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To Sell is Human
The Surprising Truth About Persuading, Convincing, and Influencing Others
Daniel H Pink
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eBook - ePub
To Sell is Human
The Surprising Truth About Persuading, Convincing, and Influencing Others
Daniel H Pink
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We're all in Sales nowParents sell their kids on going to bed. Spouses sell their partners on mowing the lawn. We sell our bosses on giving us more money and more time off. And in astonishing numbers we go online to sell ourselves on Facebook, Twitter and Match.com profiles.Relying on science, analysis and his trademark clarity of thought, Pink shows that sales isn't what it used to be. Then he provides a set of tools, tips, and exercises for succeeding on this new terrain - including six new ways to pitch your idea, three ways to understand another's perspective, five frames that can make your message clearer, and much more.
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Persönlicher ErfolgPart One
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Rebirth of a Salesman
1.
Weâre All in Sales Now
Norman Hall shouldnât exist. But here he isâflesh, blood, and bow tieâon a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in a downtown San Francisco law office explaining to two attorneys why they could really use a few things to spruce up their place.
With a magicianâs flourish, Hall begins by removing from his bag what looks like a black wand. He snaps his wrist andâvoilĂ !â out bursts a plume of dark feathers. And not just any feathers, he reveals.
âThese are . . . Male. Ostrich. Feathers.â
This $21.99 feather duster is the best on the market, he tells them in a soft-spoken but sonorous voice. Itâs perfect for cleaning picture frames, blinds, and any other item whose crevices accumulate dust.
Penelope Chronis, who runs the small immigration firm with her partner in law and in life, Elizabeth Kreher, peers up from her desk and shakes her head. Not interested.
Hall shows her Kitchen Brush #300, a sturdy white and green scrub brush.
They already have one.
Onto Chronisâs desk he tosses some âmicrofiber clothsâ and an âanti-fog cloth for car windows and bathroom mirrors.â
No thanks.
Hall is seventy-five years old with patches of white hair on the sides of his head and not much in between. He sports conservative eyeglasses and a mustache in which the white hairs have finally overtaken the brown ones after what looks like years of struggle. He wears dark brown pants, a dress shirt with thin blue stripes, a chestnut-colored V-neck sweater, and a red paisley bow tie. He looks like a dapper and mildly eccentric professor. He is indefatigable.
On his lap is a leather three-ring binder with about two dozen pages of product pictures heâs clipped and inserted into clear plastic sheets. âThis is a straightforward spot remover,â he tells Chronis and Kreher when he gets to the laundry page. âThese you spray on before throwing something into the washing machine.â The lawyers are unmoved. So Hall goes big: moth deodorant blocks. âI sell more of these than anything in my catalog combined,â he says. âThey kill moths, mold, mildew, and odor.â Only $7.49.
Nope.
Then, turning the page to a collection of toilet brushes and bowl cleaners, he smiles, pauses for a perfect beat, and says, âAnd these are my romantic items.â
Still nothing.
But when he gets to the stainless-steel sponges, he elicits a crackle of interest that soon becomes a ripple of desire. âThese are wonderful, very unusual. Theyâre scrubber pads, but with a great difference,â he says. Each offers eight thousand inches of continuous stainless steel coiled forty thousand times. You can stick them in the dishwasher. A box of three is just $15.
Sold.
Soon he reaches one of his pricier products, an electrostatic carpet sweeper. âIt has four terminal brushes made out of natural bristle and nylon. As it goes along the floor, it develops a static current so it can pick up sugar and salt from a bare wood floor,â he explains. âItâs my favorite wedding gift.â Another exquisitely timed pause. âIt beats the hell out of a toaster.â
Chronis and Kreher go for that, too.
When about twenty minutes have elapsed, and Hall has reached the final sheet in his homemade catalog, he scribbles the $149.96 sale in his order book. He hands a carbon copy of the order to Chronis, saying, âI hope weâre still friends after you read this.â
He chats for a few moments, then gathers his binder and his bags, and rises to leave. âThank you very much indeed,â he says. âIâll bring everything forthwith tomorrow.â
Norman Hall is a Fuller Brush salesman. And not just any Fuller Brush salesman.
He is . . . The. Last. One.
If youâre younger than forty or never spent much time in the United States, you might not recognize the Fuller Brush Man. But if youâre an American of a certain age, you know that once you couldnât avoid him. Brigades of salesmen, their sample cases stuffed with brushes, roamed middle-class neighborhoods, climbed the front steps, and announced, âIâm your Fuller Brush Man.â Then, offering a free vegetable scrubber known as a Handy Brush as a gift, they tried to get what quickly became known as âa foot in the door.â
It all began in 1903, when an eighteen-year-old Nova Scotia farm boy named Alfred Fuller arrived in Boston to begin his career. He was, by his own admission, âa country bumpkin, overgrown and awkward, unsophisticated and virtually unschooledâ1âand he was promptly fired from his first three jobs. But one of his brothers landed him a sales position at the Somerville Brush and Mop Companyâand days before he turned twenty, young Alfred found his calling. âI began without much preparation and I had no special qualifications, as far as I knew,â he told a journalist years later, âbut I discovered I could sell those brushes.â2
After a year of trudging door-to-door peddling Somerville products, Fuller began, er, bristling at working for someone else. So he set up a small workshop to manufacture brushes of his own. At night, he oversaw the mini-factory. By day he walked the streets selling what heâd produced. To his amazement, the small enterprise grew. When he needed a few more salespeople to expand to additional products and new territories, he placed an ad in a publication called Everybodyâs Magazine. Within a few weeks, the Nova Scotia bumpkin had 260 new salespeople, a nationwide business, and the makings of a cultural icon.
By the late 1930s, Fullerâs sales force had swelled to more than five thousand people. In 1937 alone, door-to-door Fuller dealers gave away some 12.5 million Handy Brushes. By 1948, eighty-three hundred North American salesmen were selling cleaning and hair âbrushes to 20 million families in the United States and Canada,â according to The New Yorker. That same year, Fuller salesmen, all of them independent dealers working on straight commission, made nearly fifty million house-to-house sales calls in the United Statesâa country that at the time had fewer than forty-three million households. By the early 1960s, Fuller Brush was, in todayâs dollars, a billion-dollar company.3
Whatâs more, the Fuller Man became a fixture in popular cultureâLady Gagaesque in his ubiquity. In the Disney animated version of âThe Three Little Pigs,â which won an Academy Award in 1933, how did the Big Bad Wolf try to gain entry into the pigsâ houses? He disguised himself as a Fuller Brush Man. How did Donald Duck earn his living for a while? He sold Fuller Brushes. In 1948 Red Skelton, then one of Hollywoodâs biggest names, starred in The Fuller Brush Man, a screwball comedy in which a hapless salesman is framed for a crimeâand must clear his name, find the culprit, win the girl, and sell a few Venetian blind brushes along the way. Just two years later, Hollywood made essentially the same movie with the same plotâthis one called The Fuller Brush Girl, with the lead role going to Lucille Ball, an even bigger star. As time went on, you could find the Fuller Brush Man not only on your doorstep, but also in New Yorker cartoons, the jokes of TV talk-show hosts, and the lyrics of Dolly Parton songs.
What a Fuller Man did was virtuosic. âThe Fuller art of opening doors was regarded by connoisseurs of cold-turkey peddling in somewhat the same way that balletomanes esteem a performance of the Bolshoiâas pure poetry,â American Heritage wrote. âIn the hands of a deft Fuller dealer, brushes became not homely commodities but specialized tools obtainable nowhere else.â4 Yet heEN1 was also virtuous, his constant presence in neighborhoods turning him neighborly. âFuller Brush Men pulled teeth, massaged headaches, delivered babies, gave emetics for poison, prevented suicides, discovered murders, helped arrange funerals, and drove patients to hospitals.â5
And then, with the suddenness of an unexpected knock on the door, the Fuller Brush Manâthe very embodiment of twentieth-century sellingâpractically disappeared. Think about it. Wherever in the world you live, when was the last time a salesperson with a sample case rang your doorbell? In February 2012, the Fuller Brush Company filed for reorganization under the U.S. bankruptcy lawâs Chapter 11. But what surprised people most wasnât so much that Fuller had declared bankruptcy, but that it was still around to declare anything.
Norman Hall, however, remains at it. In the mornings, he boards an early bus near his home in Rohnert Park, California, and rides ninety minutes to downtown San Francisco. He begins his rounds at about 9:30 A.M. and walks five to six miles each day, up and down the sharply inclined streets of San Francisco. âBelieve me,â he said during one of the days I accompanied him, âI know all the level areas and the best bathrooms.â
When Hall began in the 1970s, several dozen other Fuller Brush Men were also working in San Francisco. Over time, that number dwindled. And now Hall is the only one who remains. These days when he encounters a new customer and identifies himself as a Fuller Man, heâs often met with surprise. âNo kidding!â people will say. One afternoon when I was with him, Hall introduced himself to the fifty-something head of maintenance at a clothing store. âReally?â the man cried. âMy father was a Fuller Brush salesman in Oklahoma!â (Alas, this prospect didnât buy anything, even though Hall pointed out that the mop propped in the corner of the store came from Fuller.)
After forty years, Hall has a garage full of Fuller items, but his connection to the struggling parent company is minimal. Heâs on his own. In recent years, heâs seen his customers fade, his orders decline, and his profits shrink. People donât have time for a salesman. They want to order things online. And besides, brushes? Who cares? As an accommodation to reality, Hall has cut back the time he devotes to chasing customers. He now spends only two days a week toting his leather binder through San Franciscoâs retail and business district. And when he unloads his last boar bristle brush and hangs up his bow tie, he knows he wonât be replaced. âI donât think people want to do this kind of work anymore,â he told me.
Two months after Fullerâs bankruptcy announcement, EncyclopĂŠdia Britannica, which rose to prominence because of its door-to-door salesmen, shut down production of its print books. A month later, Avonâwhose salesladies once pressed doorbells from Birmingham to Bangkokâfired its CEO and sought survival in the arms of a corporate suitor. These collapses seemed less startling than inevitable, the final movement in the chorus of doom that, for many years, has been forecasting sellingâs demise.
The song, almost always invoking Arthur Millerâs 1949 play Death of a Salesman, goes something like this: In a world where anybody can find anything with just a few keystrokes, intermediaries like salespeople are superfluous. They merely muck up the gears of commerce and make transactions slower and more expensive. Individual consumers can do their own research and get buying advice from their social networks. Large companies can streamline their procurement processes with sophisticated software that pits vendors against one another and secures the lowest price. In the same way that cash machines thinned the ranks of bank tellers and digital switches made telephone operators all but obsolete, todayâs technologies have rendered salesmen and saleswomen irrelevant. As we rely ever more on websites and smartphones to locate and purchase what we need, salespeople themselvesânot to mention the very act of sellingâwill be swept into historyâs dustbin.6
Norman Hall is, no doubt, the last of his kind. And the Fuller Brush Company itself could be gone for good before you reach the last page of this book. But we should hold off making any wider funeral preparations. All those death notices for sales and those who do it are off the mark. Indeed, if one were to write anything about selling in the second decade of the twenty-first century, it ought to be a birth announcement.
Rebirth of a Salesman (and Saleswoman)
Deep inside a thick semiannual report from the Occupational Employment Statistics program of the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics lurks a surprising, and surprisingly significant, piece of data: One out of every nine American workers works in sales.
Each day more than fifteen million people earn their keep by trying to convince someone else to make a purchase.7 They are real estate brokers, industrial sales representatives, and securities dealers. They sell planes to airlines, trains to city governments, and automobiles to prospective drivers at more than ten thousand dealerships across the country. Some work in posh offices with glorious views, others in dreary cubicles with Dilbert cartoons and a free calendar. But they all sellâfrom multimillion-dollar consulting agreements to ten...