Attention to Craft

Sharks glided behind the boat, parting the surface periodically to snatch fish we threw overboard. Occasionally, a much larger shape slid ominously under the surface, a single fin cutting the water, usually a hammerhead.

This is not a movie scene or bad dream (though I had many dreams about sharks in my years on the boat). Just a routine summer day in the Atlantic Ocean, 100-plus miles offshore, my workplace from age 11 to 21.

The setting was my uncle’s 75-foot steel lobster boat, the Spartan, a hard knocks place of work and powerful vessel for life lessons.

In a practical sense, the sharks were compelling reminders for attention to craft. Craft in how we stacked wooden pots before sending them into the ocean. Craft in how we tied knots. Craft in how we washed the deck to prevent slipping.

Neglecting craft could bring dire consequences. Poorly stacked pots could knock you into the ocean as they sped off the moving boat, plunging you into the shark’s domain. With the speed of the boat and the engine’s roar, the crew might not notice you missing for minutes or, worst case, hours.

This scenario, albeit unlikely, focused me as a young man on the value of little things done well, the beginning of a lifelong journey. Lessons in craft have been a recurring theme my whole career.

Think about a dinner at your favorite restaurant, a great movie you watched, a book you love, a helpful app you use every day or even a successful medical procedure. Behind each is a team deeply dedicated to craft.

For the truly great, craft is a passion and end in itself, the fruit of many years’ dedication and practice. When I’m hiring, whether it is a product manager, a UX designer, a customer service leader or an analyst, I am looking for dedication to craft.

Have they studied their function? Have they read the experts in their field? Do they have a portfolio they can point to? Do they obsess about the details of their process?

A decade after my offshore adventures on the Spartan, I stood in a large conference room in Washington, D.C., part of the editorial team at Time-Life Books. My colleagues were highly skilled writers, editors, photographers, designers and reporters, united in telling powerful stories. I often felt unworthy, even as an award-winning investigative journalist with a master’s degree in writing.

On the wall we arranged large copies of every page of the chapter we were working on. We walked through the narrative arc, each photo and every design element. The extensive questions, discussion and critiques were essential to weaving fact, story, word and image together to make a compelling book.

To this day, I remember an afternoon I spent with a Time-Life Vice President in a similar conference room, reviewing every photo, every caption, every color choice and every design decision in excruciating detail. I remember the copy editor who required three sources for every word I wrote. If I said the car was blue, I owed her three verified sources saying it was blue. I remember editors marking up every paragraph and saying, nicely: “Better please.” As a young writer and journalist, it was a lesson in craft.

Amazon was perhaps the most exacting classroom for craft. There were no hammerheads gliding under the surface but critiques were intense.

I remember the business case that elicited strong endorsement from Jeff. And, equally, I remember the presentation where we didn’t get past the second slide. After blistering feedback, Jeff turned on his heels and walked out. “Better please.” (We did come back and do much better.)

But of all my lessons in craft – and they continue to this day – none were more vivid than the ones I learned in the Atlantic many miles off the rocky New England coast.

Sitting alone in the captain’s chair after midnight on watch, I would listen to the engine drone and radio chatter. The rest of the crew slept in cramped quarters below deck. Bright green dots blinked on the radar screen, denoting other vessels. On occasion there were tankers that appeared like vast cities a hundred feet above us. Collision with one of these would be fatal. Good judgement was critical in deciding when to go off auto pilot to avoid a collision in the night.

Attention to craft here was a commitment to the lives of the sleeping crew, who depended on the person on watch navigating safely through the night, far from safe harbors.

Even when it is not a life and death matter, attention to craft is necessary to deliver great experiences to customers. Good and poor craft is all around us if we look. My encouragement: Study your craft, love your craft, endlessly work on it and perfect it.

If we care about our customers, if we cherish our colleagues, if we respect our profession, if we care about the crew sleeping below us, we will care deeply about craft. As I’ve learned, it’s the work of a lifetime.