Everyone wants their ideas to spread. This is what marketing is all about. What is often neglected, however, is that you have to have an idea first. Everyone’s trying to sell “design” or “copywriting” or “coaching” or “services”—God forbid—but these things are merely categories, not concepts. What do you believe? Package THAT. *You were waiting for a dick je, weren’t you.
So often, we make choices based on “what feels right for us.” To most people, that sounds like sage advice. You’re “being true to yourself,” after all. What we don’t consider, however, are the limitations. If you’re constantly making decisions based on who you are in this very moment, you don’t leave any room for who you want to become—or who you need to. Sometimes, you’ve got to do what DOESN’T feel right. Sometimes, you’ve got to say “fuck it”
You ever walk through the first-class section of an airplane and think, “Who are these fucks?” I’ll tell you who they are: The people that make up to 50% of an air’s revenue. Fifty percent! Which is striking since, you know, there are, like, five seats up there, compared to the bajillion the rest of us low-lifes sit in. But isn’t that telling? An air makes 50% of its revenue from 20% or less of its seats—which is precisely why
The other day someone to note of my new daily blog post. “You’re launching something big,” they said. “No,” I replied. “I’m just a writer.” We’ve gotten so used to there always being an ulterior motive, that we’re suspicious when there isn’t one. Do the thing you’re called to do, especially when you have no motive.
Things aren’t always what they seem. An e list full of 100,000 people is meaningless if only 100 of those people open the es. Similarly, an e list of 100 people, with 100 of those people opening them, does mean something. Who is successful? And who is doing something that actually matters?
The other day my project manager and I were talking about a project I really wanted to work on. Doing so, however, would require me to show up every single week at the same time. “Are you sure you want to commit to that?” she said, hesitantly. “Think freedom.” I didn’t even have to consider my response. “Giving myself a schedule is the only way I am free,” I said. “It means that the rest of my time is really
“Let’s hop on a call” strikes VAMPIRE-LIKE-TERROR into the heart of new business owners and experienced ones alike. When I to a survey asking why, here were some of the answers: Just puhleezze buy it…don’t make me ask!! The first 10 seconds are so awkward! I hate small talk but never know how to start the conversation right. I want to sound like a girl with brains and someone to be reckoned with—but I have no idea how. I hate
I have a theory about money, and it goes like this: If you were selling hot dogs at a hot dog stand, and some guy walked up and asked you how much a hot dog cost, would you hem and haw and say to the guy: “Uh, well, let me see…usssssuually I charge between one dollar and three dollars-ish—yeah, that’s right—but since this is your first time buying a hot dog from me, I’m happy to work with you on
Think about what makes for a great bribe. If you swing by the makeup counter at Nordstrom’s and the sales associate tells you that if you spend $100, she’s going to—drum roll—“give you something special,” that makes for a terrible bribe, because “something special” could be a used Q-Tip, for all we know, and if we don’t know what it is, we can’t want it. Similarly, if you found yourself face-to-face with a dirty cop in rural Nevada, you probably
It is a tragedy, to spend so many hours working, and have none of them matter to you. Why would we ever do this? Why wouldn’t we do something we care about, fiercely? Maybe we just aren’t sure what that is. Maybe that’s the real problem.
What if I told you I was giving you your very own daily column, where you could write about anything you wanted? What if I told you I was giving you your own TV show, where you’d be the star? What if I told you I was putting you on the radio, where you could talk about the things that mattered to you every week? And what if I told you that we were going to do fancy photo shoots,
“Why don’t you tell me what you think would be appropriate?” Useful language for handling complex situations like: A customer is unsatisfied. An employee is complaining. A friend is upset. Your sister is angry you don’t see her enough. A gorgeous Italian man is holding a very serious grudge because you denied his advances as you pranced into the sunset before you realized you were very, very stupid, and now you’re begging his forgiveness. (Torturous, I am sure.) Most of
Checking into a hotel can be a nightmare. Long s. Tourists in hiking shoes. That bald guy pounding a beer. (At least, this was the scholarly scene I witnessed yesterday.) (Just kidding, I rooted him on.)But hotels are reticent to replace humans with technology, because they fear they’ll be sacrificing “the personal touch.” Do you know how many times I arrive to a hotel and wish I could just swipe my passport at a kiosk, like I do at the airport,
Mediocre questions for figuring out what you should do with your life: What type of industry should I go into? Which career path should I pursue? What kind of job should I get? What kind of business should I start? What services should I offer? How should I price this? What do I write? How do I do it? HOW CAN I BECOME A RICH, SKINNY BITCH WHO LOOKS FLAWLESS ON INSTAGRAM AND EATS CHILDREN FOR BREAKFAST? A better one: What
Yesterday I talked about change—and it’s no coincidence. I’m making some big changes myself, given that a lot of things are coming to an end, right now. Because iteration is what we’re all doing, every single day, even if it blows by us going 100mph down the freeway. (In a red Ferrari, sming a cigar, with a license plate that reads: TOOFAST4U.) We iterate as we breathe; we iterate every time we exercise; we iterate every time we learn something
Change is fucking messy. You’re effectively molding yourself, and re-molding yourself, the way a sculptor would a piece of clay. And yet, nobody says to the sculptor: Shame on you, butter fingers, for not having it perfect the first spin. Rather, there’s an expectation of process. Of trial, of error, of slow transformation; of forming, fashioning, shaping and smoothing. Nevertheless, we—masochistically enough—don’t allow ourselves the same courtesy. We expect flawless perfection, right out of the box. We beat ourselves up
Not being able to easily define what you do isn’t necessarily bad.Easily definable things are things that have been done so much, we know exactly how to categorize them. Name them. Label them. Sort them. So if what you want to create is just another X, then great. You’ll be able to define it with ease. But if you’re having trouble calling a spade a spade, maybe that’s because you don’t have a spade. And maybe that’s a good thing.
You forgive yourself, over and over and over again. You build little glass cases around your emotions, one by one. You don’t always like feeling sectioned off—but you forgive yourself for that, too. You are fragile now. You learn how to be fragile. Fragile means you need to play by different rules, for a while. “No” becomes your religion. Solitude becomes your faith. Your entire life pulls backward, like a tightened bow and arrow, going backwards, backwards, backwards, backwards,
So the other day, it happened. There was one person stubborn enough to finally coerce me into doing the one thing I’d promised I’d never do. I’d hedged for many painful weeks. (Okay, fine, months.) I’d squirmed and I’d squithered (new favorite word) and I’d writhed and I’d wriggled. And yet, she kept asking. “Today at 5:30!” “Are you coming today?” “A little birdy told me today is the dayyyyyy.” And every time I’d try really hard to talk
You know what’s the absolute worst? Waiting in at the doctor’s office. There’s a lot of anxiety around that, am I right? Nobody likes waiting at the doctor’s office because we all secretly think that the doctor’s just sitting behind a closed door somewhere, doing wheelies in an office chair, watching the minutes churn past with glee as they browse the latest in cutting edge gardening techniques while the rest of us waste away huddled together in
CONFESSION: I’m about to share something and be a bad, bad girl. Okay, fine, I’m not really a bad girl (it’s only Thursday, after all) but I am about to share an excerpt from the column that I write exclusively for my Unf*ckwithable Girlfriends, because I THINK THIS TOPIC IS THAT IMPORTANT. Here was the question that was sent in: I am about to embark on giving my first set of free 20-minute coaching calls (with no sales pitch)
I’ve been writing a bo for nearly two years now, which sounds absolutely homicidal when I say it out loud. I mean, let’s be honest: most of my romantic relationships haven’t even lasted that long. (OKAY FINE, UNTIL NOW, BECAUSE THE LOS AND I ARE ON, LIKE, YEAR #BAZILLION.) I’ve learned a lot about commitment, these last two years, which means I’ve also learned a lot about myself. (For example, apparently I know jack shit about hyphens. Who knew?) But
Hi! You are going to think I’m positively off my rocker, but I made you a video containing my very own top five makeup tips for NOT loing like a soiled sloth while working from home. Because WORKING FROM HOME IS HARD AND WE NEED ALL THE HELP WE CAN GET. (Also, because last week one of our Unf*ckwithable Girlfriends—a fabulous photographer named Heidi—rocked a Live for all of us on how to lo hot for the camera, and
Want to start a blog? Read Part I of this series first! So this morning when I was sitting here loing like an absolute homeless person, I was doing what I do every morning: tiptoeing into my brain and and dragging memories out with a sledgehammer, AKA WRITING. I do this every morning for no less than three hours, but very often five or six, because once I get going, it’s like prying a teenager away from a Playstation. (Seriously,
I GIVE UP: WHERE IS EVERYBODY?! In 2009 I started this blog and I remember thinking that pretty soon EVERYONE was going to be doing it—My friends! My rs! My former teachers! That neighbor with the soupy ass! (sweatpants can be evil)—and the gig was going to be up, because I HAD DISCOVERED THE SECRET TO ALL THE THINGS (not to mention making my first $103,000 that year—which, trust me, was a f*ck ton back then). I remember thinking:
Can we talk about the fact that today is February 2nd? How is it February the 2nd already? Am I eighty hundred years old yet? Because time seems not to be going my way. (Though a friend did recently compliment me on my skin, however that was only because she didn’t see my neck. Is this the decade in which we slowly descend upon a dysfunctional, passive-aggressive relationship with turtlenecks?) Speaking of time, you ever notice that when you’re away
For many people the election was a shock—but for me, it was a betrayal. There were things I thought I knew. I thought I knew, for example, that the smartest kid in my high school class—the one with the lightning fast wit and the ability to crush a calculus equation, who even held the title of “boyfriend” our junior year—would surely be voting the way I was. He was not. I thought I knew, for example, that the respectable,