Powerpoint and there's
nothing sexier than a "slide" presentation with split screen
movie clips and lots of special effects. You'd be hard-pressed to
find a gliztier way to say "revenues" or "percentage
of market share" than with a Powerpoint presentation.
I have used Microsoft's
word processing software, Word, for years, through its many incarnations.
I know it's fashionable in some circles to bash Microsoft (especially
if you're a Mac user like me), but the truth of the matter is that
most of their software really is remarkable. Yet with each new upgrade
comes an abundance of software bloat. Every couple of years I'm presented
with dozens of new features that I'll never use or else must invest
a huge amount of time learning. I really don't need, for example,
a little cartoon guy popping up every time I start to write a letter
offering me assistance. Thank you, Max, but I think I know how to
write a letter by myself. (In fairness to Microsoft, you can turn
that feature off.)
Ironically, word
processing software is all about process. In this case, the "process"
is the product. Even so, the word processor doesn't make me a better
writer, only a more efficient one—and that's dubious.
At the other meeting,
downtown, the topic was digital photography. I used to work as a free-lance
photographer and I'm still something of a shutterbug, so this topic
was of special interest to me. Digital seems to be the way photography
is headed. The days of shooting a roll of film, waiting while it's
developed, and then keeping only four or five of the pictures will
eventually go the way of 8mm home movies. Hell, my local one-hour
film processing guy even went out of business last week.
The experience
of this second meeting was similar to that of the first. It was interesting
enough. A representative was there from a major digital camera manufacturer.
But again, his lecture was all about the technology—megapixels,
lenses, memory cards and photographic paper. Not once did he explain
how his company's cameras could help me be a better photographer.
Not once did he show examples of great photographs taken by accomplished
artists with his company's clearly superior cameras.
I came away from
both of these meetings not completely satisfied. It was like I had
gotten the children's menu of what I was expecting to be a full course
meal. Something was missing. And then, after thinking about it for
a while, I realized that at both meetings what was actually missing
was not just the size of the portions—it was the meal itself.
For sure I got all the ambience—lighting, menus, plates, silverware
and napkins. But the table setting is not the dinner. It's the process
by which the dinner is served. At both meetings the emphasis was on
the process and not on the end result that could be had by using the
company's products.
I am just as guilty
as the next person—maybe even more so—when it comes to getting
caught up in process. Just ask my wife. I can spend hours, for example,
designing new business cards and stationery. I can spend days searching
for the right graphic to go on my website. I love process. I get an
indescribable feeling of satisfaction from paying close attention
to details and getting everything just right.
Sometimes the
journey and not the destination is what's really most important. There
are times when we just need to smell the roses. And sometimes a person
or his business really does become screwed up because he doesn't have
his act together. That's when it's time to fix the process. But the
reality is that most of everyday life is not a Zen journey. We need
to get things done. The business card isn't the business and the Flash
animation isn't the website.
In the 1956 Broadway
musical, L'il Abner, General Bullmoose sings a song called
"Progress Is the Root of All Evil." He's complaining about
how the (social) progress of the times is making it almost impossible
for him to conduct his affairs (steal millions). If that song were
written today it would have to be called "Process Is the Root
of All Evil." Process has replaced progress as the leading deterrent
to getting anything accomplished.
Nowhere is this
more evident than in business. The exploding progress of industry
and technology in the '90s brought with it a rabid obsession with
process. Leading the way was Total Quality Management (TQM), remember?
And not too far behind that was ISO-9000 and all of its variations.
Legions of consultants and certifiers convinced the captains of industry
and their paper pushers that if they just got their process in order
their businesses would flourish.
And perhaps a
few companies did, indeed, benefit from all the hoopla and hoop jumping.
Certainly, the press of the day gave you that impression. All kinds
of contests were organized and awards given to "outstanding"
companies and CEOs who demonstrated an ability to get with the process
and make it happen. But millions of workers across the country knew
better. They knew that TQM was really TQB—Total Quality Bullshit.
And ISO-9000 came to stand for "In Search Of 9000"—9000
ways to document a procedure.
I used to believe
that the reason for this turn-of-the-century preoccupation with process
was a result of the ever-present cover your ass syndrome that thrives
in corporate America. After all, if you've been following an approved
procedure, when something goes terribly wrong, who can blame you?
And, of course, the more people who contribute to process, the more
the blame can be spread around. That's why I figured companies felt
it was so important to hold pep rallies and team meetings to get everyone's
buy-in when a new quality program was initiated. Because when the
shit hits the fan, the blame can be spread around thinner than the
coating on a Teflon skillet. Nothing sticks and no one gets burned—least
of all the guy who championed the process in the first place. In other
words, I viewed process as a great tool for passing the buck and holding
no one in particular accountable.
But I later came
to realize that being able to pass the buck in the wake of failure
is not the real reason some companies keep puffed-up quality processes
in place. The real reason is that strict, fervent adherence to process
is almost always a camouflage for incompetence. It deflects attention
away from the real issues, such as developing new products or meeting
delivery deadlines.
For example, if
you head the R&D department and neither you nor your staff have the
talent to design a much needed new product, all you have to do is
keep fine-tuning the R&D quality process. Send out lots of memos to
everyone in the company explaining the great progress you're making
with your process. That way the sales reps won't feel so bad about
not having anything competitive to sell, and with a little luck everyone
at headquarters will think you're a genius. Of course, the company
may well go out of business during the next economic downturn. But
who cares? Before that happens you'll be well on your way to your
next job where you can start a new process all over again.
In the Book
Of Ecclesiastes we are reminded that "to every thing there
is a season." A time to plant and a time to pluck, a time to
weep and a time to laugh, etc. Well, I like to fish. And so there's
a time to fish and a time to eat fish. Fortunately, I don't depend
on my catch to provide me with sustenance at the end of the day. That's
why we have Red Lobster. So when I go fishing the only thing I'm concerned
about is the process—the water, the tackle, the boat, the sun,
the camaraderie. I enjoy the trip whether I catch fish or not. But
if I had to depend on what I caught in order to survive, then I would
make sure as hell I got my daily limit. The only thing I would be
concerned about would be my progress.
Maybe someday
I'll write one of those dummies or idiots books called, Lessons
of Ecclesiastes: A Management Guide for Everyone Who Should Know Better,
and refute the whole process model for business success. In my book
I'll submit that there's a time for meetings and a time for engagement.
A time for memos and a time for communicating. A time for manuals
and a time for guidance. A time for mission statements and a time
for purpose. A time for leadership and a time for direction. A time
for teamwork and a time for cooperation. A time for market share and
a time for customers. A time for human resources and a time for people.
The problem with
process is that it gets in the way of action. I love the expression,
"Just Do It." I had it on my desk long before Nike adopted
it as its advertising slogan. And when I think of the word "action,"
I think of the movies. You know, "Lights, camera, action!"
Action gets things done. It's where the rubber meets the road. Process
is merely the storyboard—helpful sometimes, but a talented director
can make a movie (or an industrial video) without a storyboard.
When I think of
TQM, ISO-9000, and all of the other quality processes, I have this
image of Steven Spielberg directing Raiders of the Lost Ark
or ET—two enormously successful movies. The set has been
readied, the cast members are in their places, the crew is standing
by and everyone is breathlessly waiting for Steven to give the word.
"Lights,
camera, process!"
Need I say more?
Progress may be
the root of all evil. Necessity may be the mother of invention. But
process is not the product. It is not even the business. It's time
we got that straight.
©
Copyright 2001, Richard Bradley. All rights reserved.
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