In late 2002, Neoforma forwarded me a message from a writer for Fortune magazine. She was writing an article, following up with the founders of companies the magazine had written about during 1999 and 2000. She was interested in what had become of an array of momentary business celebrities, including me...
Naturally, I thought this was a really interesting subject to explore, so I sent her a message saying that I would be happy to chat with her.
When she interviewed me, she asked, “What life lessons have you learned? . . . How much stock were you able to sell before the Crash? . . . What has become of the company you founded?”
I could tell she was seeking some story of drastically altered lifestyle, like the opening of a hot dog stand or an extended stay at a Zen monastery. I said, “I’m writing a book.” But I guess a lot of her interviewees were writing books. She didn’t ask me much about it.
She seemed a bit disappointed when I told her that Neoforma was still in business, and even more disappointed when I told her that Neoforma was profitable. And she wasn’t particularly happy when I pointed out that I had been ten or so years older than the twenty-something dotcom darlings of the day, that I had started the business before the Boom, and that I had created the business before I had created the business plan.
“We were just trying to build a good company and offer good services.”
I could tell that the picture she was trying to paint—a time of gleeful excess followed by a monumental crash-and-burn—was getting muddied by this conversation.
She asked me to ascribe a meaning to this defining moment in history, which she classified right up there with the Industrial Age and the Depression. I told her that I didn’t know, but I was writing a book to help others figure out what it all meant. She thanked me for my time.
Later, when I contacted her to ask when the article would be published, she apologized profusely. She said she had wanted Neoforma to be listed as “the only grown-ups we’re going to profile.” But her editors had cut out our story, telling her that there would be “little reader interest in a real business that doesn’t have bells, whistles, or a talking-dog mascot.”
When she interviewed me, she asked, “What life lessons have you learned? . . . How much stock were you able to sell before the Crash? . . . What has become of the company you founded?”
I could tell she was seeking some story of drastically altered lifestyle, like the opening of a hot dog stand or an extended stay at a Zen monastery. I said, “I’m writing a book.” But I guess a lot of her interviewees were writing books. She didn’t ask me much about it.
She seemed a bit disappointed when I told her that Neoforma was still in business, and even more disappointed when I told her that Neoforma was profitable. And she wasn’t particularly happy when I pointed out that I had been ten or so years older than the twenty-something dotcom darlings of the day, that I had started the business before the Boom, and that I had created the business before I had created the business plan.
“We were just trying to build a good company and offer good services.”
I could tell that the picture she was trying to paint—a time of gleeful excess followed by a monumental crash-and-burn—was getting muddied by this conversation.
She asked me to ascribe a meaning to this defining moment in history, which she classified right up there with the Industrial Age and the Depression. I told her that I didn’t know, but I was writing a book to help others figure out what it all meant. She thanked me for my time.
Later, when I contacted her to ask when the article would be published, she apologized profusely. She said she had wanted Neoforma to be listed as “the only grown-ups we’re going to profile.” But her editors had cut out our story, telling her that there would be “little reader interest in a real business that doesn’t have bells, whistles, or a talking-dog mascot.”
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