your desk for the first time, watching your first order come in on the internet, or
turning the sign on your door from “closed” to “open.” Say something like, “I’ll
never forget the day . . .” or “I’ll never forget the first time . . .” or “I remember
when . . .” as a way to segue into the moment. Even something as simple as a
date, a day of the week, or the weather outside will satisfy your audience’s need
for a moment.
Specific Details
As we’ve discussed, details are audience-specific.
Depending on what you
know about the audience to whom you are telling your founder story, you will
include different pieces to help them connect their experience with yours. Rely
on details universal to your audience. If your customers are new parents, include
a specific detail new parents can relate to. If your audience is new talent, include
a specific detail about what it feels like to be a part of something you truly care
about.
Ultimately, what makes a founder story inherently familiar is the reality of
being human. It’s not about numbers. It’s not about market share. It’s not about
logos and social media strategies. The founding of a company is about a person
on a path, and whether it’s
the path we make, the path we choose, or the path
that happens to be there at the time, path navigating is what being human is all
about.
No Second Chances
Ultimately, the power of a founder story is its ability to humanize the business
the founder started. To remind people that behind
the building or logo or bank
statement is a person who started it all. Regardless of if you’re the founder or if
you work for a company whose founding story is amazing, my hope is you
choose this story as your default opener. Instead of leading with facts, figures, or
information, the story needs to start with the people behind the company.
After all, if you don’t start there, you often don’t get a chance to go there at
all.
Except in the case of the glassblower at the 2013 Las Vegas handmade artist
expo. You know, the one who told me what year
the company started and that
the glass bowls were, indeed, glass bowls (thank you, Captain Obvious). He
learned I was a storyteller just as I was walking away from him, and he tried to
call me back because he had a great story to tell.
Recognizing the meta-storytelling opportunity, I revisited the booth the next
day. And this time he told me the story.
His parents had wanted him to be a lawyer. They weren’t overt about it, but
there was always some subtle pressure to pursue a career in law and all it came
with: prestige, security, money. But the truth was, the man had always known he
was an artist. He was happiest when he was creating things, thriving in all of his
artistic pursuits. Nevertheless, not wanting to let his parents down—he shrugged,
knowing it was a classic tale—he went to law school and got a job at a local
practice. He did fine. He did well actually. He was pretty good at it. But he hated
it. Long hours, joyless work. He hated every minute.
To offset the misery, he turned to crime.
He smiled as he let that last statement settle in. I mean, I know you’re not
supposed to judge a book by its cover,
but this soft-spoken, middle-aged guy
with curly silver hair, unsuspecting glasses, and
kind smile did not scream
hardened criminal.
His crime of choice: stealing scraps of discarded glass.
On his way home each night from the law office, he passed a glass
manufacturing warehouse. Because he worked such long hours, and because it
was always way past regular work hours before he was heading home, the glass
company was usually closed up for the night. And their garbage containers were
unattended. So every night the man would stop
and dig through the glass
company’s trash to pull out pieces of glass they had thrown away. He took them
to his garage and, working into the wee hours of the morning, taught himself
how to create the pieces I currently saw on display.
“And now this is what I do.” He gazed around the booth, a subtle look on his
face that reminded me of a father presenting his children with a sweet sense of
pride and satisfaction. A look I’m not sure his father ever gave him, but a look
that made it not matter.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for sharing that story with me.”
“Thank you for coming back to hear it. I’d forgotten that story.”
One of the easiest stories to forget to tell is the founder story, because amid
all the other drama of what it takes to get a company off the ground, it’s easy for
this story to get lost in the shuffle. When it comes to business, stories don’t often
sound like stories; they just sound like part of a start-up life. But overlooking the
founder story means missing a powerful opportunity
to connect with investors,
to differentiate yourself from the competition, and eventually secure talent for a
thriving team. The glassblower asked me to come back to hear his story and I
did. But more often than not, you don’t get a second chance to tell the story.
Successful founders, like those of Airbnb, eventually go on to become more than
that. Their fledgling businesses grow into something bigger, something with a
life of its own. More customers arrive. More employees arrive.
Two guys in a
garage become a tech giant. Three air mattresses on the floor become hundreds
of thousands of beds around the world. What was once a small, nimble,
unpredictable start-up becomes an organization.
When that happens, founders transition too. Yes, they’ll always be founders,
but now they’re something else: they’re leaders.
And that, as they say, is a whole different story.
