In typical software start-up fashion, one group of engineers in our office keeps a tally of their users on Post-It notes. They stick new notes to their door in the wee hours of the morning, greeting the rest of us when we arrive for our (sane) 9-6 workday. They are a reminder that real companies have server problems and users and forums and star ratings - oh my!
The Post-Its first appeared on a Friday, the day after the team released an iPhone application. The numbers have been growing ever since. The first number, written in chunky black marker, reads "3,000." This number was later crossed out and replaced by 5,600 and 6,800. Here is what the list looks like now:
3000
5600
6800
11000
13000
15000
17000 (This one barely fits on the second Post-It note. It's squeezed on the bottom, a testament to the fact that the list must be updated before a fresh supply of Post-Its can be found.)
The third Post-It has the big guys:
20,000
23,000
25,000
Don't get me wrong - I think establishing a user base is a huge milestone. If we had any users, we'd be the first people tooting our own horn on a scale much larger than Post-It notes. Since no one is actually using our product, however, we have to take a more creative approach, and one that undoubtedly will have real engineers (including our neighbors) cringing.
This morning, I started a tally of the girls who have seen our paper prototypes. Our list went something like this:
1
3
5
9
12
I crossed out all of the numbers before 12 and stuck our very own Post-It on the door. I wonder what the response of our fellow office-mates will be. The unfortunate thing is that my little attempt at humor reflects poorly on us, not on them. But maybe the ultimate sin in business is taking oneself (or one's company) too seriously.
Monday, 28 July 2008
Landing on the Boy's Planet
Several months ago, I became involved in a little start-up. The project began in a computer science class, but it languished in the shadows of Stanford students' lives for nearly a year before being resuscitated last winter. I wasn't around for all of that, but I am around now. In fact, this "venture" is the reason that I'm awake at 2:16 AM. As a female English major in a world populated by male engineers, this blog might be the lifeline I've been seeking.
I won't run you through all of the tedious details of how I got here - I'll leave that to the venture capitalists who might one day perform due diligence on the company. Here are the parts of the story that matter:
I never thought I'd be involved in business. Throughout high school, I edited the literary magazine and acted in plays. A photograph from my senior yearbook says it all: under "Most Likely to Succeed," I was shown reading a collection of poetry while my friend Stephen (who was also extremely likely to succeed) read The Wall Street Journal.
At Stanford, I study a trifecta of unemployable subjects: English, Art History, and French literature. My entire life has set me up for a career in academia writing interdisciplinary papers and hosting Kant study groups. I suppose that's why it came as such a surprise when I turned down an internship at the MET to work for a start-up that was trying to make, of all things, a toy for girls.
This may sound impulsive, so let me clarify from the outset: I have no regrets at all. I haven't set up my life to deal with regret. Working in the venture world has actually been a blessing. If I end up being an English professor one day, I don't want to have made that decision on incomplete information. I want to know I made the right choice. Perhaps only time will tell if "right" means money or power or Romantic poetry or all of the above.
Let's set the stage for the story I am about to tell. I am a Stanford senior, 21 years old, born and raised in Minneapolis. The start-up of which I am (ahem) a founding member currently has its office on Sand Hill Road in Menlo Park, making it one of those fancy incubator investments, virtually a toy itself for a partner. I live in Menlo Park too, for the summer, in the master bedroom of a house. I have a walk-in closet, my own bathroom with two sinks, and a shower with a steamer. I'm driving one of my best friend's cars, a Honda Accord with a sun roof and a six CD changer.
This is what they call the high life.
I call it the boy's world.
I won't run you through all of the tedious details of how I got here - I'll leave that to the venture capitalists who might one day perform due diligence on the company. Here are the parts of the story that matter:
I never thought I'd be involved in business. Throughout high school, I edited the literary magazine and acted in plays. A photograph from my senior yearbook says it all: under "Most Likely to Succeed," I was shown reading a collection of poetry while my friend Stephen (who was also extremely likely to succeed) read The Wall Street Journal.
At Stanford, I study a trifecta of unemployable subjects: English, Art History, and French literature. My entire life has set me up for a career in academia writing interdisciplinary papers and hosting Kant study groups. I suppose that's why it came as such a surprise when I turned down an internship at the MET to work for a start-up that was trying to make, of all things, a toy for girls.
This may sound impulsive, so let me clarify from the outset: I have no regrets at all. I haven't set up my life to deal with regret. Working in the venture world has actually been a blessing. If I end up being an English professor one day, I don't want to have made that decision on incomplete information. I want to know I made the right choice. Perhaps only time will tell if "right" means money or power or Romantic poetry or all of the above.
Let's set the stage for the story I am about to tell. I am a Stanford senior, 21 years old, born and raised in Minneapolis. The start-up of which I am (ahem) a founding member currently has its office on Sand Hill Road in Menlo Park, making it one of those fancy incubator investments, virtually a toy itself for a partner. I live in Menlo Park too, for the summer, in the master bedroom of a house. I have a walk-in closet, my own bathroom with two sinks, and a shower with a steamer. I'm driving one of my best friend's cars, a Honda Accord with a sun roof and a six CD changer.
This is what they call the high life.
I call it the boy's world.
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