"What Do You Do?" landed me in a battle with Barron's (and into hedge fund hiding).
Do we ever share the real answer?
I was an investor. Yet “What do you do?” was anything but simple.
The 1996 IPO of Mosaic started the internet craze. The dance between markets and society seemed to intensify overnight. Taxi drivers shared stock tips.
“What do you do?”
I was investing in technology stocks for an insurance company.
Choice #1: “I run a tech fund”, the rest of the conversation was pumping me for stock tips.
Choice #2: “I work at an insurance company”, which was also true, the conversation focused on them.
People assumed I sold life insurance.
In June of 1998, I left Farmer’s Insurance and joined a mutual fund company. I launched a technology fund 3 months later.
My fund was up 630% in the first 12 months.
Suddenly, I was a regular on CNBC, Barron’s, Wall Street Journal, etc. The question “What do you do?” changed to “How do you do it?”
Barron’s had a different angle. Barron’s asked me if I was losing focus. Was I caught up in the limelight, running around bragging about my huge returns?
I was an unknown 12 months prior and still on that salary.
I lived in a small condo and did my work. None of that made good press. I kept to the script.
“No, I have my system and stick to my discipline. No, I am not distracted.”
My truthful answers weren’t click-worthy. Barron’s pressed on. “But don’t you go to cocktail parties and brag about your 630% returns and your #1 fund? Aren’t you losing focus?”
I was running the #1 tech fund, analyzing tech holdings for our Asia funds at night, and was the tech analyst on a separate $4 billion mid-cap fund. I worked 80-100 hours a week. In frustration, I blurted out:
“I don’t go to parties, I go to bed early!”
Barron’s had their quote. Broken out in the article for all to see.
My answer to “What do you do?” was: “I go to bed early!”
Our open “office” had a frat house culture replete with balls flying overhead into hoops on walls, traders yelling, and fists slamming on desks. Monday morning when I arrived, the entire floor was chanting:
“I don’t go to parties, I go to bed early!”
Three weeks after the Barron’s article, I was told in my annual review that I was paid too much, and other people’s salaries needed to “catch up”.
Someone will pay for your performance, just not necessarily the person you are working for.
In November 1999, the answer to “What do you do?” changed. I was working at a top hedge fund for the reclusive genius Glenn Doshay (even Google can’t find him). But this was not the end of Barron’s…
Glenn did a few things differently. Rule #1: Never talk to the press.
As of November 1, 1999, that fund was still #1 in the world, but I was no longer running it. The press, including Barron’s, continued writing about it. My old company didn’t mention my departure.
Barron’s found out they’d been writing about “my” fund (it was #1 for every quarter of the year, with 1999 performance of 495%) when I was no longer there.
Barron’s is probably used to being on the tricking side, like having me blurt out a clickable quote, not on the tricked side.
My hands were tied. I’d left my previous firm and didn’t speak for them. My new firm forbade me from talking to the press.
When Barron’s found out what happened, they went for blood, using the full force of their voice.
They published an “expose” on the list of “star managers” being poached by hedge funds, questioning if mutual funds would be able to hang onto any talent. If they couldn’t, then how could they beat the market?
Front and center: Emmy Sobieski left the #1 Nicholas Applegate Technology Fund to work at an undisclosed hedge fund.
At first, Glenn was upset seeing my name in the press. But, Barron’s hadn’t figured out where I worked. I hadn’t talked to the press; they were just writing about me. The focus was punishing my old firm, not my new one. Glenn let it go.
“What do you do?”
Over my career, I don’t think about elevator pitches and personal branding. Instead, I wonder what their angle is and consider the mood of the stock market. Do I want to have that conversation?
As I bold and separate the click-worthy words: “I don’t go to parties. I go to bed early!” I am no better than Barron’s. Does anyone want to know the real me, or just the clickable me? And how can anyone discover me without some clickbait?
The internet era of personal monopolies gives each of us the opportunity to build an online persona and following like a movie star or a fund manager with a 630% year. Yet, it’s not clear if this actually connects us. Do we craft our answers to the situation?
Are we doomed to be seen by many and known by none?
“What do you do?”