Watching Mad Men a few weeks ago, I was bothered by a scene in which an art director, referring to a planned publicity stunt on behalf of an agency client, asked an all-too familiar question: How am I going to put this in my book? When the most recent episode began with an aspiring copywriter presenting his book to a disinterested Don Draper, it further reinforced my frustration with the importance our industry places on portfolios.

My experience with the process began in 1995 when I graduated from a small state college in New York and decided to pursue a career as a copywriter. After a few informational interviews, I quickly discovered the sense of utter worthlessness that came with not having a “book.” A book, I soon learned, was synonymous with a portfolio, which, from what I could tell, was an antiquated term for an expensive case that contained oversized, laminated, felt-backed prints of ads that had never been produced. Of the several thousand words of wisdom I was able to extract from the handful of creative directors who were kind enough to meet with me, “spec” and “book” seemed to account for nearly half.

After nine months of rejection, I landed a job at a small agency in Syracuse. It wasn’t my paltry spec book that enabled me to secure the position, but rather an assignment given to me by the shop’s creative director. He was the first department head who seemed more interested in my thought process than my lack of a monogrammed metal case. Naively, I thought the days of obsessing over my book were behind me; in reality, they had just begun.

At the time, portfolio schools were beginning their rise to prominence. My first two years of real-world experience were, in the eyes of most creative directors, dwarfed by the two years of output that recent portfolio school graduates could display: books filled with spec ads for indigestion remedies, contraceptives, athletic shoes and snack foods. My work for the number-two manufacturer of electrical outlets and switches was, by all accounts, less compelling. It appeared that if I wanted to advance my career I would have to afford myself all the competitive advantages enjoyed by portfolio school graduates.

In the years that followed, I met countless creatives who also feared that their books—filled with real work for real clients— would limit their career opportunities. Consequently, our collective efforts began to shift from doing what was best for our agency and its clients to doing what was best for our books. We rushed through full-day photo shoots in the hopes that there would be time to sneak in a shot for a spec ad. We sped through commercial edits so there would be ample opportunity to cut a longer version for our reels. We tore through client work so we could tend to spec campaigns for famous brands or local bars. And when we had ideas that didn’t involve traditional forms of media, we asked ourselves the same question Peggy’s partner did: “How are we going to put this in our book?” After all, we’d been trained to believe that our experience had no redeemable value if it didn’t fit neatly in our portfolio cases.

Five years into my career, I realized that my pursuit of the book that would get me a position at a big-time agency had deprived me of learning the skills I would need to actually succeed at such a job. I decided it was time to stop building a book and start building the knowledge I would need to sustain a career.

In the decade since, that decision has repeatedly been validated. Not surprisingly, when I began focusing on what was best for my clients, the work was more frequently approved and more frequently produced. In the process of creating more real-world campaigns, I learned all the things that get overlooked when doing spec work—things that impact how a target audience other than agency creative directors responds to advertising.

Unfortunately, creatives today continue to be obsessed with—and corrupted by—their books (which, of course, are now websites). And it’s an obsession that continues to be counter-productive to creatives, agencies and clients. The good news: we have the ability to change that behavior. All we have to do is start prioritizing the steak over the sizzle.

My eight years as a creative director have convinced me that there’s no correlation between the quality of a creative’s website and his or her ability to contribute to an agency and its clients. In fact, of all the freelancers I’ve hired, the ones with the best books have often been the least capable. Perhaps that’s why they’ve invested so much time erecting a façade of talent.

I’m not impressed by an art director’s Flash intro, and I couldn’t care less that a creative has shot with a famous director or been included on a long list of credits for something that won a Gold Lion. What gets my attention is an art director or copywriter who can talk about a client’s business: shifting media strategies to reach new customers; repositioning a brand in response to category trends; decreasing the overall cost of an acquisition. Sure, I love stunning typography and a clever headline as much as anyone; but they have no value in this business unless they’re part of a thoughtful response to a brief.

Admittedly, many of the well-rounded, business savvy creatives I’ve described have mediocre websites; but often it’s because their portfolios are not their top priority. I recently spoke to a creative director friend who’s looking for a new job. In my 15-year career, he’s among the smartest and most talented people with whom I’ve worked. “How’s the search going?” I asked. “Not well,” he replied. “I’ve been told by numerous ECDs that I need to hire a stronger web designer for my site.” I refuse to accept that his talent will be dismissed in favor of candidates who count a polished website among their top qualifications. After all, it’s the person, not the website, that an agency hires. If you agree, and you’d like the contact information for the best available creative director I know, send me an email. I don’t know the URL for his online portfolio, but I’d be happy to give you his phone number.

Because new business is often considered the lifeblood of agencies, most shops are addicted to pitching. Like most addictions, it’s an exhausting habit that depletes vital resources like time, money, energy and optimism. But for all the injuries endured, frequent pitching should, at minimum, provide participants with invaluable insight into the agency review process.

I’ve had the pleasure—and displeasure—of being actively involved in nearly a hundred pitches. Some were managed by search consultants; others weren’t. Some were protracted engagements; others were abbreviated. Some were focused on creative; others emphasized media. But nearly all shared one thing in common: at some point in the process, the prospective client asked, “Are you just the pitch team, or will you actually be working on our business?”

One client was so concerned about the “bait-and-switch” that after our final presentation, the CMO used most of the Q&A session to discuss the exact percentage of time each of us would commit to his business. Later, when we were requested to return for an additional meeting, we were told our president wasn’t welcome unless he intended to spend at least 50-percent of each week working on the account.

So what’s an agency to do? After all, isn’t new business too important to entrust to anyone but the most polished presenters? And aren’t the senior managers who possess the showmanship skills too valuable to focus on just one or two accounts? Here are some options:

Stick with the bait-and-switch. Of course, now that the jig is up, it’ll take a lot more convincing; but if a client wants 50-percent of senior management’s time, promise them 50-percent of senior management’s time. Then, once the contract is signed, break out the smoke and mirrors: an email here, a conference call there, even the occasional in-person appearance to make it seem like senior management is intimately involved (when, in fact, they’re out courting new clients to whom they’re promising their undivided attention).

Obviously overpromising and under-delivering is not the best approach, but it’s likely the course many agencies will continue to choose. Why? Because it’s a proven way to win business. The problem, however, is that it’s also a proven way to lose business.

So let’s consider a more radical tack: honesty.

If you choose to cast your pitch team with senior managers who won’t be involved in the day-to-day operations of the account, just say so. Don’t apologize for it; explain it. Tell the client that the senior managers set the tone for the agency: they assemble and direct the team assigned to each account; they establish the strategy and expectations and hold every employee accountable. And while they won’t be on every phone call or in every meeting, they will ensure the account is well managed. It’s a common operational structure that most clients will relate to because it mirrors the way many of their companies are organized.

Alternatively, and in my opinion, more effectively, you can comprise your pitch team of the people who will actually work on the business. If they aren’t the most experienced presenters in the agency, explain to the client why they’re in the room. Start the meeting by saying “We’re not here to show you how well we can perform in a two-hour presentation, we’re here to show you how thoughtfully we will handle your business for the next ten years. These are the talented, hard-working people who will be dedicated to your account every day. They aren’t a SWAT team, or an ‘A’ Team, or a pitch team…they’re your team.” This approach will not only differentiate you from your competition, it will give your presentation authenticity while engaging more people at your agency in the business development process.

Yet another option is to structure your agency in such a way that the senior staff members who pitch the business have the time to work on it if you win. I know of at least one sizeable agency that has successfully implemented this approach; I assume their fees are a bit higher to compensate for more senior staff, but it hasn’t stopped them from winning some highly coveted accounts in the past six months. Our agency’s solution has been a bit simpler: we only take on the number of clients our senior people can personally manage. So far, it’s proven more effective (and more honorable) than baiting and switching—and it’s been an instant remedy for pitch addiction.

Watching Project Runway won’t make you the next Diane Von Furstenberg, but it could put you on the path to becoming the next Dan Wieden. Tune-in any Thursday night at ten o’clock and in one hour you’ll observe many of the dos and don’ts of being a creative director.

Let’s start with the dos, as demonstrated by Tim Gunn. While Tim is best known for his catchphrases, he’s also the consummate creative director. (Not coincidentally, Gunn is the chief creative officer for Liz Claiborne.) Here’s why:

He never imposes his own taste on the contestants. Rather, he tends to celebrate sensibilities that are different than his own. In essence, he doesn’t ask, “Do I like this?” but instead focuses on what really matters: will the target audience like it. As a result, he’s uniquely skilled at maintaining objectivity.

He doesn’t dictate solutions. Gunn doesn’t say, “Make this red, make this longer and make this fuller”; he says, “I’m not sure this color is right, we’re seeing an awful lot of skin here and I’m concerned there may not be enough volume in this area.” Following up with his trademark “Make it work” is simply his way of saying, “it’s up to you to find solutions you’re comfortable with.”

He’s always honest, never prejudiced. Tim isn’t afraid to speak his mind. As a result, designers know where they stand with him. And he evaluates the work based on its merits without being influenced by a designer’s prior successes or failures.

He maintains his composure. Emotions are contagious in a creative environment. When the leader appears confident, everyone is confident; when the leader appears panicked, everyone panics. Whether delivering glowing praise or harsh criticism, Tim never loses his cool.

On the contrary, fashion designer (and Project Runway judge) Michael Kors constantly demonstrates what not to do as a creative director.

He’s lazy. Kors dons the same t-shirt and blazer on every show. He claims it’s because he spent so many years worrying about his attire that he’s earned the right to stop trying. But making excuses for being uninspired is, itself, uninspiring.

He rests on his reputation. Like many creative directors, Kors seems to be thinking, “I’ve accomplished a lot in my career, so even if I say something meaningless people will think it’s brilliant.” He fails to recognize that having achieved success doesn’t necessarily qualify him to help others do the same.

He’s destructive, not constructive. It’s easy to say, “that dress looks like a garbage bag,” or “those pants look like they’re from an M.C. Hammer video.” It’s much more difficult—and much more valuable—to explain where a designer went wrong and what he or she could have done differently to achieve a better result.

The Project Runway finale is quickly approaching, but I’ve already picked my winner. Tim Gunn, you’re in. Michael Kors, you’re out. Auf Wiedersehen.

Eighteen months after development began, six months after its doors opened, the world’s first Army Experience Center became a national news story.

“AEC on NBC” from HIGH WIDE & HANDSOME on Vimeo.