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all aspects of sales. While he gives more attention than most to issues of mindset and intent, he also has a foot firmly planted in tactics, implementation, execution, processes, and practical solutions. After all, he has been, and continues to be, very much a practitioner, and the book is chock full not only of solid advice, but also of compelling first- and second-person stories you've never heard before.

      There is no process, insight, or magic phrase that will truly make you a better salesperson. It's an art, and not a black art but a human one. Navigating the tensions inherent in human relationships is pretty much the same way to navigate the tensions inherent in sales. In fact, they're the same tensions.

      I've spent much of my career training salespeople to sell better: to understand their clients' needs, to develop insight and business acumen, and most of all, always to trade value for their client's time. Through it all, though, I made myself a promise: I would never provide strategies or tactics that might let one person take advantage of another. I am all too familiar with the high-pressure, hard-sell tactics of the past, and I have seen a number of colleagues train salespeople to do “whatever it takes” to manipulate their prospects.

      At a recent conference, for instance, I watched two hustlers maneuver three prospective clients into buying a program that they didn't need by pressuring them in front of a room full of people. I was so upset that I charged out of the room, checked out of my hotel, and caught an early flight home. What I saw was not only unconscionable, but also unnecessary. These men didn't have to rely on dirty tricks. They could have made the sales without forcing their clients (read: victims) to risk their egos and professional identities simply to decline an offer.

       People buy from people they trust to make a decision they don't trust themselves to make.

       —Chris Beall

      I was standing at Basecamp 1 on Mount Everest, where the thinness of the air at 17,000 feet made it hard to breathe. I had no interest in climbing 12,000 more feet to scale the tallest mountain on Earth, but I could not pass up the chance to take some pictures. Unfortunately, I'd suffered from altitude sickness during my entire visit to Tibet: my hands and arms often started tingling, like when your leg falls asleep during a long flight, and more than once I woke up gasping for air. A week's worth of prescription medicine had not done me much good—the tingling was getting worse, and that day it had not stopped for hours. Three miles above sea level, I was becoming concerned.

      Earlier in the day, I had visited my Sherpa's home. On the ground level, donkeys and chickens roamed around on a dirt floor, warmed by a smoke-belching potbelly stove. The outside of the house was covered in yak dung that had been shaped into patties and pressed against the outside walls, each one with an individual handprint of one of the Sherpa's family members. That detail struck me as I pondered my dilemma: I was being advised by a man whose house is covered in yak dung. I was positive that my physician, Dr. Zimmerman, an educated man, used a more, well, conventional insulation to keep his house warm. But I also knew that my doctor had never even been to the Himalayas, let alone Basecamp 1. And while my Sherpa had no formal degrees, he makes a living guiding people up to Everest.

      After a long moment, I threw the medicine in a nearby trash can and started walking faster. My lungs burned, but the harder I worked to get up the hill, the better I started to feel. My Sherpa was right: I was getting more air into my lungs. Neither my education nor my doctor's years of medical school could match his knowledge and experience. That expertise put him in the One-Up position, a more valuable resource than a hundred degrees.

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