The Razor Years

RAZOR Magazine was a national men’s lifestyle publication which I founded in 2000 and published until 2006. In the years prior to RAZOR’s launch, the print industry was thriving and the men’s space was one of the fastest growing sectors not only in circulation, but in new titles introduced per year. I was doing a ton of business traveling during this period and in spite of the plethora of men’s titles facing me every time I entered an airport newsstand, I found myself reaching for the same old business, sports and fitness rags. There was simply nothing in the men’s space that I connected with or which appealed to me in a relatable way.

The Big Kahuna at the time was Maxim—a UK import boasting a remarkable circulation of 2.5 million at its peak and a simple editorial edict and philosophy of “Beer and Babes.” Maxim had become a phenomenon spurring spinoffs and a plethora of imitators. With its quick hits on gear and cheap fashion, McNugget style journalism and multiple bikini spreads, if one didn’t stop to gawk at the photos, you could make it from cover to cover of any of these interchangeable mags in 15 minutes. Not ideal for an eight hour plane ride.

Make no mistake, I’m not slamming Maxim’s model or business. Quite the opposite. As it relates to the subject at hand, they were a crowdsourcing machine. They knew (with precision) their audience, brand and message. Almost staggeringly so. They were not only able to engage their readership with high frequency by keeping the editorial on point with the message of the brand, but they were able to mobilize their audience to carry that message forth with relative ease. It was OK to be a Maxim guy. It meant you were the frat guy and the frat guy loved beer and babes. There are a ton of colleges in America and Maxim crowdsourced its audience to hold parties in just about every college town imaginable. Further, they crowdsourced ideas for extensions of the brand by taking suggestions from their readership— a smart, inclusive and collaborative approach.

Even though I was barely beyond my college years and no one would ever confuse me with someone who didn’t like to party, or start one for that matter, I just didn’t find Maxim’s editorial engaging. It just wasn’t my thing. It was, by their own admission, sophomoric, and, by my assessment, repetitive and boring.

I liked long form journalism. I liked progressive fashion. I liked travel. I liked politics (as a spectator sport). And I liked women who looked, um, old enough to operate heavy machinery.

Now I know what you’re thinking: What about GQ? Well, in the opinion of many, including me, GQ (although, certainly not the only magazine in the space guilty of this) had bowed to the success of Maxim, dumbing down their editorial, compromising their fashion standards and in many ways abandoning their core audience in the hope to take some of the so-called laddie mag’s share. The GQ covers of the late 1990s featured A-list actors and world-class athletes in $3,000 suits. The editorial was upwardly mobile, fashion forward and tailored to those driven by, or who had attained a certain level of, financial success. By the early’00s, the covers reflected a surrender of sorts, featuring such celebrities as a barely legal Lindsey Lohan in a cut tank top, thumbs in her panties, standing in front of a table covered with cherries and berries next to a headline that read “Lindsay Lohan Isn’t Teasing.”

When it comes to summer fruit, who does?

Deep thoughts.

Anyway, I believed I had identified a need in the space and set out to fill it. I put together a skeleton crew and together we spent eight months developing a strategy. Although we didn’t know it at the time, it was a crowdsourcing strategy. Who was our reader? How do we reach them? How do we find out exactly what they are looking for? How do we engage and mobilize them?

We employed a couple of polling companies. Without diving into all of the minutiae, we narrowed our demographic field and asked a variety of questions general to the men’s space, but specific to our message. We concluded there was an audience for the material we were hoping to serve. But the responses also helped mold our creative direction. We were asking the potential reader what they would like to see and read, essentially and effectively crowdsourcing our content.

To crystalize the branding, I locked in on this main talking point: “Razor is the magazine for when you’re done with your Maxim years, but not ready for your Esquire years.” (Esquire’s editorial skewed to an older demographic.) I felt that not only clearly defined the gap we were looking to fill, but also suggested what kind of reader we were looking for—namely the guy looking to grow up, but not ready to grow old. We ran this idea by some focus groups and the response was overwhelmingly positive. The mission now was deliverability of said message.

The Launch and Beyond

Now keep in mind, this was the early’00s. Social media was more hobby than instrument, oriented more in recreation than business. Friendster was beginning to fade. MySpace was now the dominant player, but by this point had gained a reputation as a place to hook up or work out mommy issues. Still, there was no denying the reach of the platform. So, as a test, a member of our editorial team posted some early concept artwork and posts about the mission of the magazine. Within four weeks, we had 173 responses. About 20 were in the “How cool!” arena. The other 150 or so were of the “Can you send me pics of chicks in bikinis?” variety more associated to the (dominant for the space) Maxim “Beer and Babes” mentality.

We needed to find a better way to get our message across. A more direct approach.

We took to the streets.

First, we held a number of launch parties—decidedly cool affairs in upscale lounges and clubs—in cities where we had secured distribution, such as New York, Toronto, San Francisco, Chicago, Las Vegas and Los Angeles. We didn’t have much working capital, so we had to be resourceful. Crowdsourcing style. They offer the space, we provide the crowds, all the events—details and photos—published in the magazine and on our website.

In many cases we were joined by trendy fashion companies and independent liquor labels who we had sold on our message and wanted a seat on the train—everything fresh, new and on the cutting edge. We brought in DJs who were on the rise to set the mood and who wanted to be identified with the brand. Around each event, we had giant posters of our house ads featuring models dressed to the nines in action shots—business meetings, airport lounges, nightclubs, cars, dating—“Who’s the RAZOR man? You.”

At the end of each of these events, the attendees were handed a copy of the magazine. Inside the cover was a note from me describing my vision, the mission of the magazine and a few requests, the “Ask”: If they liked the product and identified themselves the target consumer, would they please help us launch and be part of the movement by …

1. Spreading the word in any way possible—online or offline.
2. Purchasing a subscription.
3. Purchasing at least one subscription for someone else as a gift.

You’ll notice that the “Ask” offered inclusion. A chance, some might argue a responsibility, to be a part of this thing we were trying to create. To be able to say “I was there at the beginning.” Ownership. Pride.

The print run for our first issue was a modest 17,000. We had circulation at about 200 newsstands in 12 cities. By year three, our readership was a more robust 500,000, and we were on newsstands in every state in the US and throughout Canada. We never spent a dime on advertising. We had stayed the course. We continued to ask the crowd to carry the message and that crowd had expanded exponentially. More voices. More power. An army of boots on the ground.

From a business standpoint, we kept things lean. This allowed us to realize a profit on many individual issues. Still, in spite of winning accounts that made our competitors stand up and take notice such as the re-launch of the Pontiac GTO (complete with a huge RAZOR party at the Kentucky Derby with the hotrod front and center), not to mention our swelling circulation/sales numbers, we were still having a hard time getting meetings. And the press was doing us no favors, either, barely recognizing some incredible achievements such as being one of only two magazines of fifteen at the time in the men’s space to show double digit year over year circulation growth, according to the Audit Bureau of Circulation, and at one point surpassing the sales of both GQ and Esquire.

But I have a saying: Force them to not ignore you. So I went at it even harder. I brought in writers such as Mark Cuban, James Carville, Mike Lupica, Paul Haggis, and one of my writing heroes, David Mamet (who I had to call at 1am New York time to kindly explain that the first draft of his piece sucked—a call which took years off my life and required three Jack Daniels’ worth of courage to make). I hired one of the top stylists in the game and he brought along all his modeling and photography contacts. I did some recon and found a few style and fashion editors unhappy at their current positions and brought them into the fold. Finally, I started an “Are you a RAZOR man?” campaign, where I featured testimonials and videos from our readers on our website.

The efforts paid off. Within months, our content was getting covered in both print and on television. Our fashion spreads were being covered by top journalists and media outlets. The new editors brought fresh ideas to the table. Our readers clamored to be featured in print or on the site speaking to why they embraced the RAZOR lifestyle.

Hell, even I was suddenly in demand. I was asked to appear on Fox News, CNBC, MSNBC and the CBS Morning Show. The entertainment news show Extra came to my home and did a five minute feature where they called me “the next Hugh Hefner.” I was featured in People magazine’s 25 Hottest Bachelors issue (next to Keanu Reeves … whoa!) which led to me being interviewed for and then asked to be the subject of NBC’s The Bachelor—a gig I had to turn down due to the requirement of being sequestered for four months, a slight problem for someone publishing a monthly magazine.

Best of all, the advertising world came calling. Most importantly, the fashion advertising world came calling. The Holy Grail. An industry with a lemming mentality if there ever was one. Pull one or two fish in, watch the rest of the school head-butt the side of the boat begging to come on board.

As a result of all this coverage, publicity and, not to be underestimated, the crowd continuing to swell and carry forth the message of our brand, our readership was now over a million per issue. We were sitting pretty, or so it seemed.

It was early fall in New York and my sales team and I had nestled into a mid-town hotel for three days of prep ahead of our calls with the fashion industry bigs. Our goal was to secure no less than 40 pages for our spring fashion issue. Many magazines can turn an annual profit just on the spring and fall fashion editions, and with our subscription, newsstand numbers and buzz at an all time high, we had some serious wind in our sails.

So for 72 straight hours, minus a few here and there for sleep, in hotel rooms, lobbies, conference spaces, restaurants, bars and while riding the subway, the team worked on the message and the pitch. We grilled each other in every setting imaginable—panels, one on ones, role reversals, you name it. Our confidence was soaring. We had moved and mobilized the consumer audience; we were going to do the same with the advertising community. Every successful business has a tipping point they can point to and we all were convinced this was going to be ours. And sure enough we did tip.

Right on our asses.

On the surface, the meetings could not have gone more spectacularly. Even the most stoic and egotistical couldn’t help but praise our accomplishments. There were wide eyes and slacked jaws when I explained our plans for the following year. Some expressed outright giddiness at the prospect of working with us. There were promises of RFPs (requests for proposal) and partnership explorations. The worst we would hear was that we were still young and had much to prove, but even in those cases there was the lingering promise of “testing the waters.” We floated out of each encounter more encouraged and emboldened than the last.

The final meeting of our week occurred in the offices of a very well known fashion brand. The buyer for the company was a big, impeccably dressed, elegant, teddy bear of a guy. A true gentleman and an industry legend who had been at his job for 35 years. I purposely scheduled him last for a couple of reasons. One, I wanted to have nowhere to be afterward so I wouldn’t feel rushed. Two, I hoped that by meeting with him at the end of the day, I could convince him to grab a drink afterward and pick his extremely experienced brain.

Again, the meeting couldn’t have gone more swimmingly. His opening salvo: “I’ve seen a lot of things in this business, but I can’t remember a more exciting and innovative title hitting the space in the last 20 years. Bravo.” He proceeded to praise our hires, our editorial and our fashion sense. In turn, he openly questioned the direction of other magazines in the category— “Their editorial is forcing us out.” If this trend continued, he mused, he could see RAZOR becoming the men’s fashion leader. My team and I floated from the meeting.

The love fest continued afterward at a local bar, where over numerous martinis this gentleman regaled us with stories of the so-called golden years of magazine publishing; the characters, the parties, the scene. He was a raconteur extraordinaire. I could have listened to him all night. And I did. Long after my sales team had gone home, exhausted but still riding a high. Finally, about 1am, he was ready to call it a night and he gave me a huge hug and a kiss on both cheeks. I thanked him for his time, his candor and his generosity and I told him I was looking forward to seeing those RFPs and working with him. He could call me directly any time. Then, quite suddenly, his smile disappeared.

The wind was now out of my sails and whistling hallow in my ears. We had done such a tremendous job identifying and moving the crowd and adjusting the product to their wants, we were more popular than ever. But more readers meant more copies published and more copies published meant higher expenses and higher expenses meant we needed ad dollars. And there, my friends, was the rub.

We battled for two more years, even capturing a nice chunk of the spirits market, which helped us stay afloat and give us staggered, lingering hope. And while we were able to pull one fashion fish in here and there, the rest of the school were more than happy to swim in safer, less turbulent waters. When I went calling on the aforementioned buyer again for the last time he was in sour spirits. His print ad budget had been cut in half, the titles he had protected no longer receiving his business. The other half had gone to an internet buyer who was shooting in the dark, spending the company’s money arbitrarily.

Each of the last ten issues we published outsold the last. Our final edition had a readership of over 1.5 million and our ABC Audit numbers for the half-year were our best ever. In our time in publication and the two years that followed, 27 titles that entered or existed in the men’s space shuttered.

Cool Story, RB, but What does it have to do with Anything?

Patience, grasshopper.

So what were the takeaways from RAZOR? Well, for starters, although the word crowdsourcing hadn’t been coined yet, I had effectively put the basic tenets into practice by learning how to identify, communicate with and mobilize a crowd offline. This was an important lesson.

I also learned that it is much more difficult to move two crowds as opposed to one, and finding that balance is tough. Yes, there were certain things that were out of our control. We couldn’t have predicted the tragedy of 9/11, which effectively shut down the advertising world for almost 18 months. We couldn’t control the fact that being a single title publisher would have little bearing on some and place us at a major disadvantage with others. Even the things we prepared heavily for, such as content moving away from print and online, didn’t turn out quite as we, or anyone else for that matter, expected. We were of the belief that premium content would be desired and accepted by the consumer as the norm and that advertisers would support the platform. It’s a battle that’s still being fought by premium content providers today.

Ultimately, we had to move the consumer to action and the advertising community to action for the entire operation to work. One proved easier than the other. The consumer loved the message and was willing to abandon the status quo. The buyer loved the message but wouldn’t risk abandoning the status quo until finally forced by a seismic change in where people consumed their content.

This is one of the reasons why I believe online film distributors have been largely unsuccessful at worst, uniquely challenged at best. It’s easy to crowd-source filmmakers. Everyone wants their film to be seen and find an audience. But with so much free content out there, not to mention a variety of subscription based models for premium content, how do you crowdsource and motivate the film-going audience, the consumer, to not only consume your content, but pay to do so? It’s a tough dilemma … The dust is still in the air.

But, ultimately, to end this section on a high note, I learned that identifying a need, identifying who would benefit from that need and then filling that need brought results. Big results. And that the power of one could charge the power of the infinite.

And on that note, let me take you back to …

The Bar at the Loews

Back to the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. At the bar of the Loews in the morning, optimism hangs like a refreshing dewy mist in the air. In speaking to those about to make the trek up the stairs from the lobby to the magical, mystical catacombs that are the Loews hotel hallways, the reality of how difficult this business can be to penetrate, never mind sustain any sort of momentum, has been pushed to the deepest recesses of the mind. Each person or team feels that they are holding a winning ticket—a project that is going to resonate with someone and, if they’re lucky, a few someones all but eager to bid against one another. Confidence is high, bordering on cocky.

“See that guy over there?” a producer from London asks me. I look to find a Tom Ford lookalike, suit, stubble, sheen of aftershave, laughing uproariously on his cell phone, confidence oozing from every pore. I nod in the affirmative.

“He’s peddling a zombie, werewolf horror. Poor bastard. Lamb to slaughter.”

In mere minutes the London producer will take his first meeting. He’s pushing a rom-com with a B-List actress attached. He admits she’s not the most bankable name in the book, but he says the script will “knock the entire genre on its ass.” With that, he takes off, taking the steps from the lobby two at a time, like he’s left Base Camp for the peak of Everest in a t-shirt, shorts and sandals, oblivious to the challenges that lay ahead.

Late afternoon at the Loews bar is an entirely different experience. The dewy, misty air replaced by a humid, oppressive ceiling that never moves, only thickens. Those descending the stairs don’t walk to the bar, they trudge to it. They are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed no longer. No, sir. They now resemble clubbed seals.

I sidle over to two gentlemen, both giving million-mile stares into their vodka tonics. They’re a screenwriter and a director from Australia and have brought to the fest a completed family holiday film looking for distribution. They took 13 meetings today. As if summoning the energy from the tips of his toes, one offers a less than convincing, “We did receive one solid ‘Maybe.’” I ask them why they’ve traveled half way around the globe when there are so many ways to reach distributors through online channels or simply from networking with other filmmakers and receiving recommendations.

“Like we’re going to find a distributor through Facebook,” one scoffs.

“We don’t have a network,” the other says. “We have us and the people we met today.” He paused and added, “Which means we have us.”

“And we just don’t know enough on the subject. We need help.”

“Plus to do it on our own costs money. Our entire expense budget was allotted for this conference.”

Later, I get into a conversation with two men and a woman from Japan. The first gentleman is a director. The other gentleman and lady are a producing team. They have come to push a high concept, high budget Japanese fantasy trilogy. The idea is not based on source material. It’s entirely their own. They have taken seven meetings on the day.

The male half of the producing team wears a dynamite suit and is still sweating a half hour after his last meeting. He stands slightly folded at the waist as if he’s still fighting off the effects of a punch to the solar plexus and dots at his head with a handkerchief while gulping his $11 beer. “They don’t get us,” he says. “Too expensive, not big enough, too strange, not odd enough. Nobody knows what they want.” Welcome to Hollywood, I think.

The director, his face red with heat, is more irate. “This isn’t comic book bullshit,” he says in perfect English. “This is the new thing, the next thing. This is attainable fantasy.”

I’m not exactly sure what he means by that, but I’m sold on his passion. Still, I ask them what they will do if they can’t sell their concept.

The female producer doesn’t hesitate. With half resolve and half vengeance, she spits, “We will come back every year until we convince them.”

“What about the rest of the year? The rest of the globe? Movies aren’t only being financed and made in L.A., you know. Have you thought about the UK? Canada?”

She glares at me in a way that makes me extremely glad looks can’t kill. “You have contacts there? Because we do not.”

Finally, I strike up a conversation with a 37-year-old actress turned producer. She has over 25 credits to her name, some on films you’ve heard of, many you have not. But she has been working on independent film sets for over 17 years. She’s here with a short she produced, looking to find someone to assist with her efforts of turning the film into a full-length feature. She has taken ten meetings. When I ask her how it went, she pounces.

“‘Who are you? What have you done? What movies have you been in? Have you produced before? What makes you think you can produce? Sure, leave a screener.’ That’s what I heard all day. Nobody even watched the damn thing. They’re all so concerned about everything but the fucking product.”

“Why bring it here?” I ask. “You must have contacts from all the various films you’ve worked on. People that can help you.”

“Yeah, I’ve worked a lot, but you go in, do your scenes and leave. I mean, I’ve been on some close knit sets where everyone genuinely liked each other and got along. You stay in touch for a while via email, but then everyone fades away. You’re left with your core group.”

“There has to be a way to stay in touch with these people.”

“What? Like Facebook?”

“I guess.”

“Are you on Facebook?”

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“As a creative, I just don’t see the point.”

“And that’s my point.”

Touché.

And thus the embryonic idea that would become Stage 32 was born. There had to be a way to make the world a bit smaller for those pursuing a career in film, television and theater. Further, as someone who believes life is a never ending educational process and who makes it a point to learn at least five new things every day, I wanted to bring education to the masses.

The Lessons Learned from Razor—Building Stage 32

The first phase of Stage 32 was pushed live early in the second quarter of 2011. At no point did I deceive myself into believing that I had come up with a concept so revolutionary that people would flock to and embrace the idea like manna from the gods. I, of course, had identified who my potential audience was. That wasn’t an issue. What I needed was a powerful, relatable message that would take away the numerous questions and pushback I anticipated, the biggest of which (I believed) would be convincing people that this platform could and should replace their broader social media platforms when it came to their film, television or theater pursuits. Having spoken with some of my industry friends, and, as mentioned, other frustrated creatives along the way, plus my vast experience working with a variety of startups throughout my business career, I knew that finding first adapters who would be not only willing, but excited to try out a new platform would be easy. Getting them to instantly understand the mission, subscribe to the mission and carry the word of that mission forth, well, that wouldn’t be so easy. After all, even though the feedback was overwhelming that the broader social networks weren’t producing professional results for many, I couldn’t discount the comfort and familiarity aspect of the equation. Even when things aren’t working, people abhor change, choosing comfort over the fear of the unknown. It’s why we stay in bad relationships. It’s why we stay in jobs that don’t challenge or excite us. It’s human nature.

With these facts preying on my mind, I was extremely cognizant of the fact that I had but one bullet in the gun. Execution was going to be everything. I decided to take a step back.

I took a week to sift through my RAZOR launch notes. On the surface, this may seem like a questionable move. But if there was one things that stuck with me about RAZOR in the dispiriting aftermath of closing down operations, it was all the letters and emails I received from disappointed subscribers and readers of the magazine; those who had championed our cause and carried the message. I particularly remembered one email from a devoted reader who had bought nearly 100 gift subscriptions throughout our run. I decided to write him and ask him if he would be willing to take a moment and express why he had been such a champion of the brand and the mission.

So moved and inspired was I by this response, I eagerly reviewed some of the early plans we had implemented to recruit, inspire and move disciples of the RAZOR brand. It was an enlightening exercise. In business, at times, whether you have success or failure, time erodes the tenets of the foundation you constructed in the early days. Revisiting these unvarnished, enthusiastic plans and strategies put even more wind in my sails and gave me more perspective on the initiative I was about to launch. But I didn’t stop there. The good side is always the easiest to look back on. But for complete truth, you must review the bad as well. I took a long hard look at our missteps and why those particular ideas didn’t take root. Now that I had the whole truth, I had clarity.

At the end of the week, I was invigorated, and I was sure of one thing: The membership and direction of Stage 32 needed to be crowdsourced. I needed true believers. I needed champions. I needed people to carry the message.

As soon as I felt we had enough built out that could serve as proof of concept, and also enough features and resources which would invite and promote activity throughout the site, I put together an email. I introduced Stage 32, my reasoning for starting the site and my desire to help all creatives increase their odds of recognizing their dreams through targeted networking and other future initiatives. I attached a mission statement (still available on the site today at www.stage32.com/content/our-mission). I ended the letter with this:

I targeted and then sent the letter to 100 industry colleagues and friends. Within three weeks and with barely little prodding, I had 100 responses. That alone blew me away. But what really knocked my butt to the canvas was that 97 not only loved the concept (and sent extremely solid suggestions and improvement ideas), but all 97 invited at least five fellow creative colleagues to the site. The three dissenters made valid arguments, pointing out a few items I hadn’t thought of previously, and agreed to have another look down the road (all three eventually became members). Not only did I implement their changes, but I made multiple adjustments to the existing design and features based on the suggestions of others. Basically, I let the members crowdsource the direction of the site, which in the early days of any startup is a smart strategy, especially when the suggestions are coming from your target audience. These first adapters were thrilled to see their ideas taken seriously. This gave them ownership and made them even more excited to carry the message forth.

By September of 2011, and with no other outside publicity, advertising or marketing, simply by virtue of these first adapters and, in turn, their invitees preaching the gospel of Stage 32, we had over 7,000 members in the community. We were now ready to come out of beta and the preplanning stage and launch the site. Almost.

I had connected with my peers; people who knew me. People who, although nothing is a given, more than likely felt a responsibility to at least respond to me. Now, I faced an entirely different challenge—connecting with creatives who didn’t know me from the next guy on the street, or, more appropriately, the next dude with an idea for an online platform. How could I get them to see that as it related to Stage 32, I was simply one of them? That I was coming at them as an actor, screenwriter, producer, voice actor before an entrepreneur and businessman? How can I make them understand my intentions were pure and evolved from an honest place? How could I take away the “What’s the catch?” cynicism that seemed to dominate the focus group reports I had read online regarding internet startups? How could I make them fully and completely understand and embrace the vision, mission and brand?

I looked at the challenges over and over, up and down, in and out, analyzing all the potential reverb I might receive. Eventually, I took out a pad and wrote the following down:

1. Site will be and will always remain free. Somewhere down the line we will produce premium online educational opportunities at an affordable price.
2. Site will be a friendly, welcoming environment where debate is invited, but where abuse (and trolling) will not be tolerated. We will promote a nurturing, positive domain at all times. The challenges creatives face are hard enough. This site will be about support, collaboration and self-lessness as much as it is about networking.
3. I will stand in front of the brand (the face) as a screenwriter, producer, actor and voice actor. It must be known that I am no different than any other member. I too am working to advance my creative career and create opportunities. We are all in this together.
4. To that end, everyone who joins will receive a welcome post from me— including the information listed in #3, plus our mission, our brand philosophy and the fact that Stage 32 is simply a blank canvas—must supply the brush and the paint. And they should paint freely.
5. We will continue to ask all members to help support the movement by inviting at least five fellow creatives. Ownership in building the community is a must (but also has to be earned). “This is a network built for you, built by you.”

With these directives in hand, I felt the time was right to move us out of beta. In mid-September, 2011, we opened the doors to all film, television and theater creatives.

I now had a reason to be active on other social media platforms, still not as an individual, but as an ambassador and spokesperson for the brand. I immediately set up our Stage 32 Twitter (www.twitter.com/stage32) and Facebook accounts (www.facebook.com/stage32) and set out to follow and like film, television and theater creatives from every discipline regardless of their level of accomplishment. I made sure my posts were engaging and intriguing by asking questions and welcoming suggestions as opposed to simply broadcasting. I invited people to join the site and offer feedback. I gave anyone who wanted it a voice, a platform to be heard; something that was enormously appreciated by most. Who doesn’t like their opinions to carry weight? When, and only when, I received a positive response, I asked that person to carry the message by retweeting, sharing my posts or simply by sending invites through our site’s invitation system via email or Facebook.

By the end of our first month out of beta, our membership had nearly doubled. I made every attempt to stay in contact with the user base regarding tweaks and fixes to the system, new resources and features we were introducing, and plans for the future. When something positive happened to someone in the community, whether it had to do with a connection made on the site or not, I turned the spotlight on the member and the accomplishment. I made everything about the community, offering support and positive reinforcement where applicable. Challengers and cynics were disarmed simply by pointing to the numerous success stories and already incredible and productive interactions occurring within the walls of the site. My biggest asset, I believe, was my conviction in the mission. I truly believed in what we were doing and had found a way to transfer my excitement and energy to the members of the community. I received dozens of emails speaking to my passion and thanking me for taking on such an endeavor. These notes did not serve to fuel my ego—I knew we had a long road to travel—but they did serve as fuel that we were on to something and that we were filling a need.

After a few months of building personal relationships and good will and, of course, displaying proof of concept through the aforementioned success stories and an overwhelmingly positive and supportive environment, I went for the big “Ask.” I asked members of the community to blog, contact journalists on our behalf, reach out to people of influence both in the studio and independent film world, contact their instructors and professors and find their own innovative ways to spread the word of Stage 32. I was asking our members to essentially put their reputations on the line. You can’t make that “Ask” if you haven’t forged a sincere relationship that benefits both parties. I felt we had delivered on our promise. Now it was time to see if others felt the same way.

In the end, over thirty members blogged on our behalf. A few dozen more reached out to other influential bloggers and journalists, resulting in another 20 or so blog entries and articles being written about Stage 32. I was suddenly inundated with messages from teachers, industry veterans and award winning talent, now all members of the community, many of them offering their services to help benefit the cause. The network grew to over 50,000 people. We were barely six months old.

To this day, we still utilize all the same principles and methods to help identify, attract, engage, inspire, motivate and move the crowd. As I type this, Stage 32 is now over 500,000 members strong with creatives from every country on the planet. Tens of thousands of jobs have been secured and every day we receive letters from those not only thanking us for helping them facilitate their dreams, but asking us what they can do to help spread the word. By keeping things positive, giving members ownership and a voice in our direction, and by delivering on our promises, we’ve created what I believe is the single most positive and progressive network in the world. This statement may seem like hyperbole, but I’d point to the fact that we’ve only had to kick three people off the network for abusive behavior in four years, and the fact that our members police the platform on our behalf. That speaks to the culture we set out to create in our early days. A culture that was embraced, supported and policed by our members.

Further still, the members of the community are not only willing to help spread the message of Stage 32 to other film, television and theater creatives, but in other ways as well. They will recommend me for a podcast, webcast or television show. They will point journalists our way. They will tell our story to people of influence in the business world.

As a result of their efforts and those of my passionate staff, we’ve had hundreds of pieces of media coverage, including articles in and on Forbes, Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, Entrepreneur, Indiewire, The Wrap, The Huffington Post, and Yahoo! Entertainment, to name a few. I’ve been fortunate enough to have been featured on the covers of Indie Source and Robert McKee’s STORY magazine. Additionally, I’ve been a guest on nearly 80 podcasts, 30 webcasts and numerous television and radio shows. Lastly, I’ve spoken at conferences and colleges all over the world on a plethora of topics, including social media, crowdfunding, crowdsourcing, business, entrepreneurship, acting, screenwriting, producing, film finance and the film business at large.

I can say with certainty that none of this would have started, nor would the snowball effect which led to these successes have happened, without embracing, enabling and unleashing the power of crowdsourcing.