In 2002, after six years thinking of little other than Netflix, I decided it was time to think a little differently. And so I left.

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The most wonderful byproduct of this was that I finally had time. Time to linger over coffee with my wife. Time to get outside and surf, run, or mountain bike every morning. Time to head into the Tetons for two weeks of back-country snowboarding.

There was time to engage with other startups, many of whom were looking for advice from someone freshly back from the war. It was easy to say yes to every invitation to talk, to have coffee, or to sit on an advisory board.

Then the non-profit community came calling, and before I knew it was on a couple more boards. …

I’ve always been an optimist.

And over a forty-year career as an entrepreneur, that glass-half-full attitude has been an occupational necessity. There’s no way I could have kept launching into new ventures — and being told “that will never work” time and time again — without continually believing “there has to be a way to figure it out”.

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In my career, I’ve run thousands of tests, 97.3% of which didn’t work. But I always see these failures not as dead ends, but as fresh leaping off points. Every failure teaches me something. …

Earlier this year, I was invited to sit down for an interview with leadership coach Ishita Gupta. As we sat waiting for the techs to get things ready, she casually mentioned she was about to climb Mount Everest.

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Well, sort of. She was really climbing Kilimanjaro.

Ok. It’s complicated.

Ishita had signed up for an Everesting challenge, in which hikers ascend some of the world’s tallest mountains: Kilimanjaro, Denali, Everest. But instead of flying to Tanzania, Alaska, or Nepal armed with ropes and ice-axes, participants travel to Idaho, Vermont, or Utah. …

I’ve been talking a lot about courage recently. I’m starting to conclude that it’s one of the most important characteristics for any entrepreneur.

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I wrote last time— and in my book That Will Never Work — about how Netflix walked away from our lucrative business of selling DVDs to focus everything on rental. If you know me, you’ve heard me tell that story dozens of times. You’re probably sick of it. …

Ever since I left Netflix in 2003, people have been telling me the same thing:

You should write a book.

And I always have said the same thing in response:

Why the hell would I want to do that?

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My son Logan and I, with Reed Hastings smiling in the background, on our way to the Netflix IPO

See, I’ve known people who wrote books. And they told me a couple things: It was hard work, it took forever, and most of them were unhappy with the finished product. If you wrote honestly about yourself, it sounded like you were bragging. If you wrote honestly about other people, it sounded like you were settling old scores.

In the years after I left Netflix, the company I co-founded, I didn’t want to puff myself up or tear anyone else down. And besides, I was still working — advising new start-ups, starting new companies, giving speeches about innovation and leadership at conferences around the globe. …

My first real job lasted for three years. It ended the day I was unceremoniously fired.

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In retrospect, it was pretty clear I had it coming to me. I pushed everyone too hard. I didn’t tolerate fools at all, much less gladly. I ignored every warning, because “what did they know?” And it all ended the morning my CEO called me into his office to let me know that my services would no longer be needed.

Or at least it should have ended that morning.

You see, when I got fired I thought I could still beat the system. Having heard the old saw that it was easier to find a job while you still had one, I asked my boss to let me keep coming to work for another two months. …

When I was a kid, it was common knowledge that if you wanted to be a songwriter, you had to move to Nashville. That’s where all the music publishers were, all the session musicians, all the open mic nights filled with industry execs at The Bluebird Café.

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The Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, Tennessee by wewon31.

The same was true for actors. Want to make it big in the movies? Move to L.A., home of the studios and the agents, the casting calls and the walk-on extras.

Nowadays, when I talk to aspiring entrepreneurs, many of them feel the same way about Silicon Valley. “If I want to make it in the start-up world, I have to go to where the start-ups are,” they tell me. “Where else can I rub elbows with venture capitalists and set up mentorship coffee dates with startup veterans? …

Don’t just automate. Innovate.

Earlier this year, Amazon announced that it was opening up forty-six of its fulfillment centers to the public for twice-a-day tours. For years, Prime members have been getting practically anything they want delivered to them within twenty-four hours. Now they get to peek behind the football-field-sized curtain to see exactly how one-click-shopping works: A.I., robots, and humans working in harmony, in buildings the size of airplane hangars.

Now, I love a good factory tour. Drop me into a bottling plant, an automotive assembly line, or a jellybean factory, and I’m happy as a clam at high tide. Some of my fondest memories of the early years of Netflix have to do with our efforts to figure out the most efficient, effective, and fast methods to get DVDs to people all over the country. …

Back when I was in college, approximately 250 years ago, a friend of mine was a sculptor. She was taking a class with some famous visiting artist, the kind of guy who walks around in paint-spattered jeans and a beret, and every other day, he would come to her studio to critique her work.

At the time, she was making these abstract fractals out of clay. They kind of looked like ferns. Each one was two or three feet tall, and took her weeks to finish. They were pretty good, I thought.

The first time the visiting artist came to my friend’s studio, she had just started a new one. In maybe six or seven hours of work she had basically just done the stalk. “This is alright,” he said, slowly circling the work and nodding slowly. …

Start Gutting Chickens.

It’s June, which means that we’re in for another round of a particularly irritating genre of writing: The Graduation Speech.

You know what I’m talking about. The empty platitudes, the corny jokes, the airy advice. I doubt anyone wearing a robe and mortarboard has ever learned anything new in the twenty minutes between the processional and the handing over of the diplomas.

Maybe I’m just bitter. No one has ever asked me to give a graduation speech. But in my years of working with aspiring entrepreneurs, many of them in college, I’ve gotten used to giving advice. …


Marc Randolph

Netflix Co-founder. Entrepreneur, Investor and Advisor

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