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to get someone on his side, he ought to ask for a favor. And he did.

      The Ben Franklin effect shows that, while attitudes influence behavior, behavior can also shape attitudes. If we do a favor for someone, we come to believe we like that person. This liking leads back to another favor, and so on. A close variant of what is called the foot-in-the-door technique, or the strategy of making small requests before larger ones, the Ben Franklin effect tells us that one favor begets more favors and, over time, small favors beget larger ones.

      What often isn’t discussed about the Ben Franklin effect is a question twentysomethings wonder about a lot: Why would a person—especially maybe an older or more successful person—help in the first place? How did Franklin get his foot in the door with that first favor?

      It’s simple. It’s good to be good. There is a “helper’s high” that comes from being generous. In numerous studies, altruism has been linked to happiness, health, and longevity— as long as the help we give is not a burden. Most people remember starting out themselves, being helped by those who were further along. Because of this, there is a reserve of goodwill toward twentysomethings. Part of aging well is helping others, and twentysomethings who turn to weak ties for help give them a chance to do good and feel good—unless what they ask for is overwhelming.

      So let’s talk about that.

      Sometimes twentysomethings reach out to weak ties with amorphous career aspirations, hoping other professionals can help them make up their minds about what to do with their lives. These sorts of favors may not overwhelm the capabilities of successful others, but they can overwhelm their calendars or their roles. It simply takes too much time to type a multiparagraph reply to an e-mail about which graduate degree someone should pursue. And it’s really not for a weak tie to say whether you should be a social worker or a folk singer.

      As a human resources professional said to me, “I have people make appointments to learn about future open positions at our company, and they come in and do this . . .” She sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Then she continued, “I think to myself, ‘You called this meeting. Have some good questions. Don’t just ask how long I’ve been at the company to make conversation until I can tell you what to do with your life.’ ”

      Let’s look more closely at the favor Franklin requested. He didn’t have a messenger deliver to the legislator a scroll that read “Peanut soup at the tavern???”—perhaps the eighteenth-century equivalent of an e-mail with the subject heading “Coffee???” or “A quick chat???” Franklin knew this sort of overture would seem dangerously vague to a busy professional. He was more intentional—and strategic—than that.

      Franklin did research on his target and found out the legislator’s areas of expertise. He presented himself as a serious person with a need that matched. He made himself interesting. He made himself relevant. And he asked for a clearly defined favor: the use of a book.

      I would advise the same approach today as you ask your own weak ties for letters of recommendation, suggestions or introductions, or well-planned informational interviews: Make yourself interesting. Make yourself relevant. Do your homework so you know precisely what you want or need. Then, respectfully, ask for it. Some weak ties will say no. More than you think will say yes. The fastest route to something new is one phone call, one e-mail, one box of books, one favor, one thirtieth birthday party.

      I once had a fortune cookie that read A WISE MAN MAKES HIS OWN LUCK. Perhaps the single best thing we can do to make our own luck in our twenties is say yes to our weak ties or give them a reason to say yes to us. Research shows that our social networks narrow across adulthood, as careers and families become busier and more defined. So—even and especially as we job-hop and move cross-country and change roommates and spend our weekends about town—this is the time to be connecting, not just with the same people having the same conversations about how work is lame or how there are no good men out there, but with those who might see things a little differently. Weak ties are the people who will better your life right now—and again and again in the years to come—if you have the courage to know what you want.

       The Unthought Known

       Uncertainty will always be part of the taking-charge process.

      —Harold Geneen, businessman

       The search of youth is not for all-permissibility, but rather for new ways of directly facing up to what truly counts.

      —Erik Erikson, psychoanalyst

      Ian told me his twentysomething years were like being in the middle of the ocean, like this vast, unmarked body of water. He couldn’t see land in any direction, so he didn’t know which way to go. He felt overwhelmed by the prospect that he could swim anywhere or do anything. He was equally paralyzed by the fact that he didn’t know which of the anythings would work out. Tired and hopeless at age twenty-five, he said he was treading water to stay alive.

      As I listened to Ian, I started to feel a bit hopeless myself.

      I try to, as psychologists say, “meet my clients where they are,” but Ian’s ocean metaphor was a real problem. When I thought of myself out there with him, with so many directions that seemed the same, I couldn’t come up with a good solution either.

      “How do people get out of the ocean?” I asked Ian, wondering if he had some sense of how he might stop treading water.

      “I don’t know,” he said, turning his head as he thought intently. “I would say you pick a direction and start swimming. But you can’t tell one way from the other, so you can’t pick. You can’t even tell if you’re swimming toward something, so why would you use up all your energy going the wrong way? I guess all you can do is hope someone comes along in a boat or something,” Ian said, almost with relief.

      There is a certain terror that goes along with saying “My life is up to me.” It is scary to realize there’s no magic, you can’t just wait around, no one can really rescue you, and you have to do something. Not knowing what you want to do with your life—or not at least having some ideas about what to do next—is a defense against that terror. It is a resistance to admitting that the possibilities are not endless. It is a way of pretending that now doesn’t matter. Being confused about choices is nothing more than hoping that maybe there is a way to get through life without taking charge.

      Rather than take charge, Ian hoped someone would come along, pick him up, and carry him off in a predetermined direction. It happens all the time. Maybe Ian would hop aboard with a group of friends or with some girlfriend. He’d go their way for a while and be distracted from his life a bit longer. But I knew how that would play out. He’d wake up one day in a far-off land, working in a job or living in a place that had nothing at all to do with Ian. He would be a world away from the life he would suddenly realize he wanted.

      With his ocean metaphor, Ian was pretending there was no particular life he wanted to live. It was like he had no past and no future, and no reason for going one way or the other. He wasn’t reflecting on the years he had lived so far, and neither was he thinking through the years that were ahead. As he said, this made action impossible. Because Ian didn’t know that twentysomethings who make choices are happier than those who tread water, he kept himself confused. This was easy to do.

      Ian hung out with an indecisive crowd. At the bike shop where he worked, his friends assured him he didn’t need to make decisions yet—“We’re not!” they cheered. They had long discussions on the job about never settling and about never selling out, yet there they were, settling for under-employment and selling out their futures. I suspected Ian was in my office because somehow he knew these conversations were full of unintentional lies.

      When Ian turned to his parents about his vectorless life in the ocean, he heard other lies. His mom and dad said, “You’re the best! The sky is the limit!” They reminded him he could do anything he set his mind to. They didn’t understand that this undefined encouragement was not helpful. It led less to courage than it did to confusion.

      Twentysomethings

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