My former boss—one of the idolized leaders in the field, and in many other respects considered one of the good guys—once gave a speech to the National Venture Capital Association in which he described his ideal tech founders as “white, male, nerds who’ve dropped out of Harvard or Stanford—and they absolutely have no social life.”

[...] Spending time with open, optimistic people reminded me that it might be possible to fix some of what was broken in our country - particularly the deep divisions between the rich and poor and between those at the center at those at the margins. I felt renewed and excited. I remembered why I loved tech. When I got home I felt, more than ever, committed to making a difference through my work.

It was almost as if someone had copied my resume verbatim. It was so specific and unconventional, and it matched my unusual background entirely. It was nice to see the choices I made validated in that one job spec - even if my decisions had been more opportunistic than strategic. [...]

AS SILICON VALLEY denizens know but others might not: Venture capital is the cash engine that fuels the tech industry. Venture capital firms raise money from rich individuals, wealthy families, universities, foundations, pension funds, funds-of-funds, government investment arms, and others. The money goes into a fund, which usually lasts three to five years. They invest that money in startups. Different VC firms invest in different stages, which range from angel to seed money to Series A to B to C rounds of cash, and so on. Angels invest the first money that a founder raises, often before there is even a team.

Following the money can be confusing. For their work and investment, most VC firms take an annual management fee of around 2.5 percent of the fund for ten years, paid by their investors. They also take what’s called “carry,” Following the money can be confusing. For their work and investment, most VC firms take an annual management fee of around 2.5 percent of the fund for ten years, paid by their investors. They also take what’s called “carry,” or carried interest, usually 20 to 30 percent of any gains. If you have a $1 billion fund—which is smaller than Kleiner’s was when I left—that charges fees at the top end, $250 million of that goes straight to the partners just for management fees. Bam, they get $250 million over ten years. Then if, say, you triple that money in ten years, the partners would get another $600 million as carry from their share of the gains. The bigger the company’s numbers get, the more ridiculous the profit for the venture capital firm.

John, my boss, was king of kingmakers when I joined. He had some early, very big hits: Genentech, Intuit, Amazon. He was one of the first to invest in the internet, with Netscape, and cemented his online reputation later with Google. Several companies already had competing search engines, but John saw Google’s potential to transform the internet. He brought in Eric Schmidt as CEO, making Eric a tech king and a multibillionaire. John viewed things from a different lens, one that showed him something special in these companies. He figured out ways to push them through the system, by using his relationships, raising more funding, and helping them sell. He contributed to making many other people into billionaires, including himself several times over.

The train took forever. I couldn’t wait to get to the hotel to shower. At last, we were off the train and walking to the hotel. Hotel shower, here I come, I thought.

During our courtship, I was traveling to China for Kleiner all the time. So we could spend time together, Buddy joined me. We were so in love. One night after dinner, just six weeks after we’d met, he took me to the roof of the Four Seasons Hotel in Shanghai. A band was playing Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.” How funny, I thought. That’s one of our favorite songs. And then Buddy was getting down on one knee and opening a ring box.

I knew early in my venture capital career that I might not have what it took to be a billionaire. Around me, the two managing partners who already had billions were still working their asses off, selling, selling, selling. If I ever got to a hundred million dollars, I thought, I would switch focus to raising a family, starting a philanthropic organization, and enjoying the rest of my life. But these managing partners were always competing for more—more board seats, more houses, more land, and, always, more jets. They were driven and had huge personalities. I couldn’t imagine fighting it out like that year after year. To me, the venture capital workplace had started to knew early in my venture capital career that I might not have what it took to be a billionaire. Around me, the two managing partners who already had billions were still working their asses off, selling, selling, selling. If I ever got to a hundred million dollars, I thought, I would switch focus to raising a family, starting a philanthropic organization, and enjoying the rest of my life. But these managing partners were always competing for more—more board seats, more houses, more land, and, always, more jets. They were driven and had huge personalities. I couldn’t imagine fighting it out like that year after year. To me, the venture capital workplace had started to feel like one giant Whack-a-Mole game. Every time I felt like I’d cleared the board, a new problem would pop up. Then another, then another.

I often felt like the partners were out for themelves; certainly they weren’t rooting for me. One of the less supportive Kleiner managing partners was Ted Schlein. People would say, “Here comes Ted!” well in advance of his arrival as he stormed across the building. All stomping and furrowed brows, he always seemed grouchy, but he actually was a pretty happy guy, and unlike a lot of men in his position, he didn’t seem vain. That showed up most clearly in his socks. The guy was worth hundreds of millions of dollars, but the part sticking up just above the back of his heel was always worn to a sheer transparency, one step away from being a giant hole. The son of a well-known CEO-turned-venture-capitalist, Ted was destined to be a VC, though he never seemed to work particularly hard at it.

Ted didn’t value any of the policy work I did—I had helped get John credit for passing AB 32, the California carbon tax law, by bringing entrepreneurs to Sacramento to talk job creation with legislators. (The fact that John had flown one of his private jets to Sacramento instead of driving 116 miles horrified the entrepreneurs, who had carpooled in a modified Prius that got a hundred miles to the gallon. To avoid that embarrassment, when John later flew to D.C. to testify in the Senate about climate policy, he took his private jet to St. Louis, hopped a short commercial flight to Ted didn’t value any of the policy work I did—I had helped get John credit for passing AB 32, the California carbon tax law, by bringing entrepreneurs to Sacramento to talk job creation with legislators. (The fact that John had flown one of his private jets to Sacramento instead of driving 116 miles horrified the entrepreneurs, who had carpooled in a modified Prius that got a hundred miles to the gallon. To avoid that embarrassment, when John later flew to D.C. to testify in the Senate about climate policy, he took his private jet to St. Louis, hopped a short commercial flight to D.C., then had his jet fly out to meet him in D.C. to bring him back to California.)