Picked up an awesome paperback this weekend. Start Something That Matters, written by the founder of TOMS shoes.
His name is Blake, and his business model is a bit unconventional: He gives away a new pair of shoes to needy child for every pair he sells.
In the first chapter, Blake talks about the importance of story. Naturally, that got my attention.
TOMS' story
In 2006, when Blake was 29, he took a vacation in Argentina. He noted that poor kids there went barefoot, and not by choice. No shoes --> blisters --> sores--> entry points for life-threatening disease... you get the idea.
Blake wanted to give away shoes to needy kids for free. Instead of relying solely on donations, (pardon the pun), he posited that maybe it made more sense to create a for-profit shoe company, with a twist: For every pair of shoes he sold, he would give away a pair for free.
People told him he was crazy... he didn't know anything about designing shoes or selling shoes or the shoe business. But with the help of his friend Alojo, he went ahead and did it anyway. Starting out, all they had to start was an idea and a name... TOMS... which is short for "Tomorrow's Shoes."
With the help of a local shoemaker, they adapted native Argentinian shoes, called alpargatas, for the American market.
Supporters: Those other crazy people.
Months later, Blake was flying home from NY, where he'd met with the big shoe dogs (industry veterans, as they're called). His mood was cloudy, not sunny and bright like usual because, despite putting his best foot forward, he still didn't sell any shoes to the NY bigwigs.
As he stood at the ticket counter, he was surprised to find a woman wearing a pair of TOMS, in red. He complimented her shoes. She told him all about TOMS - their mission, and their story, and how wonderful they were. Blake was blown away.
That was the day that Blake realized that his story mattered as much as his product. He also realized something else: This woman was more than a customer. She was an enthusiastic supporter, one who told the TOMS story - his story- to a total stranger in an airport. Blake writes: Customers and employees come and go. Supporters are with you for the long haul.
Crazy like a... millionaire?
That first summer, TOMS sold 10,000 pairs of shoes. Blake returned to Argentina, where he rented a bus and drove from village to village.
He and his team personally gave away 10,000 pairs of shoes.
Oh, and to the folks who said he was crazy?
The company's 2010 earnings: $100 million. (Up from about $90,000 in 2001.)
Blake says: What we found is TOMS has succeeded precisely because we created a new model. We're just one example of a new breed of companies that are succeeding in this volatile moment in capitalism.
Who says you can't make money doing work that you love, work that matters?
Let's go crazy... :)
cheers,
Al
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Why I love bookstores. (And always will!)
I'm working on my latest script. It's a love story, set in World War II. I've only been writing it for three years. Forgive me but, history buff though I am, World War isn't my specialty. I've had quite some catching up to do.
Which brings me to today's post. I visited a bookstore yesterday, the brick-and-mortar kind... an independently owned one at that. These days, Hayley's Comet might be easier to find. Don't get me wrong. I love the instant gratification of Amazon.com as much as the next writer working hard to procrastinate... but one thing you can't get via iPad is the smell of paper and glue. At least, not yet.
Funny, you never miss things 'til they're gone.
Go ahead, call me sentimental; "vintage" if you must be pc. I'm old. I get it. So what? So what if I enjoy spending a rainy afternoon perusing a forest of dead trees? Some people go to museums. I hang out in bookstores. I'm a writer. It's called research.
In this particular store, on this particular day, I came face to face with another novelty which can't be found in an online store: Another writer, live and in person. At last, someone who understands. Try getting that in an online store. You can order up a signed copy of an artist's work, or maybe even chat in real time... but I'm betting that the warmth of a handshake can't be found on a site map.
When I'd researched enough of my day away, I headed for the checkout. Finally, the muse was calling. Actually, it was my husband, wanting lunch. There in a neat pile, on a table by the door, I found exactly what I had no idea I needed: A book called FUBAR: Soldier Slang of WWII. A guidebook to the mysteries of male dialogue, during the war years. And what do you know... it was bargain priced! I shuffled my pile of purchases and all but ran with it to my car.
You see, the minute I read the cover I saw where my script was stalled. I've gathered all the necessary bones - the characters, the plot, even the theme. What's missing is the flesh. I have will and knowledge and passion in spades. Great, necessary even, if you're a producer. But a writer is a mechanic, with words. Sooner or later, you gotta write. And if you're writing for the screen, you gotta write dialogue. You know. The part where people talk to each other.
Despite my exhaustive research, I had no idea how men at war talk to each other now, let alone seventy years ago! Dialogue is like fuel in the tank; without it, the vehicle can't go. This little book showed me exactly what I needed to hear.
I began writing this script three years ago off a book I picked up in another bookstore, on another clearance table. Today the shop is gone, but the the book and my passion to share it with the world remains. I'm grateful, for it led me to three years, and more importantly, the last three weeks at my grandad's bedside while he died.
I don't remember my grandad as a war hero. I remember him as a scarecrow of a man, long and lean, with a mischievous grin. Years into retirement, he toddered around the house in gray coveralls, speckled with white paint, or "grandaddy bling".
When he wasn't painting, he was scraping something with the intent to do so. He was always outside, until suppertime. Then he was out again until dusk. Now I suspect I know why. My grandma lives with dementia. For how long, no one knows, but she can be quite scary at times.
Grandad rarely told us about his war years, how he was wounded in battle, how many of his buddies died. He didn't have to. In all the years I knew him, he showed me two things: His love of Jesus and of life. War stories and soldier slang were a thing of the past. He never told me about his purple heart either. I had to look that one up online.
The Bottom Line: Browsing a bookstore is like editing film before NLE machines. Linear editors had to manually scroll through all the takes, then pick the very best ones to hold onto. Sometimes, you really don't know what you're looking for until you find it.
People are kind of like that, too. We haven't managed to replace them either. At least not yet...
Which brings me to today's post. I visited a bookstore yesterday, the brick-and-mortar kind... an independently owned one at that. These days, Hayley's Comet might be easier to find. Don't get me wrong. I love the instant gratification of Amazon.com as much as the next writer working hard to procrastinate... but one thing you can't get via iPad is the smell of paper and glue. At least, not yet.
Funny, you never miss things 'til they're gone.
Go ahead, call me sentimental; "vintage" if you must be pc. I'm old. I get it. So what? So what if I enjoy spending a rainy afternoon perusing a forest of dead trees? Some people go to museums. I hang out in bookstores. I'm a writer. It's called research.
In this particular store, on this particular day, I came face to face with another novelty which can't be found in an online store: Another writer, live and in person. At last, someone who understands. Try getting that in an online store. You can order up a signed copy of an artist's work, or maybe even chat in real time... but I'm betting that the warmth of a handshake can't be found on a site map.
When I'd researched enough of my day away, I headed for the checkout. Finally, the muse was calling. Actually, it was my husband, wanting lunch. There in a neat pile, on a table by the door, I found exactly what I had no idea I needed: A book called FUBAR: Soldier Slang of WWII. A guidebook to the mysteries of male dialogue, during the war years. And what do you know... it was bargain priced! I shuffled my pile of purchases and all but ran with it to my car.
You see, the minute I read the cover I saw where my script was stalled. I've gathered all the necessary bones - the characters, the plot, even the theme. What's missing is the flesh. I have will and knowledge and passion in spades. Great, necessary even, if you're a producer. But a writer is a mechanic, with words. Sooner or later, you gotta write. And if you're writing for the screen, you gotta write dialogue. You know. The part where people talk to each other.
Despite my exhaustive research, I had no idea how men at war talk to each other now, let alone seventy years ago! Dialogue is like fuel in the tank; without it, the vehicle can't go. This little book showed me exactly what I needed to hear.
I began writing this script three years ago off a book I picked up in another bookstore, on another clearance table. Today the shop is gone, but the the book and my passion to share it with the world remains. I'm grateful, for it led me to three years, and more importantly, the last three weeks at my grandad's bedside while he died.
I don't remember my grandad as a war hero. I remember him as a scarecrow of a man, long and lean, with a mischievous grin. Years into retirement, he toddered around the house in gray coveralls, speckled with white paint, or "grandaddy bling".
When he wasn't painting, he was scraping something with the intent to do so. He was always outside, until suppertime. Then he was out again until dusk. Now I suspect I know why. My grandma lives with dementia. For how long, no one knows, but she can be quite scary at times.
Grandad rarely told us about his war years, how he was wounded in battle, how many of his buddies died. He didn't have to. In all the years I knew him, he showed me two things: His love of Jesus and of life. War stories and soldier slang were a thing of the past. He never told me about his purple heart either. I had to look that one up online.
The Bottom Line: Browsing a bookstore is like editing film before NLE machines. Linear editors had to manually scroll through all the takes, then pick the very best ones to hold onto. Sometimes, you really don't know what you're looking for until you find it.
People are kind of like that, too. We haven't managed to replace them either. At least not yet...
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