Love Your Work

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In the midst of the Great Depression, cereal manufacturer Kellogg's switched to a shorter, six-hour day. This continued a trend that seemed inevitable: people would work less and less. But economic policies, management strategies, and cultural attitudes changed. The story of the rise and fall of Kellogg's six-hour day is a microcosm of these changes, as well as of our attitudes about the roles of money, leisure, work, and women and men. In the book, Kellogg's 6-Hour Day, historian Benjamin Kline Hunnicutt shares his findings in studying Kellogg's shorter workday. His main sources of information were 434 interviews conducted by the Women's Bureau of the Department of Labor, 124 interviews he himself conducted of workers, and 241 responses to a survey he had sent. What follows is a summary of the story, and Hunnicutt's findings. Kellogg's switched to a 6-hour day to create jobs During the Great Depression, American businesses took on a policy of "work sharing." The idea was that fewer would be unemployed if everyone shared jobs – more workers, working fewer hours. So, on December 1, 1930, W. K. Kellogg changed most departments in Kellogg's Battle Creek, Michigan plant from three eight-hour shifts to four six-hour shifts. A shorter workday had seemed inevitable This continued a decades-long trend of shorter working hours. Labor activist William Heighton had written in 1827 that the workday should be reduced from twelve hours to ten, eight, and so on, "until the development and progress of science have reduced human labour to its lowest terms." John Stuart Mill had written in 1848 about his vision for a "Stationary State": After necessities were met, people would seek progress in mental, moral, and social realms. John Maynard Keynes would predict in the same year Kellogg's switched to six hours, 1930, that we'd have a fifteen-hour work week by 2030. George Bernard Shaw and Julian Juxley had predicted a maximum two-hour workday by the end of the 1900s. Other businesses shortened their workdays, too Other businesses followed Kellogg's' lead. A survey by the Industrial Conference Board in 1931 estimated 50% of American businesses had shortened hours to save jobs. President Herbert Hoover was considering making a 6-hour day a national policy. In the 1932 presidential campaign, both major parties were advocating shorter hours. The 6-hour day was the hot business topic Not only did the six-hour day help create jobs, it seemed for a while like it was a better business policy. Forbes called it "the topic of discussion in the business world." Business Week concluded it was profitable. The New York Times called it "a complete success." Factory and Industrial Management magazine called the six-hour day, the "biggest piece of industrial news since Ford announced his five-dollar-a-day policy." At Kellogg's, 15% more shredded wheat cases were being packed per hour. Profits had doubled in 1931, versus three years prior. After five years with the six-hour day, overhead costs had been reduced 25%, labor costs 10%, with 41% fewer accidents. W. K. Kellogg said, "We can afford to pay as much for six hours as we formerly paid for eight." (That should be taken with a grain of salt. W. K. Kellogg took pride in crafting a public image as a "welfare capitalist," as evinced by the full-page newspaper ads he took out, boasting how Kellogg's had done its part. In reality, nearly half of workers later surveyed recalled that their wages were reduced.) Kellogg's returned to an 8-hour day for WWII In 1943, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed an executive order to direct the maximum amount of manpower toward supporting the country's fight in WWII. Kellogg's responded in kind by temporarily returning to eight-hour shifts. A rift formed between Kellogg's management and the labor union This was actually an opportunity the company had been looking for. Kellogg's management and that at other companies were beginning to resent the six-hour day, and workers were becoming divided over whether they wanted a shorter workday, or more pay. In 1936, the National Council of Grain Producers had started a union chapter in Kellogg's Battle Creek headquarters. W. K. Kellogg had been proud to pay what he considered the best hourly wages in town. During the first meeting with union officers, he wept, and kept saying, "If only they had come to me, I would have given them what they wanted." The union got an inch, and wanted a mile After this point, the relationship between Kellogg's workers and management became adversarial. W. K. had left in 1937, after the union came in, and at that point the union leaders had been pushing to not only have a six-hour day, in which they could earn a bonus based upon productivity, but they had also wanted time-and-a-half pay for working more than six hours in a day. Hunnicutt wrote, "More than any other union demand, this position would come to haunt Kellogg workers." Demanding overtime pay on a six-hour day helped turn management against the shorter workday, and create a rift between workers who wanted higher wages, and workers who wanted shorter hours. In the larger relationship between management and labor, the American Federation of Labor introduced a bill in congress, prohibiting goods produced by workers working more than thirty hours a week from being traded across state lines. Hunnicutt cites this as having shifted the business world's stance on shorter hours from support to opposition. Shorter hours became exploitation, longer hours a reward In 1938, Kellogg's management deepened the divide between six-hour and eight-hour workers by proposing they be allowed to schedule 40-hour weeks during periods of heavy production. Overtime became available instead of a productivity bonus. Senior workers had priority access to overtime, and so they lost interest in the productivity bonus. So in the early 1940s, before the war, worker opinions were shifting to view shorter hours not as a benefit, but as instead an exploitation of workers – making them bear the brunt of fighting unemployment. And Kellogg's was actively campaigning against shorter days, asking workers to consider how much more they would make working eight hours. Human Relations Management saw work as life's center Meanwhile, the business world was shifting from a Scientific Management philosophy to a Human Relations Management philosophy. Scientific Management practitioners were obsessed with efficiency, but Human Relations Management practitioners were more interested in imbuing work with joy and meaning – making work its own reward. The Human Relations Management school envisioned that as work brought satisfaction, engineers and scientists would lead society into an orderly world, where desires met obligations, consumption met production, and work and leisure merged. According to Humans Relations Management, time away from work and consumption was a relic of an illogical past. Instead of work becoming obsolete, giving way to more freedom, work would become the center of life, and help us ascend Maslow's hierarchy. Fewer workers wanted to return to 6 hours After the war, many departments returned to six-hour shifts, but six-hour workers slowly lost their beloved shorter shifts over the following decades. Central to this struggle was how workers viewed leisure. Kellogg's workers had previously voted to essentially "buy" shorter working hours, being paid less overall, in exchange for more leisure time. Employees used their time to improve their homes, go hunting, grow and can food in their gardens, and spend time volunteering in their communities. But slowly, workers became less interested in having time away from work. Leisure was outsourced to mass media One explanation from a worker Hunnicutt interviewed was, people were now outsourcing all things they used to spend time on. One place they were outsourcing to was mass media. Sports had been such serious business amongst Kellogg's employees, they had hired "semi-pro" softball or basketball players to play on the teams. But why watch the company team play, when you can watch pros on television? One former six-hour worker bemoaned that even conversation had been outsourced – to radio, or television talk-show hosts. Shorter hours became seen as weak and feminine The question, Six hours or eight? became a gender issue. Early on, both men and women were interested in six-hour shifts. Three-fourths of men voted for six-hour shifts in 1937, but half of men were working eight hours by 1947. The six-hour departments began to be referred to as "girls' departments," doing "women's work." Management also assigned sick and disabled employees to the six-hour departments. Men who chose to work six-hours were labeled "sissies," "lazy," or "weird." Men saw work, not leisure, as a source of control and identity Hunnicutt's interpretation was that men were increasingly seeing work as a place for control and identity – that many hadn't known what to do with themselves after their shorter shifts. They didn't like spending more time at home and being assigned chores by their wives, or hearing what they considered gossip. As a result, men placed more importance on working longer hours – or at least appearing to. Hunnicutt said men he interviewed commonly claimed to have gotten second jobs while they were working six hours. How often is "commonly"?, he doesn't say, but he points out only 35% ever did get second jobs. Men felt they "had to" work long hours This attitude, which we might today call "toxic masculinity," extended into attitudes about leisure. When asked why they preferred longer hours, men spoke of necessity, and used dramatic language, saying they had to "keep the wolf from the door," "feed the family," and "put bread on the table." When Hunnicutt pointed out to men who had been working in the 1950s that workers in the Great Depression had been willing to take pay cuts to have more free time, he says they got defensive, lectured him on "the facts of life economically," called six-hours "nonsense" or a "pipe dream," or dismissed the question as silly. While Hunnicutt's conclusions here are plausible, it seemed like he really wanted it to be true, and didn't present men's attitudes scientifically. There's no mention of what earnings were relative to cost-of-living, and no acknowledgement of what these men's roles might have been, truthfully, in the economics of their homes. There's not even a mention of how throwing thousands of young men into the meat grinder that was WWII, tasked with saving the world, might have affected their own perceptions of what was expected of them. Though he did present a story of one man who had found that the extra money he made going back to eight hours was due to his ex-wife, as alimony. A shorter workday became "a sexist ploy" In the 1970s, Kellogg's women worked with a local women's-rights group, who presented the case that six-hour shifts were a sexist ploy meant to subjugate women. They demanded management "allow" women to have "full-time" jobs. Kellogg's posted notices in the plant claiming that to make pay "comparable," they were opening up eight-hour departments to women. In doing so, they skirted the issue: The activists had wanted not just comparable hours, but comparable hourly pay. The 6-hour mavericks held on Workers who stuck with the six-hour shift – who Hunnicutt calls "six-hour mavericks" – were about a quarter of the Kellogg's workforce from 1957, into the 1980s. The union worked according to a department-by-department vote on the length of the day, so long as the six-hour workers didn't interfere with the union majority's strategy to try to get higher wages and more benefits. With longer hours, efficiency fell by the wayside Overtime had previously been thought of as a penalty to the company for being understaffed, but it became a way for workers to earn more money while the company's staffing requirements remained flexible. According to Hunnicutt, with overtime instead of productivity bonuses, workers were less-motivated and careful. The company had to resort to being more controlling, motivating workers with fines, threats, and firings. The death of the 6-hour shift The increased benefits the union had fought for over the years may have worked against the six-hour shift. The final nail in the coffin was driven in 1984, when Kellogg's threatened to relocate if workers didn't vote to abandon the six-hour shift. So the six-hour workers gave in and voted to give it up. Some retired, some worked eight hours, but the coffin in which this nail was driven was both figurative and literal. The six-hour workers held a "funeral," building a full-sized cardboard coffin, painted black, placed on the workroom floor, a cut-out skeleton placed inside. Thus reversed a trend that had held on for over 150 years. The idea of less work and more leisure gave way to a stable amount of work, and more consumption. It's tempting to blame the death of the 6-hour shift on one of many juicy narratives. You could say people forgot how to spend their leisure time. You could say people were overly-materialistic, and wanted more money, instead of time. You could say toxic masculinity and a patriarchal society tipped the scales so those who wanted to work shorter hours were no longer in the majority. You could say the unions got too demanding and sabotaged the long-fought battle for a shorter working day. All these are probably true to an extent. Ultimately, businesses want to, need to, maximize profit. They have to offer benefits to employees to stay competitive. To offer those benefits profitably, they need more work from fewer workers. If you believe the efficient-market hypothesis, if a shorter workday were indeed more profitable, some business would beat its competitors by offering one, and other businesses would follow suit. So far, that hasn't happened. If, as I believe, creativity becomes more important, productivity will be about [Mind Management, Not Time Management, and a more-relaxed work schedule will be embraced. But probably not for boxing corn flakes. There's your summary of Kellogg's 6-Hour Day This episode is essentially a summary of the book, Kellogg's 6-Hour Day, by Benjamin Kline Hunnicutt. The book is very dense and written in an academic style, so I can't recommend it unless you really want to dig deep into questions about work and leisure. It's a provocative story that makes you wonder if we could be living in a world where a 6-hour day is standard. But it sounds like it wasn't even close. About Your Host, David Kadavy David Kadavy is author of Mind Management, Not Time Management, The Heart to Start and Design for Hackers. Through the Love Your Work podcast, his Love Mondays newsletter, and self-publishing coaching David helps you make it as a creative. Follow David on: Twitter Instagram Facebook YouTube Subscribe to Love Your Work Apple Podcasts Overcast Spotify Stitcher YouTube RSS Email Support the show on Patreon Put your money where your mind is. Patreon lets you support independent creators like me. Support now on Patreon » Show notes: https://kadavy.net/blog/posts/kelloggs-6-hour-day/

The term, "vulnerability" has spread into realms where it's not an accurate description of what's going on. The case for being vulnerable often doesn't make sense. In the creative realm – and possibly in others – we should pursue something beyond vulnerability. When I wrote about vulnerability to my Love Mondays newsletter, saying some of what I'm about to say, I got a lot of pushback. In the current – and what I believe to be incorrect – parlance, some might say I had made myself vulnerable. I don't agree. I'll build up to why in the course of examining the vulnerability movement. I'll try to keep this organized, so that if you disagree with my line of thinking, it's easier to identify where. It's hard to talk about vulnerability in an organized way, because the more the term is abused, the more vague its definition gets. Vulnerability means "open to harm" Let's start by defining vulnerability. In the most basic terms, vulnerability means, "open to harm." If you want to be more technical and specific, "open" in this case doesn't mean "inviting" harm, but rather "susceptible" to harm. Now I'll paraphrase some examples of how vulnerability is espoused in the current movement: "Be vulnerable at work. If you need help, don't be afraid to ask." "Be vulnerable in relationships. Share your feelings, even if it means you might be rejected." "Be vulnerable in your writing. Share your struggles." (Anyone familiar with my work might be surprised to hear me tee up this last one.) I don't deny that a person might feel vulnerable in these situations. I'm not convinced they are vulnerable. I'm definitely skeptical that striving to be or even feel vulnerable is helpful. Emotional harm is the most-subjective harm If being vulnerable is being open to harm, to understand vulnerability we have to define what harm is. There are many types of harm, but I think most are covered in three categories: physical, economic, and emotional harm. Physical harm is the least-subjective realm of harm. Yes, people might perceive their physical wounds differently, and someone can have physical pains with an emotional cause, but for the most part, you can measure physical injury. Economic harm is slightly more-subjective. If you lose your job in a flourishing modern economy, you won't necessarily have scars, such as if you experienced physical harm. You may ultimately be better off. Emotional harm is almost entirely subjective. What seems like emotional harm to one person may not to another. Some can't stand to be looked at by a stranger. Others don't care if someone criticizes them. Importantly, what causes emotional harm to a person when they're inexperienced in a realm may not – later, to that same person – cause emotional harm after they become experienced in that same realm. More on that later. The vulnerability movement: "Be vulnerable, and benefit" Now that we've defined vulnerability as "open to harm," and identified most harms as physical, economic, or emotional, let's try to identify the case being made for vulnerability by the vulnerability movement. When I say vulnerability movement, I'm not talking about any one person, but rather my perception as a very-confused outsider, trying to make sense of the conversations being had about vulnerability in TED talks, on social media, on podcasts, and at cocktail parties. As far as I can understand, the pitch of the vulnerability movement is, "be vulnerable and benefit." To paraphrase, using the prior examples from work, love, and art: "If you need help at work, ask for it. You risk looking like you don't know what you're doing, but you and your team will perform better." "Be the first in a relationship to say, 'I love you.' You risk rejection, but otherwise you'll have a deeper relationship." "Share your struggles in your writing. People may laugh at you, but your words will help others." To be clear, I think these actions can be wise. But I don't believe they're objectively vulnerable, and you don't have to make vulnerability a goal – and maybe you shouldn't make vulnerability a goal – to catalyze these actions. These are all cases to "be vulnerable and benefit." To be vulnerable is to be open to harm. If you ultimately benefit from an action, were you vulnerable – were you open to harm – in the first place? Is it vulnerability if it needs boundaries? Some might say, Well, you don't know the outcome of these actions in advance, so you're risking harm by taking them. Yet anyone who speaks intelligently about vulnerability rightly says it should come with boundaries. A CEO shouldn't freak out about the potential fate of the company, in front of employees and shareholders. You shouldn't spend your first date complaining about your ex. You shouldn't share your struggles with depression in writing a user manual for a Bluetooth speaker. Too much vulnerability is oversharing. So, according to the movement, vulnerability should be a calculated risk, one you're likely to benefit from, and one that isn't likely to ruin you. Don't seek vulnerability, seek ideals It seems to me the case being made for vulnerability is in pursuit of important ideals, including but not limited to truth, security, and alignment. The more we're honest at work, the more effective we can be in an efficient marketplace. The more we share our feelings in our relationships, the more secure we feel. The more of our true selves we put into our art, the more it resonates with others. "Fear" is the word you're looking for I think a better term for what we experience in pursuit of these ideals is "fear." Fear is a feeling of discomfort in the face of perceived danger. Fear can be irrational. The perceived danger can be entirely in your head. Some people experience fear just looking at a spider that has no chance of physically harming them. Some people experience fear looking at birds. Valid vulnerability isn't the type being promoted I've ventured into unfamiliar territory thinking about vulnerability and putting together this critique. I found many areas where truly being vulnerable resulted in benefits, such as in combat, activism, and workplace inclusion. True vulnerability, it seems, is the product of power, and people sometimes have to be vulnerable to dissolve that power. These areas are outside the scope of this short critique. Besides, I haven't come across much chatter in the vulnerability movement that makes cases for vulnerability in these valid areas. But aren't I a "vulnerable" writer? One area I am very familiar with is creative work. Some readers have described some of my work as "vulnerable." I've written about the death of my mother, the death of a lover, and published a conversation about grief. I've listed my failures and published my private doubts in my pursuit of a career as a writer. I've written about my health struggles in graphic detail, and shared my struggles with moving to another country. I've been publicly reporting my income for years, starting when it was even less-impressive than it is now. I'm further critiquing vulnerability in this article, even though I got angry emails in response to my short newsletter on the topic. Was I, am I, vulnerable in creating these things? I don't think so. Am I risking physical harm? Not likely. Economic harm? I don't think so. Emotional harm? That's not up to someone else to decide. What looks like "vulnerability" is "antifragility" Have I ever felt vulnerable writing these things? In retrospect, I guess I did. More accurately, I felt fear. Because I was not vulnerable. I benefitted greatly writing these things. I grew, and got to know myself. I found my voice and got closer to doing work that comes from my core. It was all real and came from an authentic place, but I grew my business in the process. I took calculated risks, and I got better at calculating along the way. I thought that by writing public income reports, I would improve my thought processes and grow my business – I did. I thought that having a public conversation about grief would help me live with it – it has. I thought that by writing about my mysterious health issues, readers would send me ideas that would help me get better – they did. I'm not claiming to be Galileo or Harvey Milk, which is kind of the point – their work made them objectively vulnerable. But I know I've never set out to deliberately be vulnerable. I've set out to face fears, because I believed they were irrational. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being scared. What once felt like fear morphed into excitement to see what would happen – to see if this action would take me closer to truth, security, and alignment. Vulnerability as a boundary, not a beacon Now that I've been at it a long time, if I were to feel vulnerable, I would see that as a boundary, not a beacon. That would be a warning sign that I'm oversharing, and needlessly putting myself in danger. That's one problem with espousing the pursuit of a subjective feeling: Being afraid is not the same as being vulnerable. The more experienced you get – in work, love, or art – the more adeptly you can recognize when you really are vulnerable, and decide it's a good idea to stop. Performative vulnerability is a slippery slope When I wrote about this in my newsletter, some readers said they had been in communities where appearing vulnerable became a sort of contest. People seemed to be oversharing just to outdo one another. That's another problem with espousing the pursuit of a subjective feeling: If vulnerability is the goal – whether that's being, feeling, or appearing vulnerable – you incentivize vulnerability. The definitions and the actions fitting those definitions tumble over one another down a very slippery slope. Vulnerability can be a productive lie Sometimes we tell ourselves productive lies. You can commit to working for ten minutes, knowing you'll keep going once you've reached that goal. You can give yourself permission to suck – notice that's "permission," not "directive" – knowing you'll improve or do better than you had expected. Maybe the pursuit to feel vulnerable is a productive lie. It teaches you to face your irrational fears. But at some point you hopefully grow beyond vulnerability – where feeling vulnerable is a sign of danger. There are cases where danger – true vulnerability – is worth the risk, but that's only because the ideals you're pursuing are worth that much. What looks like vulnerability is a byproduct, not a goal Choosing your actions with vulnerability as a goal is like building a boat designed to splash water. Boats splash water because they're traveling to a destination. You feel or even are vulnerable in the pursuit of something more important. A boat designed to splash water won't travel as efficiently as a boat designed to go somewhere. I believe that a person designing their actions to feel vulnerable won't be as effective as a person driven to pursue an ideal. That's what lies beyond vulnerability. Image: Error on Green, Paul Klee Thank you for having me on your podcasts! Thank you for having me on your podcasts. Thank you to Brilliant Miller at The School for Good Living podcast. As always, you can find interviews of me on my interviews page. About Your Host, David Kadavy David Kadavy is author of Mind Management, Not Time Management, The Heart to Start and Design for Hackers. Through the Love Your Work podcast, his Love Mondays newsletter, and self-publishing coaching David helps you make it as a creative. Follow David on: Twitter Instagram Facebook YouTube Subscribe to Love Your Work Apple Podcasts Overcast Spotify Stitcher YouTube RSS Email Support the show on Patreon Put your money where your mind is. Patreon lets you support independent creators like me. Support now on Patreon » Show notes: http://kadavy.net/blog/posts/beyond-vulnerability/

Which would you rather have? Mild success, or wild success? Most of us would prefer wild success. But we pursue mild success. And you can't have one when you're going for the other. The struggle of an aspiring novelist A more specific version of the scenario I mentioned in episode 253: Imagine you're working at Starbucks during the day, and at night you're writing novels – not just any novels, but your favorite kind. You call it Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy. As far as you know, you're the only person who writes Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy. Judging by your sales, you're also the only person who reads it. You've written three novels in this genre you've created, and there have been hardly any sales, aside from the handful of copies you've sold to your mom and close friends. After a couple years writing and promoting your Care-Bear novels, you decide it's time for a change. You told yourself when you started writing that as soon as you made as much as your Starbucks job, you'd quit and write full-time. You're not even close. Your hourly Starbucks wage isn't great, but you've actually lost money writing your three novels, after investing in cover designs and some ads. A new opportunity Fortunately, one of your friends is a pretty successful author. She makes a middle-class living writing in a genre called Sweet Romance – mostly read by retired women, some of whom read a new Sweet Romance novel every day. You buy your friend a coffee – or rather steal it from work – sit her down, and drill her to tell you all about writing and selling Sweet Romance novels. She's super helpful, and tells you everything you need to know about the story structure readers expect, what tropes each novel has to hit, and even what keywords to advertise under. Armed with your knowledge of the Sweet Romance genre, you get to work. It's not your favorite, but it would beat serving coffee, you figure. The first couple novels are a challenge, but once you get it down, you're cranking out a new one every several weeks. You've got it down to a whole system: You change the character names, the locations, and a few scenarios from your last novel, and they practically write themselves. Making it, as a middle-class novelist Three years later, you, like your friend, are a middle-class Sweet Romance novelist. You've written eighteen novels, in three series, and in the past year have profited $70k. You quit your job at Starbucks a couple years ago, and you were right: Writing Sweet Romance is way more fun than serving coffee. Still, something is missing. You're getting tired of writing the same stories over and over. New ideas for Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy stories keep coming to you. But you keep pushing them down. Why would you bother writing another Care Bear novel, when you're sure you'll sell none? Why would you not write another Sweet Romance novel, when you're sure you'll sell some. Besides, you've upgraded your life: You now have a mortgage and a car payment, and your dog eats Purina instead of the off-brand stuff from Aldi. These novels don't sell forever. If you don't keep the Sweet Romance machine going, you'll make less and less money. A missed opportunity But, one day, you discover something that changes everything you thought you knew about the business of being an author. As you're tallying up your earnings at the end of the month, you realize that your Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy series has started selling. In fact, you've sold a hundred copies in the past month! That's more copies than you've sold in all the previous years. You dig a little deeper, and discover another author, writing under the name Brave Heart Brian, has written seven Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy novels. You're filled with excitement, confusion, and envy. You're excited to have some Care Bear novels to read, confused as to how Brave Heart Brian seems to have popped up out of nowhere, and envious that – judging from the Amazon ranks of his books – he's making more money than you are! You take a deep breath and wash away the envy – it is fanfic after all, it's not like you invented Care Bears. You email Brian to congratulate him on his success, and ask him how it all happened. It turns out Brian stumbled upon your Care Bear series last year. He loved it, and wanted to read more Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy, but since you clearly weren't active anymore, he decided if he wanted to read more, he'd have to write the novels himself. Not only has he built up a nice following of readers, he just sold film rights for his series, for millions of dollars! The good news is, Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy is quickly becoming a popular genre. The bad new is, you're not the author who will reap most of the benefits. Where did you go wrong? You wonder, Where did I go wrong? You tried writing Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy for years, and the writing was on the wall: Nobody cared. The problem was, Sweet Romance was a sure bet – or at least one of the surer bets writing novels could be. You expected writing in Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy to behave like a sure bet, but it was not a sure bet. The Care Bear novels were a wildcard. You didn't distinguish your sure bets from your wildcards, so you gave up on your wildcards too soon. Sure bets for mild success, wildcards for wild success We're used to playing sure bets. You didn't show up to your job at Starbucks for the small chance of making a lot of money. You instead had a high chance – a guarantee, in fact – to make a little money. You knew how much you'd get paid every hour you worked. Sure bets have a good chance of mild success. Even when you fail at a sure bet, you succeed somewhat – if you slack off at Starbucks, you still get paid, so long as you don't get fired. If your next Sweet Romance novel isn't your best, you still make some sales. Sure bets have a good chance of mild success, but wildcards have a small chance of wild success. When a wildcard fails, all your effort goes to waste. You get nothing. But when a wildcard succeeds, the sky is the limit. In my second interview with Seth Godin, on episode 177, he told me this: Your last book was really juicy. Your last book did not sell a million copies. Those things aren't completely related. But it's very important that your next book not be something that you think fits into a juicy slot – not be something that is searched for from an SEO point of view…. That's how you become a second-rate romance novelist. It's not how you write The Martian. What Seth was telling me, essentially, was to not play sure bets – don't write something just because you know some people are searching for it. Instead, play wildcards, to write what was interesting to me, and take the risk that it might not work. Don't rate your wildcards as if they were sure bets Essentially, when you've played a wildcard, don't evaluate its performance as if it were a sure bet. The number of sales you get on one book is not a direct reflection of the quality of that book. As Seth had told me in my first interview with him on episode 77, and as I explored on episode 286, nobody knows anything. As I talked about on episode 251, if you keep playing wildcards forever, eventually ergodicity will take effect, and one of them will hit. But you can't play wildcards forever. Your life is only so long, and there's only so much time in the day to generate wildcards. If you had kept writing Care Bear novels, there's no telling how long it would have taken to quit your job at Starbucks – or if you would have ever succeeded at all. The security of sure bets + the success of wildcards You don't have to choose between playing sure bets and wildcards. As I talked about on episode 256, you can play the barbell strategy. Have the security of mediocristan, with the excitement of extremistan. If, instead of going all in on Sweet Romance novels, you had written, say, one Care Bear novel for every three Romance novels, you'd've greatly increased your chances of being the breakout Care Bear Fanfic Urban Fantasy writer, at the expense of a small pay-cut in the short-term. You can play all sure bets, you can play all wildcards, or you can do a mix of both. But be clear with yourself when you're playing one or the other. The quality of the decisions you make with your creative career depends on it. Image: Mountain Village (Autumnal), Paul Klee Thank you for having me on your podcasts! Thank you for having me on your podcasts. Thank you J Thorn at Writers, Ink. As always, you can find interviews of me on my interviews page. About Your Host, David Kadavy David Kadavy is author of Mind Management, Not Time Management, The Heart to Start and Design for Hackers. Through the Love Your Work podcast, his Love Mondays newsletter, and self-publishing coaching David helps you make it as a creative. Follow David on: Twitter Instagram Facebook YouTube Subscribe to Love Your Work Apple Podcasts Overcast Spotify Stitcher YouTube RSS Email Support the show on Patreon Put your money where your mind is. Patreon lets you support independent creators like me. Support now on Patreon » Show notes: https://kadavy.net/blog/posts/sure-bets-wildcards/

The Network, by Scott Woolley, tells the history of wireless communications, and the stories of the characters that were a part of it. It's the first book strictly about media history that I'm summarizing and adding to my best media books list. Wireless communications start with wired communications Wireless communications today of course include cell phones, but The Network takes us from the wireless telegraph, to radio, to television, and finally to satellites. First, it gives a little background on the history of the electric telegraph, the invention which suddenly made it possible to move, in minutes, messages that used to take weeks to reach their destinations. The electric telegraph was able to change the world thanks to one simple action: The ability to move a piece of metal at the end of a wire. That was enough to develop codes that could transmit messages, based upon the simple movement of that piece of metal. This process started in 1822, when Christian Órsted attached a copper wire to a battery and saw a nearby compass needle move. There was a several-decade-long race to develop an electric telegraph. The first transatlantic cable was opened for business by 1866. A big customer of these telegraph services were stock traders, who could buy shares in London, sell them a few seconds later in New York, and always profit if their trades were executed in time. Morse code was the winning format for turning the movement of a piece of metal into messages that could travel around the world. A claim in The Network I couldn't find a source for, but that sounds pretty cool: The clouds in New York City at night used to have projected on them news, election results, and sports scores – in Morse code. From a worthless accidental discovery to worthwhile wireless The history of wireless communication started with a discovery as accidental as Christian Órsted's: Heinrich Hertz noticed that metal objects moved slightly when lightning struck nearby. He later conducted experiments where he successfully generated sparks through the air. It was pretty cool, but he concluded that the invisible waves he had discovered were "of no use whatsoever." Electrical signals that traveled through the air were made very useful, indeed, by Italian inventor Guglielmo Marconi. For much of its early years, most people thought his Marconi Company was a scam. Like the dot-com and crypto booms, many companies at the dawn of wireless technology made off with investors' money. One article, with the headline, "Wireless and Worthless," pointed out that more criminals were being prosecuted from wireless companies than from any other industry. Besides, what did we need wireless technology for, when there were companies such as The Commercial, which was probably the hottest tech company in New York in the early 1900s? It owned five of the sixteen cables crossing the Atlantic Ocean, and one of the two that crossed the Pacific – which was 10,000 miles long. 10,000 miles was pretty impressive, especially when you consider that in 1896, Guglielmo Marconi could only send a wireless message one mile. What was the point? The pseudo-events of Guglielmo Marconi Marconi was good at building buzz for his wireless technology through public demonstrations – you could call them pseudo-events, a la Daniel J. Boorstin's The Image, which I talked about on episode 257. In front of an audience, he'd ask a volunteer to carry around a "magic box." He'd build tension from the stage, then push a lever, which would make the magic box buzz from afar. In 1898, when his wireless range was somewhere around ten miles, Marconi set up a telegraph receiver on the yacht of the prince of Wales. Queen Victoria sent the first mundane wireless text message, asking, "Can you come to tea?" The prince replied, "Very sorry, cannot come to tea." After all, he was on the ocean. By 1899, Marconi could send a message over the English channel, and by 1901, he could send a message 225 miles. Marconi had competition in trying to send a wireless message across the Atlantic, which was 3,000 miles. Nikola Tesla, with the money of J.P. Morgan, was working on a fifty-five ton, 187-foot-tall steel super-antenna. And Marconi didn't have the funding to build something like that. Marconi won that race across the Atlantic. In one of his publicity stunts, he was able to relay "Marconigrams," as he called them, from celebrities in London to celebrities at a dinner party in New York. But, that wasn't enough to impress stock traders who relied on wired telegrams – the messages took ten minutes to arrive, with pre-arranged help in expediting them as they traveled to and from coastal locations on wired connections. And radio waves are easier to transmit at night than during business hours, when radiation from the sun interferes with wireless signals. As the Titanic sank, Marconi rose But in 1912, the day before Marconi Company investors were to vote on whether to further fund the company, the Titanic sank. Using Marconi's wireless technology, an ocean liner, the Olympic, fielded a message from the Titanic, over 500 miles away, which included coordinates, and said, "We have struck an iceberg." Another ocean liner, the Carpathia, came to the rescue. Thanks to Marconi's wireless technology, of the Titanic's 2,223 passengers, 706 survived. What followed sounds like the third act of a great movie: When Marconi arrived at a lecture that had already been scheduled, there was a crowd overflowing out the building. He received a standing ovation, including from the once-skeptical Thomas Edison. And the vote of Marconi shareholders, on whether to issue another $7 million in stock to build stations for intercontinental telegraphs, was a no-brainer. David Sarnoff: The early days of an innovator Working at Marconi at that time was the young David Sarnoff, who had started at Marconi after being fired for taking the day of Rosh Hashanah off work at Marconi's rival company, the Commercial. A Russian immigrant, Sarnoff's father had recently become unable to work, so he had set off to support the family as an office messenger boy, at only fifteen. Being a telegraph operator was a hot tech job at the time. David Sarnoff bought a used telegraph key, so he could spend his evenings practicing his coding skills – his Morse-coding skills. He worked his way up until he was managing Marconi's New York office, but then transferred to what seemed like a step down – as an inspector in the engineering department. Edwin Armstrong's signal amplifier It was as chief inspector David Sarnoff met Edwin Armstrong, who demonstrated to him an amazing signal amplifier. From a Marconi station in New Jersey, Armstrong's amplifier turned signals from an Ireland station from barely audible, to loud and crisp. They were then able to listen in on signals from competitor Poulsen Wireless, as their San Francisco station communicated with their Portland station. They were even able to listen to Poulsen's Hawaii station, despite the fact Poulsen's own San Francisco station – the breadth of a continent closer – could barely pick up the signal, amidst a Hawaiian thunderstorm. Sarnoff thought he had found the key technology that would help Marconi dominate wireless telegraphy, and free it from having to share its revenue with rival cabled networks. Instead, Guglielmo Marconi himself refused to believe the results of the story, and another executive publicly chided Sarnoff within the company for conducting the unauthorized experiments, which he believed merely drove up the prices of inventors' patents. Edwin Armstrong becomes Major Armstrong Armstrong ended up selling the patent for his amplifier to AT&T. Through the use of that amplifier and other wireless-technology inventions, Edwin Armstrong achieved the rank of Major Armstrong in WWI. During WWI, Britain and Germany cut one another's cables, making wireless communication even more important. The British military took over Marconi's wireless stations within their empire. Armstrong helped intercept Germany's wireless communications. RCA, born from a patent pool But during the war, the way wireless technology patents were split up amongst companies became a problem. It was impossible to build useful devices without using a variety of innovations, and thus infringing on other companies' patents. The Navy used its wartime powers to allow American manufacturers to use any wireless patents they wanted, without consequence. Once the war was over, the military sought to maintain this freedom of innovation, and – as a matter of national security – keep the American radio industry out of foreign hands. They struck a deal to cut off the American portion of the British Marconi company, and pool together patents from AT&T, Westinghouse, G.E., and – interestingly – United Fruit Company, who had patents for communications systems on their Central American banana plantations. The name of this new company: RCA. Its general manager: David Sarnoff. Sarnoff's radio Sarnoff had pitched to his bosses at Marconi, in 1915, a "Radio Music Box." Far more complex than moving a piece of metal, voice had first been transmitted over radio waves in 1906, and The Navy had done "radio telephone" calls, but nobody had thought of using radio to transmit to a wide audience. His pitch described a box with amplifier tubes, and what he called a "speaking telephone." He wrote, "There should be no difficulty in receiving music perfectly when transmitted within a radius of 25 to 50 miles. Within such a radius there reside hundreds of thousands of families." Sarnoff had already experimented with the concept by transmitting music, to a boat cruising around Manhattan, from a phonograph in Marconi's New York office. Sarnoff's bosses at Marconi had ignored his radio music box pitch, but once he was in charge at RCA, he was free to pursue the idea. Sarnoff hadn't gotten much support for his ideas at Marconi, but he had learned the value of a well-crafted pseudo-event. The upcoming boxing match between the American, Jack Dempsey, and the Frenchman, Georges Carpentier was the perfect opportunity to show the value of using radio waves to broadcast sound to a large audience. The pseudo-event that launched radio As was customary for big events at the time, if you wanted an update, you could gather near a telegraph station, where someone would announce a text-message update of the event. In Paris, a flare was to be released from a plane after the fight: white if Dempsey won, red if Carpentier. But if you truly wanted to know what was happening, you had to be one of the ninety-one thousand people there in the stadium. So, the rich and famous were flocking to New York. 300 rooms were booked at the Plaza, 500 at the Waldorf Astoria, and 800 at the Biltmore. Actress Mary Pickford took her yacht all the way from Hollywood, through the Panama Canal, and some came in the 1921 version of a private jet: a private train car. But for the first time, people who couldn't be at the fight could get blow-by-blow updates. RCA teamed up with amateur radio operators, who rented out auditoriums and received a voice broadcast from ringside, via "radiophone." This helped solve the chicken-and-egg problem of getting mass-audience radio started. You couldn't get people to buy receivers if they hadn't experienced a broadcast – and if there was nothing being broadcast – and it wasn't worth broadcasting if nobody had receivers. By getting a lot of people together for a global event everybody was already talking about, it was worthwhile to do a broadcast, and people got to see the potential of radio. Radio in its infancy Over the next three years, secretary of commerce Herbert Hoover granted licenses to 600 radio stations – small ones that broadcast across a particular city or county. There were no radio stations or programs in much of rural America. But Sarnoff was pushing the adoption of higher-powered AM transmitters that could broadcast to multi-state regions. This idea was opposed by the smaller stations that didn't want their audiences stolen, and also by AT&T. AT&T's raw deal in radio AT&T believed that since radio involved transmitting the voice, they, as the phone company, should be in charge of it. They also didn't want to lose revenue: For AM radio programs to be syndicated from one station to another, they had to be sent over AT&T's phone lines, as they would come out distorted if transmitted wirelessly. Additionally, AT&T felt duped from the negotiations over the RCA patent pool, which Sarnoff had been in charge of. Sarnoff had proposed that AT&T get the rights to sell radio transmitters, while RCA would sell radio receivers. This didn't seem like a bad deal in 1920, before the Dempsey/Carpentier fight, but now it looked like a raw deal, indeed. In 1924, RCA's AM radio sales were over $50 million, while AT&T had a measly market of 600 radio stations. Most of those stations ignored AT&T's patents and built their own transmitters, and AT&T wasn't successful in getting the revenue that was rightfully theirs. The first radio ad The radio broadcasting industry was experimenting with business models. AT&T ran the first radio ad in 1922. For fifty dollars, a suburban housing development got to broadcast on an AT&T station. Herbert Hoover called advertising-funded radio "the quickest way to kill broadcasting." He wanted instead to fund radio broadcasts by placing a surcharge on the sale of each consumer radio receiver. David Sarnoff was on his side, which was odd, since an advertising-funded model would make his radios cheaper to consumers. Divvying up the radio waves There were also fights over who could broadcast on what frequency. The Radio Act of 1912 had been passed, after amateur telegraphers' messages had interfered with one another while communicating about the Titanic sinking. Hoover tried to regulate the frequencies some stations were broadcasting on, but it turned out the 1912 act had only regulated airwaves at least six-hundred meters long – the technological limit at the time. Some stations protested by deliberately overlapping their broadcasts, resulting in an hour of unpleasant squelches, followed by a message to support the passing of a law to regulate the airwaves. The Federal Radio Commission was formed in 1927, for that purpose. In 1934, it became the FCC, overseeing all types of electronic communications. How AM held back FM Sometimes, an inferior technology dominates, as VHS did over Beta, but sometimes, despite the best efforts of entrenched interests, the better technology prevails, as did eventually FM radio, over AM. AM radio signals are imprinted sounds on waves that vary according to amplitude, or the height of the waves. Thus "AM," for "amplitude modulation." FM radio waves are varied according to the frequency of the waves, or their width. Engineers in the radio industry and academia once thought frequency modulation wouldn't work. A 1922 paper from AT&T claimed to prove mathematically that it "inherently distorts without any compensating advantages whatsoever." But Major Armstrong was pushing hard for the FM method. Armstrong once again conducted a demonstration for Sarnoff. His "little black box" that transmitted an FM signal had vastly superior sound quality than an AM radio. Sarnoff let Armstrong run tests with FM equipment from RCA's offices atop the Empire State Building – the tallest in the world at the time. The FM signal delivered better sound quality than AM with one twenty-fifth the signal power. FM threatened existing AM interests There was a lot at stake in switching to FM: It could deliver better sound quality, and – since signals could be transmitted on a variety of frequencies – it could add thousands of stations to the dial. But, there were already tens of millions of AM radios, and hundreds of expensive radio station transmitters that would become obsolete. A benefit to RCA, however, would be that with clearer signals, they would no longer have to pay AT&T for use of their phone network for syndicating content. Y2K of the 1940s: The bogus sun-spot scare In 1941, the FCC approved a band of FM stations between 42 and 50 MHz. At the start of WWII, Major Armstrong pushed the military to switch to FM, and waived any licensing fees, increasing adoption. After the war, there was a controversy about sunspots: They work in an eleven-year cycle, and in FCC proceedings, one engineer rose a stink about how the next time sunspots came around, they would interfere with stations on the existing FM band. Despite the fact nearly every expert disagreed with that prediction, the FCC moved the FM dial to the current 88 to 108 MHz band. This made $75 million worth of devices soon-to-be worthless, and pissed off hundreds of thousands of FM early adopters. (When the strongest sunspots in two centuries came along, the old FM band worked fine.) The stifling of FM radio continued. The FCC eventually cut FM broadcasts from a 150 mile radius to a 50-mile radius, which may not sound like much, but translates to a ninety-percent cut in coverage area. Conveniently, this meant FM stations could no longer send programs to neighboring markets through the air, and had to instead pay to use AT&T's expensive and low-fidelity telephone wires. AM radio interests had also taken over most FM stations, where they simply rebroadcast their AM programs. There was little incentive to buy an FM set, and by 1946, nine of ten radio manufacturers weren't bothering to make them. All of this was enough to prompt Major Armstrong to file an antitrust suit against RCA, claiming David Sarnoff was conspiring to stifle the FM radio industry. The bold bets Sarnoff made in TV David Sarnoff was very focused on making television work around that time. He made some bold bets that helped NBC, a spin-off from RCA, be the first on the air. Searching for office space during the Great Depression, Sarnoff had decided to move RCA and NBC into the expensive 30 Rockefeller Plaza, aka "30 Rock." He pissed off shareholders by building elaborate radio studios. He had special wires installed in NBC's studios – for transmitting TV signals around the building – that weren't used for another twenty years. He had a giant studio built, with rotating stage, to work with television cameras that didn't even exist. Overall, he spent $50 million on television research over the course of twenty-five years, and it took a long time to pay off. Battles over TV airwaves The FCC's poor decisions continued in the proliferation of television. Despite warnings from engineers such as Major Armstrong, they allocated VHF channels so poorly, only one or two stations worked in most cities. They had to learn from their mistakes and start over with UHF stations. But UHF wavelengths were so short, the lower the channel number a station had, the further and more clearly their signal could travel. So, stations fought over the smaller-numbered of the sixty-eight channels. The television satellite David Sarnoff was there, once again, innovating in television. There was a battle over the color standard, and Sarnoff and RCA's NSTC standard was finally adopted by the FCC in 1953. "Relay-1" was the first American communications satellite, launched in 1962. It helped bypass AT&T's cables for syndicating programs, thus doubling RCA's revenue. Some events had previously been broadcast via airplane to expand coverage area. Relay-1's first trans-Pacific broadcast was supposed to carry to Japan an address from President Kennedy. Instead, it carried coverage of his assassination, and footage of the new president, Lyndon B. Johnson. There's your The Network summary As you can see, The Network covers a lot of the early history of wireless communications. It also does it with an engaging narrative style. There is of course much more. Read it to find out: Why there's no channel one. How Lyndon B. Johnson's wife Lady Bird built her media empire with some suspiciously favorable treatment from the FCC. The visions that Sarnoff had late in life for fiber optics, the internet, and e-books. Whether Major Armstrong's suicide at 63 had anything to do with his legal battles against David Sarnoff and RCA. If you've enjoyed this summary, you'll no doubt enjoy The Network. Thank you for having me on your podcasts! Thank you for having me on your podcasts. Thank you to David Elikwu at The Knowledge. As always, you can find interviews of me on my interviews page. About Your Host, David Kadavy David Kadavy is author of Mind Management, Not Time Management, The Heart to Start and Design for Hackers. Through the Love Your Work podcast, his Love Mondays newsletter, and self-publishing coaching David helps you make it as a creative. Follow David on: Twitter Instagram Facebook YouTube Subscribe to Love Your Work Apple Podcasts Overcast Spotify Stitcher YouTube RSS Email Support the show on Patreon Put your money where your mind is. Patreon lets you support independent creators like me. Support now on Patreon » Show notes: https://kadavy.net/blog/posts/the-network-scott-woolley/

The world expects us to be Raphaels, but some of us are Leonardos. Don't hold your Leonardo mind to Raphael standards, because this Raphael world would be nothing without Leonardo minds. There's an inscription in the Pantheon in Rome that says, "Here lies that famous Raphael by whom Nature feared to be conquered while he lived." In other words, Raphael was such an amazing painter, Nature was supposedly shaking in her boots, afraid he would learn all her tricks. (Ironically, Raphael's remains are sealed away in a sarcophagus, where Nature can't get to them. Who's afraid of who?) But Nature had nothing to fear. Raphael could not outdo her. As Raphael was being buried, the painter Nature should have feared lay hundreds of miles to the north, in a little church on the grounds of the King of France's chateau. Raphael the young phenom, Leonardo, the old has-been Several years before Raphael's early death, he was getting paid thousands of ducats to paint one fresco after another in the Vatican. Meanwhile, the aging Leonardo da Vinci was nearby, living off a meager 33 ducat-a-month stipend, not doing much of importance. The pope had tried hiring him to paint something, but ended up frustrated, saying, "This man will never get anything done!" When the prolific art patron, Elizabeth d'Este, who had hounded Leonardo for a portrait for decades, came to visit Rome, she didn't bother getting in touch with Leonardo. He was a has-been, who couldn't be counted on to follow through. Who was she there to see? The young phenom, Raphael. Raphael was very similar to Leonardo, but also very different. His most important difference was that he was a master executor. If you hired Raphael, he got the job done. He also had been raised in the workshop of his father, a court painter for a Duke, so Raphael was refined and well-mannered. He knew how to schmooze with nobility. He had the connections that came along with that background, and could get a letter of recommendation from one powerful person to another with ease. Leonardo, on the other hand, was born out of wedlock – which made him "illegitimate" at the time – and didn't get much education. While he had gained a reputation as a brilliant engineer and architect, he had also gained a reputation as an unreliable painter. Raphael: A reliable Leonardo As Raphael continued his career as the pope's wunderkind, Leonardo worked his way north. He left yet another project unfinished in Milan, then impressed King Francis I enough to be invited to join him at the Chateau d'Amboise, as the official painter, architect, and court pageantry designer. While a gig with the King of France wasn't the worst thing in the world, it was a step down from what Leonardo could have been doing if he hadn't been reputed as someone who couldn't get things done. The pope and all the nobles in all the principalities of Italy just watched him go. He'd never return again. While Raphael had some clear advantages that helped his career advance, he couldn't have done it without the ways he and Leonardo were similar. The frescoes being painted by the young Raphael – such as his most-famous School of Athens – were exactly the kinds of projects Leonardo would have been great for, if only he could have been counted on to finish them. In fact, there was no person in the world to whom Raphael owed his own painting style more than Leonardo. When it came to painting, Raphael was mostly a reliable Leonardo. Raphael's "Leonardo period" Art historians call the years during which Raphael spent a lot of time in Florence his "Florence period." But they might as well call them his "Leonardo period." That's the four years during which Raphael's work started looking less like that of his mentor, Perugino, and more like that of his idol, Leonardo. During Raphael's Florence period, Leonardo was in a public face-off with another young phenom, Michelangelo. Leonardo had been commissioned to paint a battle scene in the Florence Council Hall. As usual, the first deadline came and went. Meanwhile, Michelangelo had done such a great job with his David statue, the council decided it would be a great idea to have him paint a battle scene, too. It was a pretty awkward situation for Leonardo. He was already struggling to finish, and a committee of which he had been a part had gone against his recommendation for a less-conspicuous location and put the David right outside the entrance of the council hall. Michelangelo was an arrogant prick who openly taunted Leonardo for his past failures, and now Leonardo had to walk through the shadow of Michelangelo's latest triumph to get to his mural. Oh, and Michelangelo's battle scene mural was directly across the room from his. By all accounts at the time, this was a painting competition – a battle of battle scenes. Leonardo wasn't competitive by nature, but this was supposedly going to motivate him to finish his mural. Today, we might say putting Leonardo in this position was pretty machiavellian. Which is ironic, because it was arranged with the help of none other than the inventor of machiavellianism, the council's secretary, Niccolò Machiavelli. Once word of this painting battle traveled outside Florence, young artists traveled to Florence to witness it. One of those artists: Raphael – armed with a letter of recommendation from the mother of the future Duke of Urbino to the leader of the Florentine Republic, stating that the twenty-one year-old was "greatly gifted…sensible and well-mannered." It's during this "Florence period" that Raphael's work changed dramatically. It started to look as if he might know a thing or two about anatomy, he started aping Leonardo's smokey sfumato technique, and drawing contorted, muscular men in the heat of battle. He learned a bit watching Michelangelo, but he learned a lot watching Leonardo. As it turned out, neither Leonardo nor Michelangelo finished his mural. For Michelangelo, it wasn't a big deal. He got summoned to Rome, where he eventually painted the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Leonardo, however, had more of his career behind him than ahead of him. Yet another public failure meant he never got another public commission. So while Leonardo, in his sixties, was wandering around Europe, chasing what work he could, Raphael, in his early thirties, was getting showered with high-paying papal commissions, as a more-reliable Leonardo. The rise and fall of Raphael These days, we admire Leonardo more than we do Raphael, but that wasn't always the case. That Raphael is one of the few people entombed in the palace of the gods, alongside kings, is testament to his popularity when he died. Heck, at his funeral, the pope kissed his hand. Around 1800, the church in which Leonardo was buried was destroyed in the French Revolution. Nobody bothered to try to recover Leonardo's remains. They were mixed in with everyone else's and forgotten. Meanwhile, Raphael was as popular as ever. If you take a peek at Google Ngram, you see a sharp increase in mentions of Raphael around that time. For hundreds of years after Raphael's death, he was considered the quintessential painter of the High Renaissance. The art academies around Europe, who controlled the opinion of what was or wasn't good art, built their curricula around studying the work of Raphael. But as the influence of art academies crumbled in the late 1800s with the rise of Impressionism, so too did crumble the reverence for Raphael. Meanwhile, Leonardo has risen in popularity over the centuries. Today, if you want to find a good book on Leonardo, you have lots of choices. Raphael, not so much. The probable cause of this rise in popularity and the probable cause of Leonardo's struggles with follow-through are one in the same: Nature had more reason to fear Leonardo than Raphael. Leonardo's massive iceberg Through the centuries after Leonardo's death, his notes began to resurface. They had been inherited by someone who was supposed to compile and publish them, but were so numerous and disorganized, that was a nearly impossible task. His notes ended up collated and bound into individual notebooks, scattered amongst collectors around Europe. One notebook was found as recently as the 1960s, hiding in plain sight in Madrid, in the collection of the library. These notebooks have revealed that for Leonardo, painting a picture was about much more than painting a picture. When Raphael did an anatomy study, it was all about knowing how the skin on the surface of the body was shaped by the muscles underneath. The only purpose was to mimic Nature, on a superficial level. For Leonardo, an anatomy study was about much more. He didn't just want to know what muscles were under the skin. He wanted to also know which muscles were engaged by which movements, or which nerves activated by which emotions. As a painter, there was no reason for Leonardo to know what the human heart looked like, or how it worked. Yet Leonardo made observations about the heart that would have advanced science by centuries, had they been published. Leonardo searched, Raphael found As I talked about on episodes 105 and 288, economist David Galenson would say Raphael was a conceptual innovator, while Leonardo was an experimental one. To Leonardo, there was no such thing as irrelevant information. In the course of researching how to paint something, he might make a new discovery about anatomy, metallurgy, geology, or some other field, that would set him down a different path. The art historian Eugene Garin thought, based upon Leonardo's many thousands of pages of notes, that he was trying to compile a treatise of all human knowledge. Leonardo wasn't studying Nature just so he could paint it convincingly – he was trying to understand all of Nature. Raphael didn't have to explore all aspects of the world. He merely had to copy the result of Leonardo's thinking. Galenson told me, "It's what conceptual innovators do, it turns out." Conceptual innovators take an idea, and make it their own. It's what Picasso did with the work of Cézanne, what Warhol did with the work of Pollack, what Hemingway did with the work of Stein and Twain. The projects Leonardo pursued were impossible to finish Leonardo's experimental approach meant his paintings were never finished. He was always discovering something new, so he was constantly revising. For example, after one of his anatomy studies, he realized he had painted some neck muscles wrong, so he went back and repainted them thirty years after the fact. He did the bulk of his work on the Mona Lisa during four years, but moved it around for fifteen, making finishing touches until a paralyzed hand rendered him unable. The patron never got their painting, Leonardo never collected payment, and the Mona Lisa was still collecting dust in his studio when he died. This experimental, iterative approach extended to Leonardo's materials and methods, and made it even more difficult for him to follow through. The best-practice method of painting murals in fresco required laying down plaster and painting on it before it dried and literally set itself in stone. It wasn't great for Leonardo's blurry-edged painting style, and it made iteration impossible. He couldn't lay down dozens of layers of paint over the course of years, as he did with the Mona Lisa. By the time Leonardo was painting his battle scene in the Florence Council Hall, his famous Last Supper was already fading and flaking, thanks to his resistance to painting in the reliable fresco technique. Not satisfied with adapting his style to this technique, Leonardo instead experimented once again on his battle-scene mural. He was almost finished, before the fire he was using to set colors got too close, destroying his work. This Raphael world is nothing without Leonardos Historically, the world rewards Raphaels. It rewards the ability to formulate a plan, follow through, collect payment and prestige, and move on. So, the world trains us to be Raphaels. Why do we follow a curriculum and fill out bubbles on standardized tests with #2 pencils? Because our teacher already knows the answer. They know the answer so well, they've programmed a computer to grade the test, and it'll get confused if you use a #3 pencil. But for the curriculum to be designed to make Raphaels, we first need Leonardos. We need people who explore and experiment. We need them to ask questions that might not have answers, and to come up with new questions nobody ever thought of. That's not a straightforward process. It's messy and disorganized, and it would cause any Raphael to pull their hair out. When you don't always find answers, and the answers you do find lead to new questions, you don't always finish. The days of the Raphaels of the world are numbered. If somebody already knows the process, already knows the answer, we don't need Raphael. A computer or machine can follow a process. Raphael knew this. Once his fame was established, he milked it for all it was worth. His later frescoes were painted by his staff of assistants in the largest workshop of the High Renaissance. He licensed his drawings to a printmaker, who sold copies of his work. As it becomes harder to make it as a Raphael, it's becoming easier to make it as a Leonardo. I think Leonardo would have been a great blogger. He wouldn't have to collect and document all knowledge, then rely on an heir to collate, typeset, and publish his life's work on expensive parchment. He could instead write and publish one note at a time, gradually building his treatise of human knowledge. He wouldn't have to wander around Europe looking for patrons – he could get them without leaving his home. If you're a Leonardo, don't bother being a Raphael If you're a Leonardo mind, don't fall into the trap of evaluating yourself by the standards of the Raphael world. There's a reason why the Raphaels are so good at getting it done: Their task is simpler. Don't beat yourself up by your inability to plan and carry out a vision no one could reasonably execute on their first attempt. Instead, find a way to explore in public, one little project at a time, building up into your grand masterpiece. Leonardo's remains were forgotten for sixty years. Some scientist, perhaps motivated by the gradual resurfacing of the notes revealing Leonardo's genius, gathered together some bones he figured were those of the master. They're in a tomb in a chapel on the grounds of the chateau, and it's one of the top attractions in Amboise. Are they actually Leonardo's bones? Probably not. His remains are probably where they should be – not sealed away in some sarcophagus, but one with Nature. Thank you for having me on your podcasts! Thank you to Costa Michailidis for having me on the InnovationBound podcast. As always, you can find interviews of me on my interviews page. About Your Host, David Kadavy David Kadavy is author of Mind Management, Not Time Management, The Heart to Start and Design for Hackers. Through the Love Your Work podcast, his Love Mondays newsletter, and self-publishing coaching David helps you make it as a creative. Follow David on: Twitter Instagram Facebook YouTube Subscribe to Love Your Work Apple Podcasts Overcast Spotify Stitcher YouTube RSS Email Support the show on Patreon Put your money where your mind is. Patreon lets you support independent creators like me. Support now on Patreon » Show notes: https://kadavy.net/blog/posts/leonard-mind-raphael-world/

The book, Old Masters and Young Geniuses shows there are two types of creators: experimental, and conceptual. Experimental and conceptual creators differ in their approaches to their work, and follow two distinct career paths. Experimental creators grow to become old masters. Conceptual creators shine as young geniuses. University of Chicago economist, and author of Old Masters and Young Geniuses, David Galenson – who I interviewed on episode 105 – wanted to know how the ages of artists affected the prices of their paintings. He isolated the ages of artists from other factors that affect price, such as canvas size, sale date, and support type (whether it's on canvas, paper, or other). He expected to find a neat effect, such as "paintings from younger/older artists sell for more." But instead, he found two distinct patterns: Some artists' paintings from their younger years sold for more. Other artists' paintings from their older years sold for more. He then found this same pattern in the historical significance of artists' work: The rate at which paintings were included in art history books or retrospective exhibitions – both indicators of significance – peaked at the same ages as the values of paintings. When he looked closely at how painters who followed these two trajectories differed, he found that the ones who peaked early took a conceptual approach, while those who peaked late took an experimental approach. Cézanne vs. Picasso The perfect examples of contrasting experimental and conceptual painters are Paul Cézanne and Pablo Picasso. Paintings from Cézanne's final year of life, when he was sixty-seven, are his most valuable. Paintings from early in Picasso's career, when he was twenty-six, are his most valuable. A painting done when Picasso was twenty-six is worth four times as much as one done when he was sixty-seven (he lived to be ninety-one, and his biographer and friend called the dearth of his influential work later in life "a sad end"). A painting done when Cézanne was sixty-seven – the year he died – is worth fifteen times as much as one done when he was twenty-six. Cézanne, the experimenter Cézanne took an experimental approach to painting, which explains why it took so long for his career to peak. Picasso took a conceptual approach, which explains why he peaked early. Cézanne left the conceptual debates of Paris cafés to live in the south of France, in his thirties. He spent the next three decades struggling to paint what he truly saw in landscapes. He felt limited by the fact that, as he was looking at a canvas, he could only paint the memory of what he had just seen. He did few preparatory sketches early in his career, but grew to paint straight from nature. He treated his paintings as process work, and seemed to have no use for them when he was finished: He only signed about ten percent of his paintings, and sometimes threw them into bushes or left them in fields. Picasso, the conceptual genius Picasso, instead, executed one concept after another. He had early success with his Blue period and Rose period, then dove into Cubism. He often planned paintings carefully, in advance: He did more than four-hundred studies for his most valuable and influential painting, Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. One model described how he simply stared at her for an hour, apparently planning a series of paintings in his head, which he began painting the next day, without her assistance. Cézanne said, "I seek in painting." Picasso said, "I don't seek; I find." Cézanne struggled to paint what he saw, and Picasso said, "I paint objects as I think them, not as I see them." Experimental vs. conceptual artists Here are some qualities that differ between experimental and conceptual artists: Experimental artists work inductively. Through the process of creation, they arrive at their solution. Conceptual artists work deductively. They begin with a solution in mind, then work towards it. Experimental artists have vague goals. They're not quite sure what they're seeking. Conceptual artists have specific goals. They already have an idea in their head they're trying to execute. Experimental artists are full of doubt. Since they don't already have the solution, and aren't sure what they're looking for, they rarely feel they've succeeded. Conceptual artists are confident. They know what they're after, so once they've achieved it, they're done, and can move on to the next thing. Experimental artists repeat themselves. They might paint the same subject over and over, tweaking their approach. Conceptual artists change quickly. They'll move from subject to subject, style to style, concept to concept. Experimental artists do it themselves. They're discovering throughout the process, so they rarely use assistants. Conceptual artists delegate. They just need their concept executed, so someone else can often do the work. Experimental artists discover. Over the years, they build up knowledge in a field, to invent new approaches. Conceptual artists steal. To a greater degree than experimental artists, they take what others have developed and make it their own. Other experimental & conceptual artists Some other experimental artists: Georgia O'Keeffe: She painted pictures of a door of her house in New Mexico more than twenty times. She liked to start off painting a subject realistically, then, through repetition, make it more abstract. Jackson Pollock: He said he needed to drip paint on a canvas from all four sides, what he called a "'get acquainted' period," before he knew what he was painting. Leonardo da Vinci: He was constantly jumping from project to project, rarely finishing. He incorporated his slowly-accrued knowledge of anatomy, optics, and geology into his paintings. Some conceptual artists: Georges Seurat: He had his pointillism method down to a science. He planned out his most-famous painting, Sunday Afternoon, through more than fifty studies, and could paint tiny dots on the giant canvas without stepping back to see how it looked. Andy Warhol: Used assistants heavily, saying, "I think somebody should be able to do all my paintings for me," and "Why do people think artists are special? It's just another job." Raphael: Who had a huge workshop of as many as fifty assistants, innovated by allowing a printmaker to make and sell copies of his work, and synthesized the hard-won methods of Leonardo and Michelangelo into his well-planned designs. Experimental & conceptual creators in other fields Galenson has found these two distinct experimental and conceptual trajectories in a variety of fields. This runs counter to the findings of Dean Simonton, who believes the complexity of a given field determines when a creator peaks. Galenson argues that the complexity of having an impact in a field changes, as innovations are made or integrated into the state of the art. Sculpture In sculpture, Méret Oppenheim had a conversation in a café with Picasso, and got the idea to line a teacup with fur. It became the quintessential surrealist sculpture, Luncheon in Fur, but it was totally conceptual. She continued to make art into her seventies, and never did another significant work. Constantin Brancusi spent a lifetime as an experimental sculptor. He said, "I don't work from sketches, I take the chisel and hammer and go right ahead." He did his most famous work, Bird in Space, when he was fifty-two. Novels In novels, Mark Twain wrote The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn experimentally, in at least three separate phases, over the course of nine years. He finally published it when he was fifty. Hemingway's novels were conceptually driven, using his trademark dialog as one of his major devices. He picked up this technique and synthesized it from studying the work of Gertrude Stein, Sherwood Anderson, and Twain himself. When I talked to Galenson on episode 105, he explained the way to spot the difference between an experimental and a conceptual novel is to ask, "are the characters believable?" Conceptual novelists focus on plot, while experimental novelists focus on character. Poetry In poetry, Robert Frost, who spent his career trying to perfect how rhythms and stress patterns affected the meanings of words – so-called "sentence sounds" – wrote "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" when he was forty-eight. Ezra Pound developed his technique of "imagism" when he was twenty-eight, and had thought it through so well he published a set of formal rules. With this conceptual approach, he created the bulk of his influential poems before he was forty, despite living well into his eighties. Movies In film, Orson Welles created Citizen Kane when he was only twenty-six. The carefully-planned conceptual innovations in cinematography and musical score make it widely-regarded as the most influential film ever. Alfred Hitchcock didn't make his most-influential films until the final years of his life, as he was about sixty. He said, "style in directing develops slowly and naturally." Are you an old master, or young genius? I really enjoyed Old Masters and Young Geniuses. I find this dichotomy of experimental versus conceptual approaches really helpful in understanding why, in general, some creative solutions come quickly, while others take months or years of searching. Do you have a choice in the matter? Galenson is careful to stress that you aren't either an experimental or conceptual creator – it's a spectrum, not a binary designation. But in case you're wondering if you can make yourself a conceptual creator, to become successful more quickly, Galenson says you can't. You might switch from a conceptual to an experimental approach, and find it works better for you, as did Cézanne, or you might try to go from experimental to conceptual and find it doesn't, as did Pissarro. But you can't change the way you think. He told me, "It's like trying to change your brain, and we don't know how to do that." About Your Host, David Kadavy David Kadavy is author of Mind Management, Not Time Management, The Heart to Start and Design for Hackers. Through the Love Your Work podcast, his Love Mondays newsletter, and self-publishing coaching David helps you make it as a creative. Follow David on: Twitter Instagram Facebook YouTube Subscribe to Love Your Work Apple Podcasts Overcast Spotify Stitcher YouTube RSS Email Support the show on Patreon Put your money where your mind is. Patreon lets you support independent creators like me. Support now on Patreon » Show notes: http://kadavy.net/blog/posts/old-masters-young-geniuses