When I was fourteen I built a short wave radio. I wasn't one of those whiz kids or anything, so I don't know why it was that I developed an early interest in electronics. But for most of the summer I had saved my allowance and the money I earned from mowing lawns in order to buy a kit from the Allied Radio catalog. That kit contained hundreds of parts—all kinds of colorful wires, capacitors and tiny resistors—each of which had to be carefully soldered into position on the radio's chassis. I loved the smell of the burning solder.

It took me about a week to build the radio, and as I got down to the end of the project I stayed up all of the last night to get the job done. It was the first time I ever skipped a night of sleep. In the wee hours of the morning I strung a wire antenna around my bedroom, plugged in the set's electric cord and anxiously turned it on. To my almost utter amazement, it worked. Within a few minutes I was listening to a broadcast in English from Quito, Ecuador.

Over the next few days I tuned in stations from all over the globe. And soon I discovered the ham radio frequencies. Here was a whole new world of amateur radio operators who spoke to each other in a mysterious language of call letters, handles and airwave jargon. Some of them even used Morse Code, which I did not master until years later when the army determined that I had an aptitude for it (a more useless skill I never acquired).

Although I was fascinated by the ham radio operators, something about them soon began to bother me. It was probably the first real rock in my shoe. What bothered me was that they never talked about anything except their hobby. Mostly their conversations revolved around their equipment, their radio "shacks" and the number of QSL cards they had collected from other hams with whom they had made contact. It was all about transmitters, receivers, frequencies, and antennas. They never seemed to explore any other interests or ideas, or talk about what was going on in each other's home town or state. I don't even recall them ever talking about the weather, except as it had an effect on their transmissions.

I initially flirted with the idea of getting a ham radio operator's license myself. But before too long I was asking myself, What's the point? The only practical reason for learning the craft would be to assist in national disasters, and I didn't exactly feel an urge to go rushing into the wake of tornados or floods. So—since I couldn't see myself chatting about transmitters with a bunch of old bandwidth bubbas and high-frequency propeller heads—I disappointedly abandoned any fantasies about becoming an amateur radio operator. Besides, I was getting the theatre bug about that time so I guess I figured I would still become a ham one way or the other.

Fast forward to the future. In the past few days I've attended a couple of meetings of New York City's computer users groups. Since I know a little bit about computers, I thought it might be nice to share my interest with others and, hopefully, learn something. And, indeed, I did learn a few things. But both meetings proved to be the ham radio experience all over again. No one seemed to be really interested in all the creative things that today's personal computers can help you do. Instead, the discussions revolved around gigabytes, megahertz, motherboards and monitors.

At the first meeting, there were representatives from Microsoft. Now the Microsoft guys are pretty slick. After all, they invented Powerpoint and there's nothing sexier than a "slide" presentation with split screen movie clips and lots of special effects. You'd be hard-pressed to find a gliztier way to say "revenues" or "percentage of market share" than with a Powerpoint presentation.

I have used Microsoft's word processing software, Word, for years, through its many incarnations. I know it's fashionable in some circles to bash Microsoft (especially if you're a Mac user like me), but the truth of the matter is that most of their software really is remarkable. Yet with each new upgrade comes an abundance of software bloat. Every couple of years I'm presented with dozens of new features that I'll never use or else must invest a huge amount of time learning. I really don't need, for example, a little cartoon guy popping up every time I start to write a letter offering me assistance. Thank you, Max, but I think I know how to write a letter by myself. (In fairness to Microsoft, you can turn that feature off.)

Ironically, word processing software is all about process. In this case, the "process" is the product. Even so, the word processor doesn't make me a better writer, only a more efficient one—and that's dubious.

At the other meeting, downtown, the topic was digital photography. I used to work as a free-lance photographer and I'm still something of a shutterbug, so this topic was of special interest to me. Digital seems to be the way photography is headed. The days of shooting a roll of film, waiting while it's developed, and then keeping only four or five of the pictures will eventually go the way of 8mm home movies. Hell, my local one-hour film processing guy even went out of business last week.

The experience of this second meeting was similar to that of the first. It was interesting enough. A representative was there from a major digital camera manufacturer. But again, his lecture was all about the technology—megapixels, lenses, memory cards and photographic paper. Not once did he explain how his company's cameras could help me be a better photographer. Not once did he show examples of great photographs taken by accomplished artists with his company's clearly superior cameras.

I came away from both of these meetings not completely satisfied. It was like I had gotten the children's menu of what I was expecting to be a full course meal. Something was missing. And then, after thinking about it for a while, I realized that at both meetings what was actually missing was not just the size of the portions—it was the meal itself. For sure I got all the ambience—lighting, menus, plates, silverware and napkins. But the table setting is not the dinner. It's the process by which the dinner is served. At both meetings the emphasis was on the process and not on the end result that could be had by using the company's products.

I am just as guilty as the next person—maybe even more so—when it comes to getting caught up in process. Just ask my wife. I can spend hours, for example, designing new business cards and stationery. I can spend days searching for the right graphic to go on my website. I love process. I get an indescribable feeling of satisfaction from paying close attention to details and getting everything just right.

Sometimes the journey and not the destination is what's really most important. There are times when we just need to smell the roses. And sometimes a person or his business really does become screwed up because he doesn't have his act together. That's when it's time to fix the process. But the reality is that most of everyday life is not a Zen journey. We need to get things done. The business card isn't the business and the Flash animation isn't the website.

In the 1956 Broadway musical, L'il Abner, General Bullmoose sings a song called "Progress Is the Root of All Evil." He's complaining about how the (social) progress of the times is making it almost impossible for him to conduct his affairs (steal millions). If that song were written today it would have to be called "Process Is the Root of All Evil." Process has replaced progress as the leading deterrent to getting anything accomplished.

Nowhere is this more evident than in business. The exploding progress of industry and technology in the '90s brought with it a rabid obsession with process. Leading the way was Total Quality Management (TQM), remember? And not too far behind that was ISO-9000 and all of its variations. Legions of consultants and certifiers convinced the captains of industry and their paper pushers that if they just got their process in order their businesses would flourish.

And perhaps a few companies did, indeed, benefit from all the hoopla and hoop jumping. Certainly, the press of the day gave you that impression. All kinds of contests were organized and awards given to "outstanding" companies and CEOs who demonstrated an ability to get with the process and make it happen. But millions of workers across the country knew better. They knew that TQM was really TQB—Total Quality Bullshit. And ISO-9000 came to stand for "In Search Of 9000"—9000 ways to document a procedure.

I used to believe that the reason for this turn-of-the-century preoccupation with process was a result of the ever-present cover your ass syndrome that thrives in corporate America. After all, if you've been following an approved procedure, when something goes terribly wrong, who can blame you? And, of course, the more people who contribute to process, the more the blame can be spread around. That's why I figured companies felt it was so important to hold pep rallies and team meetings to get everyone's buy-in when a new quality program was initiated. Because when the shit hits the fan, the blame can be spread around thinner than the coating on a Teflon skillet. Nothing sticks and no one gets burned—least of all the guy who championed the process in the first place. In other words, I viewed process as a great tool for passing the buck and holding no one in particular accountable.

But I later came to realize that being able to pass the buck in the wake of failure is not the real reason some companies keep puffed-up quality processes in place. The real reason is that strict, fervent adherence to process is almost always a camouflage for incompetence. It deflects attention away from the real issues, such as developing new products or meeting delivery deadlines.

For example, if you head the R&D department and neither you nor your staff have the talent to design a much needed new product, all you have to do is keep fine-tuning the R&D quality process. Send out lots of memos to everyone in the company explaining the great progress you're making with your process. That way the sales reps won't feel so bad about not having anything competitive to sell, and with a little luck everyone at headquarters will think you're a genius. Of course, the company may well go out of business during the next economic downturn. But who cares? Before that happens you'll be well on your way to your next job where you can start a new process all over again.

In the Book Of Ecclesiastes we are reminded that "to every thing there is a season." A time to plant and a time to pluck, a time to weep and a time to laugh, etc. Well, I like to fish. And so there's a time to fish and a time to eat fish. Fortunately, I don't depend on my catch to provide me with sustenance at the end of the day. That's why we have Red Lobster. So when I go fishing the only thing I'm concerned about is the process—the water, the tackle, the boat, the sun, the camaraderie. I enjoy the trip whether I catch fish or not. But if I had to depend on what I caught in order to survive, then I would make sure as hell I got my daily limit. The only thing I would be concerned about would be my progress.

Maybe someday I'll write one of those dummies or idiots books called, Lessons of Ecclesiastes: A Management Guide for Everyone Who Should Know Better, and refute the whole process model for business success. In my book I'll submit that there's a time for meetings and a time for engagement. A time for memos and a time for communicating. A time for manuals and a time for guidance. A time for mission statements and a time for purpose. A time for leadership and a time for direction. A time for teamwork and a time for cooperation. A time for market share and a time for customers. A time for human resources and a time for people.

The problem with process is that it gets in the way of action. I love the expression, "Just Do It." I had it on my desk long before Nike adopted it as its advertising slogan. And when I think of the word "action," I think of the movies. You know, "Lights, camera, action!" Action gets things done. It's where the rubber meets the road. Process is merely the storyboard—helpful sometimes, but a talented director can make a movie (or an industrial video) without a storyboard.

When I think of TQM, ISO-9000, and all of the other quality processes, I have this image of Steven Spielberg directing Raiders of the Lost Ark or ET—two enormously successful movies. The set has been readied, the cast members are in their places, the crew is standing by and everyone is breathlessly waiting for Steven to give the word.

"Lights, camera, process!"

Need I say more?

Progress may be the root of all evil. Necessity may be the mother of invention. But process is not the product. It is not even the business. It's time we got that straight.

© Copyright 2001, Richard Bradley. All rights reserved.