New CEO Fired Me Despite My Team Generating 60% Of Company Revenue; The Board Panicked When…
The Consortium and the Relationship Revolution
A month passed. I hadn’t contacted any Oaken Light clients despite daily calls from publishers asking for help.
I deflected politely, citing professional considerations. The non-compete might be flawed but I wasn’t ready to test its limits.
Instead I focused on industry contacts outside Oaklight’s client list. These were small independent publishers, university presses, and literary agents looking for guidance.
This was work that wouldn’t trigger legal issues but would keep me engaged in the field I loved. Then came the invitation I hadn’t expected.
Harold Blackwood, chairman of Oaken Lights board, asked to meet privately. He asked to meet not at the office but at his club downtown.
I accepted out of curiosity more than anything else. The Indianapolis Gentleman’s Association was all dark wood and whispered conversations.
Harold, 70 and silver-haired, waited in a private room with two tumblers of scotch already poured. “Thank you for coming Garrett,” he said gesturing to the chair opposite his.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I wanted to meet.” “The thought crossed my mind,” I replied.
He pushed one of the glasses toward me. “Things at Oaken Light aren’t going as expected.”
I took a small sip saying nothing. “Revenue is down 38% this quarter,” Harold continued.
“Client retention has fallen to its lowest point in company history.” “The digital initiative that was supposed to transform our business model has instead alienated our core client base.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I replied neutrally. Harold studied me.
“You don’t seem surprised.” “Publishing is a relationship business,” I said.
“Always has been.” “So I’m learning,” he replied.
He leaned forward. “The board is concerned about Veronica’s leadership.”
“Her strategies may have worked in tech but publishing operates differently.” “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we’d like you to come back as chief revenue officer above Veronica in the hierarchy.” I stared at him, processing the offer.
“What about my replacement?” “Jacob’s a good man but he doesn’t have your client relationships or industry knowledge.”
“And Veronica, she’d accept this arrangement?” Harold’s expression hardened.
“She would have no choice.” The pieces suddenly fit together.
“This isn’t about this quarter’s revenue is it?” “This has been building for longer.”
Harold sighed, the facade cracking. “Veronica was Williams hire, his last major decision before his illness became unmanageable.”
“The board had reservations but we deferred to him out of respect.” “After he passed we gave her the opportunity to prove herself.”
“She hasn’t and your termination was not approved by the board.” “We were informed after the fact as were several other significant organizational changes.”
I sat back understanding the full picture now. Veronica had been clearing out William’s people, replacing them with her own.
My dismissal wasn’t about digital transformation. It was about removing anyone loyal to the previous leadership.
“The offer is generous,” Harold continued. “Double your previous salary and full control of sales and client relationships.”
He promised the board’s full backing to rebuild my team. It was everything I should have wanted: vindication, power, and security.
“I need time to consider,” I said. “Of course but don’t take too long.”
“The situation is deteriorating rapidly.” On the drive home I turned the conversation over in my mind.
The board hadn’t just realized they’d made a mistake with my termination. They’d known it was wrong from the beginning but had lacked the courage to stop it.
Now that it was affecting their bottom line suddenly they wanted me back. And there was something else Harold hadn’t said explicitly but I’d understood anyway.
They wanted me to be the hatchet man. They wanted me to come back and dismantle everything Veronica had built and eventually Veronica herself.
They didn’t want me for my relationship skills. They wanted me for my client list and the loyalty that came with it.
The realization didn’t make me angry. It made me certain about what I needed to do next.
I declined Harold’s offer the next morning with a brief polite email. His response came within minutes, an offer to increase the compensation package further.
I didn’t reply. Instead I made three phone calls.
The first was to Thomas Franklin. “I’m ready to discuss that consulting arrangement,” I told him.
“But I’d like to suggest a different approach.” “I’m listening,” he said.
“I won’t consult exclusively for Franklin Press.” “Instead I’m forming a collective, a consortium of independent publishers.”
They would share resources, distribution channels, and market intelligence. “No long-term contracts, no corporate bureaucracy, just publishers helping publishers with me facilitating the connections.”
There was silence on the line then: “How many others have you approached?” “None yet,” I replied.
“You’re the first call.” “Because I was your biggest client?”
“Because I trust your judgment,” I corrected. “If you think it’s a viable model I’ll move forward.”
“If not I’ll stick to traditional consulting.” Thomas didn’t hesitate.
“I’m in and I know at least five others who would be too.” My second call was to Ellaner Jenkins at Riverstone Press.
As I expected she not only embraced the consortium idea but suggested refinements to the structure. This included a shared digital platform.
This platform would give the smaller publishers the reach of a larger organization without sacrificing their independence. The third call was to Benjamin, my attorney.
I wanted to ensure the plan wouldn’t violate my non-compete agreement. “You’re not working for their clients,” he confirmed after hearing the details.
“You’re creating an entirely new entity that their clients choose to join.” “It’s a subtle distinction but a legally meaningful one.”
Within two weeks Walsh Publishing Consortium had seven founding members. All were former Oaken Light clients who had either already left or were planning to when their contracts expired.
Each contributed to an operational fund that would cover my salary and basic infrastructure. The key to the plan wasn’t just building a competing organization.
It was creating something Oaken Light couldn’t easily replicate. This was a cooperative structure where publishers maintained their independence while gaining the benefits of collective resources.
No one appointed me CEO or gave me a fancy title. I was simply the facilitator, the connector who understood what each member needed and who could provide it.
We rented a modest office space in Broadripple away from the downtown business district. This was away from where Oaken Light and other corporate publishers clustered.
I hired two staff members. One was a recent college graduate to handle communications and social media.
The other was a veteran publishing operations manager who had recently retired but wasn’t ready to stop working. Word spread quickly through the close-knit publishing community.
By the end of the first month three more publishers had joined the consortium. By the end of the second we had to expand to larger offices.
I was careful never to directly solicit Oaken Lights clients. I didn’t need to.
They came to us drawn by the success stories they were hearing. They were also drawn by frustrations with the digital first approach that ignored personal relationships at the heart of publishing.
Jacob called one evening in late September, 2 months after we’d launched. “They know what you’re doing,” he said without preamble.
“Veronica’s furious.” “She’s talking about legal action.”
“We haven’t violated any agreements,” I replied calmly. “That won’t stop her from trying.”
He paused then added: “There’s a board meeting tomorrow.” “Quarterly results, it’s going to be ugly.”
“That’s not my concern anymore Jacob.” “I know but…” he hesitated.
“I thought you should know.” “And I wanted to ask, is there room for one more at your new venture?”
“I’ve reached my breaking point here.” I smiled to myself.
Everything was proceeding exactly as I’d anticipated. Not because I was seeking revenge, but because I understood the industry in a way Veronica never would.
“Come by the office tomorrow,” I told him. “We’ll talk.”
The quarterly earnings call in October told the story. “Numbers never lie about.”
Oaken Light Publishing reported a 45% drop in revenue compared to the same quarter the previous year. Their stock dropped 17% in a single day.
I didn’t listen to the call myself. I was in a strategy meeting with 15 consortium members planning our collective approach to the upcoming industry conference in Chicago.
But Thomas texted me the highlights. Veronica was blaming market disruption and transitional challenges.
No mention of the elephant in the room that their biggest clients jumped ship. Later that afternoon my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize.
“Is this Garrett Walsh?” a woman’s voice asked. “This is Patricia Harrington from the Oaken Light Board of Directors.”
Her tone was clipped and formal. “I’m calling to inform you that we’ve voted to waive your non-compete agreement effective immediately.”
“We’ve also authorized our legal team to prepare a cease and desist regarding what we consider to interference with our client relationships.” I waited letting the silence stretch.
“Do you have any response Mr Walsh?” “Just one question,” I said finally.
“Have you spoken with your clients directly?” “Not through account managers or satisfaction surveys?”
“Actually sat down with Thomas Franklin or Eleanor Jenkins and asked why they left?” “That’s not relevant to it’s—”
“It’s the only thing that’s relevant,” I interrupted. “They didn’t leave because I started something new.”
“They left because Oaken Light stopped valuing what mattered to them.” “The board meeting is still in session,” she said after a moment.
“Perhaps you’d care to join us and explain your perspective directly?” “I appreciate the invitation but I’m in the middle of my own meeting.”
“With 15 publishers who’ve chosen a different path.” She was silent for so long I thought the call had dropped.
“I see,” she said finally and hung up. The cease and desist never arrived.
3 days later the business section of the Indianapolis Star ran a headline. “Oaken Light CEO steps down amid financial turbulence.”
6 months after starting the Walsh Publishing Consortium we moved into permanent offices in Fountain Square. We had 23 member publishers now with a waiting list of others wanting to join.
We’d expanded beyond Indiana to include small and midsized publishers throughout the Midwest. The industry had taken notice.
We’d been featured in Publishers Weekly and the New York Times business section. “The relationship revolution in publishing,” one headline called it.
I hadn’t set out to create a movement, just to preserve what I knew worked. But sometimes the old ways become revolutionary again when people remember why they mattered.
Harold Blackwood called on a Tuesday morning. Oaken Light had a new CEO now, promoted from within, someone who’d been with the company for decades.
“We’d like to discuss the possibility of Oaken Light joining your consortium,” he said. No preamble.
I smiled to myself. “That’s not how it works Harold.”
“We’re not acquiring members of your size.” “Perhaps a partnership arrangement then?”
“I’ll bring it to our leadership council,” I told him, though I already knew what the answer would be. The publishers who joined us had done so precisely to escape the corporate approach Oaken Light represented.
After hanging up I walked through our open office space. No executive suite for me, just a desk among the others where I could be part of daily conversations.
Jacob looked up from his workstation. “Everything okay?”
“Just fine,” I nodded. “Oaken Light wants to join the consortium.”
He laughed. “Talk about coming full circle.”
Later that afternoon I drove to Eagle Creek Park and sat by the water. This was the same spot where I used to come and think when problems at Oaken Light seemed overwhelming.
But today there were no problems to solve. Just a quiet satisfaction in knowing that what I’d built would last.
It lasted not because it was revolutionary, but because it was built on something that never really changes. This was people trusting people who’ve earned it.
Sometimes getting fired is the best thing that can happen to you. Not because it leads to revenge, but because it forces you to build something more authentic than what you left behind.
