johnmaconline

Tables and charts are just tables and charts. 

Until you enter the picture. Does this table beg new questions from you? Will this chart inform your decision? Do either of these help you change your mind or bolster what you already know? 

The data doesn’t talk, but when you come together with it, it may undergird your voice. Or maybe not.

Yet, smart marketers use data as part of the story they tell. It’s part of their influence campaign. It’s a bludgeon.

More data — bigger hammer. 

Don’t be impressed, distracted, or confused by the data if it doesn’t help you see it better. 

Data should be a flashlight, not a weapon. 

[NOTE: I commandeered/plagiarized/stole the title from The 1440.]

Penny’s cost almost four cents to make. Yet, they’re worth only one cent. 

The government lost $85 million last year making pennies. $85 million. A pittance for the government, sure, but for you and me? 

And what did you do with them? 

You probably left them at the register, or tossed them in a tip jar, or stuffed way down in the console of the car, or even threw them out. About 6.7 million people toss their pennies in the trash. In total, we discard about $62 million in coins each year, with pennies comprising a significant portion of this amount.

And yet, we kept stamping them out. Why?

Nostalgia — The penny feels foundational, plus it’s a tie to times past. 

“That’s how they get ya!” — People are concerned about businesses rounding up and having to pay more.

Infrastructure — Pennies are built into the system’s infrastructure. Changing the system is hard. 

Politics — Somebody’s gonna spin this as taking away something “the people.” That somebody will tell you a story with a name and a face about how this person is suffering without the penny. 

OK, fair enough. 

But sometimes you gotta rip the band-aid. 

Just because it used to work doesn’t mean it still does. Just because that’s the way we always did it doesn’t mean you still should. Just because one or some people may be worse off doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it anyway. 

The hardest part of progress isn’t necessarily building the new. Sometimes, it’s letting go of the old. 

I’m coming out of the closet. 

The best car we ever owned was a minivan. Specifically, a 2004 Toyota Sienna. Dark green. Tan interior. Stone-cold awesome.

We put 250,000 miles on that thing.

Three kids. Countless vacations. Thousands of sporting events, lake trips, and hardware store runs. It towed our jet skis, cruised the interstate, and swallowed everything we threw at it.

It was reliable. Comfortable. Easy to drive.

You might be thinking, “A minivan? Really?” Yeah. Really.

Why does a minivan trigger a little cringe?

Probably identity. And that identity has been shaped by the culture and the market. 

Minivans became shorthand for “settled-down.” People want vehicles that say “adventure.” Even if the closest you get to off-road is the garden section of Home Depot. 

Manufacturers know this, and they leaned in. Minivan margins are slim, and SUV margins are fat. Target the marketing dollars at the fat margins. 

And we followed. Not because SUVs and giant pickup trucks are better for our lifestyle. But because of story. The story we tell ourselves about the person we are or want to be. It’s a story of freedom and adventure.

I don’t, but I could. 

Whenever you’re making something for someone else, make sure you know the story they tell themselves about themselves. 

Because it’s the story they’re really buying. 

P.S. About 80-90% of the 30 million Jeeps, SUVs, and trucks with knobby tires, roll-bars, and lift-kits on the road today have never been, and will never go off-road. That’s about 24-27 million “I don’t, but I could.”

Disagreement feels like rejection. Agreement feels like validation.

Disagreement is discomfort. Agreement is comfort.

But if you’re a leader, agreement can be a trap because your idea isn’t always the best.

The best ideas, or maybe the best outcomes, come from creative tension. From friction. From someone brave enough to say, “That doesn’t make sense.”

Want better ideas? Invite your people to disagree. Create space where people don’t have to nod along.

If no one’s pushing back, you’re probably not leading. You’re just broadcasting.

More is many things.

We chase more because it looks like progress, value, and better.

More is easy to sell. It’s harder to maintain.

More meetings mean more overhead.
More stuff means more stuff to deal with.
More choices mean more decisions.
More features mean more bugs.
More success requires more success.

More is unstable. Because it requires more.

That’s about 450 words. What will you say?

It’s a hallway conversation. A coffee line moment. A surprise introduction or run-in at the grocery store.

That’s just enough time to either make someone lean in or check out. It isn’t long enough to say everything. But it’s more than enough to say something.

Will their eyes glaze over or flit about? Or will their pupils narrow just a bit as the muscles around them tighten slightly?

Start with the spark. Not the history. Not the digression. Not the explanation.

The spark.

What’s the essence of the story?

You’ve got 3 minutes. What will you say?

The elevator pitch has several origin stories.

Here’s one I like:

In 1854, Elisha Otis dramatically demonstrated his safety elevator at the New York World’s Fair by cutting the support rope on a hoisted platform on which he was standing. The platform safely stopped mid-air.

Here’s another:

In early Hollywood, screenwriters used elevator rides to pitch ideas to busy executives, prompting the creation of brief, persuasive pitches that required clarity and efficiency.

So what is it? Here is an elevator pitch for an elevator pitch:

“An elevator pitch is a powerful, concise summary of your idea, product, or value proposition that you can deliver in the time it takes to ride an elevator.”

Elevator pitches are very difficult for someone who rambles, tends towards overexplaining, uses too many words, includes too many details, digresses, inexplicably feels the need to explain tangential concepts, is secretly afraid that the audience thinks he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and really and truly just wants to ensure that everyone, everywhere gets the point.

That’s me. And that’s a terrible explanation, like most of mine.

Now, here’s the elevator pitch version of the previous (from ChatGPT):

I ramble, overexplain, and occasionally give TED Talks on side topics, which is why delivering an elevator pitch feels like a personal nightmare.

Or, here’s another (from ChatGPT):

Elevator pitches are hard when your brain writes a novel, your mouth reads the footnotes, and the elevator only goes up three floors.

This post is proof. I set out to write an elevator pitch but ended up walking you around the entire building, door by door, floor by floor. We went to the basement to see the plumbing and electrical infrastructure. We went to the roof to see the antennas. I told you about our contract with AT&T and Verizon to lease antenna space. I probably pulled out the documentation. I showed you the custodian’s closet. I explained the lighting strategies and provided some wonderful (ly boring) anecdotes about the automation features. Did you know that the floors use a new compound that not only meets the green requirements for this building, but have actually saved us almost 5% compared to the alternative?

I’m sorry for that. I can’t help it. That’s why this blog is called The250.

Here’s the elevator pitch for this post:

Elevator pitches are simple, but not easy, especially when your instinct is to explain the elevator before you ride it.