Journey Toward Enlightenment If you’re a fan of magical realism like I am, you will enjoy reading this mystical story. A quick read with plenty of drama kept me engaged. It’s a story filled with equal parts regret and redemption. It always feels good when a narcissist jerk gets a taste of his own medicine, and feels even better when this self-absorbed deplorable gets a chance to be a better man. Will he accept this new choice? I’ll never tell. Ask the genie. Do yourself a favor and read this well-written story and find out if there is hope for “this day and every day forward.” –Ingrid Hart
A modern adaptation of A Christmas Carol, A MARRIAGE FABLE is a novella, another tall tale of the powerful genie Finnegus Boggs, and his lessons on love that inspires Andrew Wyman, a typical modern-day husband nearing his 25th wedding anniversary, to become a better man.
“A Marriage Fable does for Valentine’s Day what A Christmas Carol did for Christmas Day. A Must Read romantic fantasy!” –BJ Fera, Goodreads
My second job out of college I was the Art Director for 1928 Jewelry Co. The company is still alive and vital today, quite a monument to startup lore. My boss, Fred Burglass, was the best boss I’ve ever had. Funny. Kind. Patient. Smart. I really loved that man. He was like a father to me, taught me many things about marketing, business, and people. Yet I still struggle to adhere to possibly his greatest lesson.
I’d been working there over a year and had neglected to attend any of the executive parties the company threw in their beach house in Malibu. Fred called me into his office one afternoon and insisted I come to the upcoming holiday party, as it was part of my job to schmooze with our current and potential new buyers, and my executive co-workers.
The Friday night before the Saturday party I called my assistant into my office. She’d wanted to go to the party, so I suggested she pretend that she’d come with me. I asked her if anyone was looking for me there, like our boss, Fred, to tell them she just saw me on the beach, or on the deck, or downstairs talking with the Macy’s buyer. I thought I was being clever, outsmarting Fred by telling him I’d be there, and then setting up my assistant to lie for me so he’d never know I wasn’t. The Malibu property was an estate home and easy to get lost in. My assistant was charming and smart and would have no problem pulling it off.
Monday morning Fred called me in his office. I know you weren’t there on Saturday night, he began. But the truth is, you’re just screwing yourself. You want to build your career, maybe your own company down the line, or even write novels full time? Business success, in whatever you choose to do, requires networking, he assured me.
Sadly, I’d pretty much tuned him out. Network. Network. Network. Building relationships is the only way you’ll propel your career forward, Fred consistently preached, so I’d heard all this before.
Problem was, I’ve always been a recluse. An artist by nature and trade, I likely landed in the arts because I have a hard time being with people. I suck at small talk. And I’ve learned getting too personal with questions or opinions is a fast way to shut down dialog. It’s exhausting walking the line of popular decorum, putting on that public face and pretending I believe the guy, or am even interested in how successful he thinks his startup is going to be when he doesn’t even know the SaaS he’s built is already being done by someone else. Ever hear of Competitive Analysis? I want to ask him, but don’t. I used to, but it wasn’t received well.
I give myself all kinds of excuses for not networking. I’m just not good with people. I’m better at creating than chatting. I’m an empath—get too much input around people so I need to limit my contact. But I know it’s all bullshit. You are a brilliant creator, Fred used to tell me. But no one will know that if you don’t meet the right people who recognize your talent and connect you with others to help you exploit it. You must network!
He was right, of course. Digital advertising—Facebook to Google to TikTok—has a very low ROI, generally between .05 – 1.5%. Print is usually higher, but not by a lot, assuming the targeting and messaging are equally tight. Building relationships in-person or online can yield far greater ROI, if done right. Amazon built an empire on exceptional customer service, eliminating the risk of online purchasing by making returns easy, garnering staunch brand advocates. Shark Tank candidates aren’t on the show just for VC money. They’re there for Lori Greiner’s connection to the shopping channel, QVC. The tech entrepreneurs want Mark Cuban’s contacts in the Silicon Valley community.
While networking ROI may seem harder to quantify than digital ads or even direct mail, consistently talking with people in your industry [and related industries] at meetups, SIG meetings, trade shows, webinars, conferences, biz and tech talks, and even office parties, over time will yield better ROI—broader brand recognition and more sales—than any other form of marketing/advertising.
Starting a startup, or finding a job or getting clients, the more you network with your industry and target markets, the greater your odds of building a thriving business. After all, it’s not what you know, but who you know that will help you pave your path to success.
The other day I was running my usual route and a woman pulled her car out of a business park driveway and blocked my path. The instant she saw me approaching she pulled her car back, allowing me room to continue running on the sidewalk instead of into the street to get around her. I smiled. Waved thanks as I passed in front of her car. She smiled and waved back. Felt nice, made the rest of my run less jarring, lighter somehow. Simple really, but oh, what a simple little kindness can do…
Most every day someone does something kind; lets us into their lane on the highway; opens a door, holds an elevator; Likes our update or post; simple acts of kindness that personify our potential for goodness. And while this may seem small on the surface, the residual effects of these displays of caring build trust, connecting us to each other, reminding us we are not invisible but valued, and giving us hope in our humanity.
We hear about the bad all the time. We hear about the good, too, but on the large scale, like doctors going to Nepal after the quake, or philanthropic superstars and their latest causes. But it’s really the little acts of kindness that unite us, everyday simple actions that show we care for one another, and the world we inhabit, that build a solid foundation for our race to thrive.
What simple act of caring did you give or receive today?
Please SHARE the act of kindness here in comments, and exchange a little hope…
Am I two inches from the floor I can’t see, or the next step is a 200 ft drop?
Been fighting myself over this since I started writing fiction. I face this battle every damn day I sit in front of my laptop, the cursor blinking at me, waiting patiently for me to decide if I should quit fine writing today, and go back to writing copy, because unlike continuing to write fiction, a ‘real’ job will get my kids through college.
Then the voice of Fantasy taunts: “It is possible if you keep writing and marketing your fiction that you’ll get well known enough to make a living as a fine writer… I could be an inch from the ground right now… it’s possible…”
This voice is evil. A demon. The idiot in my head that keeps me fine writing. People who’ve read me, and contacted me with praise, they too encourage my stupidity, bolster my Fantasy voice that spurs me on to continue writing fiction, even though I don’t make any real money at it, and likely never will. The more I’m purchased, or even just read online, the more I’m ripped off. Hundreds of affiliate marketing sites pop up when searching my name now, offering downloadable PDFs of my work. Free.
I dream of making fine writing my sole focus, market only my books, and quit taking on marketing gigs. But I don’t. The smarter part of me knows that focusing my creative energy fine writing puts me precariously on the precipice of that 200 ft drop in income.
I write to be read. So, not making an income, as long as I’m read, which I am more and more, wouldn’t really bother me, except I need money.
My Fantasy demon goes to war with my voice of Reason daily. The battle goes something like this:
What needs to get done today?
Well, you should get the, (fill in current project), stuff started/done.
Or, you could write The Power Trip.
Hmm…
Fantasy is so much better than reality. It’s why I write—to escape here, into a world that’s never boring, tedious, tiring, like the real one is so often.
I’m told by selling authors that I should pick a genre and write religiously to that genre to market myself more effectively. In fact, series are even better. I must write series. Romantic detective series, or dystopian fantasies with a strong female lead, as women empowerment is all the rage for the foreseeable future. Over the last 10 years I’ve been writing to publish, I’ve watched genre and series writers become known using the Freemium marketing model. Give away the first in the series and charge for the next book, and then spend the next ten years writing the same basic tale with the same cast of characters over and over.
Shoot me now if being a successful writer means traveling the Freemium series road. Fiction should evoke feelings, thinking, create new ideas (like H.G. Wells, whose words have been actualized into today’s tech). How can an author hope to achieve this, focused on production writing for sales, instead of substantive content? I want to read about complex characters in the first book, learn about them, from them, and about myself. I don’t want to read characterizations where actual people never emerge from the repetitive story line.
My Twitter profile says: Novelist. Essayist. Realist. Idealist. A recent follower inquired how I am both a realist and idealist simultaneously. “Doesn’t that make you, well, like crazy?”
It’s true. I’m crazy. I get it. And it’s also true that between Fantasy and Reality is the Grand fucking Canyon. The problem is, I can’t seem to get off the wire of Hope that bridges them.
Einstein did not believe in God, as many [mistakenly] claim.
Albert Einstein said, “My position concerning God is that of an agnostic.” He clarified with, “The word God is, for me, nothing more than the expression and product of human weaknesses, the Bible a collection of honorable, but still primitive legends. No interpretation no matter how subtle can (for me) change this.”
Atheist don’t believe in God either. Not any god/s. Ever. Unlike Agnostics, open to the possibility of a ‘higher power,’ or ‘collective, sentient being,’ Einstein believed in neither. Agnostic is politically correct, less threatening, especially during his time, born a Jew, and existing on federal and university funding.
I am an Atheist. I do not recognize the Old/New Testament, and related works illuminating the adventures of a divine being as anything more than fiction—parables by some wise, some ignorant, but guaranteed partisan male scribes with an agenda to dominate and control human behavior. (The defense that organized religion was necessary to reign us in when we were small warring tribes has been [and still is] proselytized by every power-hungry, self-proclaimed ‘person-of-god’ out there.)
So when I need money, [as an Atheist] why don’t I go rob someone. Or shoplift?
When I’m attracted to my neighbor’s husband, why don’t I hit on him, get intimate if he’s into it?
When I get pissed off at the driver on their cellphone that just cut me off, why don’t I just shoot her?
Snatch & Run, even drive-by’s these days, and the odds of getting caught for these crimes is somewhat nominal if I’m discreet. Fear of being busted is not the main motivation that prevents me from committing these, and ‘lesser’ crimes like lying, cheating and behaviors that most others would agree, religious or not, are moral infractions.
If I believe I answer to no higher power, where do I get my morality?
Einstein said, “We have to content ourselves with our imperfect knowledge and understanding and treat values and moral obligations as a purely human problem—the most important of all human problems.”
Believer or not, what are your ‘Moral Obligations?’
Mine, as an Atheist and a Human being, is to support our continued evolution. Part of my Moral Obligation is to reproduce, and extend the magnificent, wondrous, glorious feelings of being alive to someone else, as it has been gifted to me. In keeping with this particular Moral Obligation, bringing kids into the world comes with more Moral Obligations. Reproducing requires me to care for my progeny above myself, especially through childhood, teach them things I’ve learned so far, and to lay a foundation of trust, respect and love that my parents neglected to give to me. But my moral obligations extend far beyond having kids.
I am born owing Humanity that came before me, and everything on this planet that supports us.
We all are. Global warming, climate change, believe in them or not, what is your Moral Obligation to creating a more sustainable future for everything here? It may seem we have little control over our environment, but we have more than we think, or at least are practicing. My M.O. is to do better at preserving life, and the earth itself from our crap—our toxic emissions, our trash, our fecal waste, killing forests for toilet paper, over-farming, over-fishing, fracking, and the list goes on and on.
Another M.O. I follow is to THINK, a lot, about most anything and everything. Research, question, and learn are all important M.O.s. So, I research how I, as just one person, can fulfill my Moral Obligation to care for our planet better and came up with a lot of ways:
Use LED or CFL lightbulbs
Stop eating beef
Stop eating fish unless it is sustainably caught
Drive a fuel-efficient vehicle
Recycle
Use recycled products
Sure, I can use the excuse that as only one person doing any of these things won’t matter to the big picture. But I’d be denying one of my Moral Obligations to do better at preserving life here. Praying for better weather won’t change anything. I must actualize the action items in the list above to do my minuscule part in insuring life here continues long after my time, and that my children’s children’s children evolve to more fully embrace our spectacular creativity, our ingenuity, our capacity for kindness and our amazing ability to share love.
“…treat values and moral obligations as a purely human problem,” Einstein said. In other words, morality is determined by human beings, not handed down from on-high by some obscure being requiring blind obedience invented by men looking to control the ignorant masses.
Religious or Atheist, we all must recognize and actualize our Moral Obligations to each other and this planet for humanity to survive, and thrive.
—
Cited Notable Facts:
Murder rates are lower in more secular nations and higher in more religious countries where belief in God is deep and widespread. (Jensen 2006; Paul 2005; Fajnzylber et al. 2002; Fox and Levin 2000)
Within U.S., the states with the highest murder rates tend to be highly religious, such as Louisiana and Alabama, but the states with the lowest murder rates tend to be among the least religious in the country, such as Vermont and Oregon. (Ellison et al. 2003; Death Penalty Information Center, 2008)
Rates of most violent crimes tend to be lower in the less religious states and higher in the most religious states. (United States Census Bureau, 2006)
The top 50 safest cities in the world, nearly all are in relatively non-religious countries, and of the eight cities within the United States that make the safest-city list, nearly all are located in the least religious regions of the country. (Mercer Survey, 2008)
Domestic terrorists of the American far right are driven by zeal for heretical distortions of Christian theology. (Paul de Armond, DOJ, 1999) Christian nationalism [is] a serious and growing threat to our democracy. (Robert P. Jones, TIME Magazine, 2022)
Pick any famous author, artist, musician, and they’ll all have obsession in common. And while we, the public, enjoy the fruits of their creative labor, those closest to these individuals were/are generally left wanting more of them, more from them.
Adrienne Armstrong, wife of Billy Joe Armstrong of Greenday, said of her husband after the release of the album American Idiot, “I think it challenged us to a new level, pushed us pretty far, the farthest I ever want to go.”
The creatives above are all men. All married and all had/have children.
Georgia O’Keeffe, the surrealist painter, “wanted to have children but agreed with him [her husband, Alfred Steiglitz] that motherhood was incompatible with her art. She needed to focus all of her attention on her painting.”
Oprah Winfrey, the media mogul has never married. “The very idea of what it means to be a wife and the responsibility and sacrifice that carries — I wouldn’t have held that very well.” And she never had children. “If I had kids, my kids would hate me. They would have ended up on the equivalent of the “Oprah” show talking about me; because something [in my life] would have had to suffer and it would’ve probably been them.”
Ms. Winfrey had the guts to address the unvarnished, unspoken truth when she referred to the “responsibility and sacrifice,” in being a partner. She understood the investment of time, physical and mental energy it takes to be a conscientious parent would have interfered, even waylaid immersion with her creative siren to grow a multi-billion dollar empire.
Men have historically been the breadwinners in the family environment. And while this trend is slowly changing, the fact is women who seek personal excellence, especially in the arts, often have to choose between pursuing greatness and being, at least, an available partner and parent. Even today, men rarely have to make this choice. Regardless of this disparity, anyone, man or woman, obsessed with becoming great [at anything] should recognize the sacrifice and costs of pursuing brilliance.
As a wife, mother, and a writer, my creative muse is constantly vying for prominence in my hierarchy of desires. When my kids were babies, my creative process encountered fewer distractions. I could stay rapt in storytelling, run dialog in my head while watching them play at the park or practice Lil’ Kicker’s soccer. Small kids, small problems. Now the parent of two teens, my muse is often drowned out by the very real traumas and trials of adulthood my children face every day. To help them navigate these tumultuous times, I question, probe, even invade their space to stay connected, be there for them as a sounding board, a trusted confidant, be their ground when they’re falling and envelop them in a hug.
I chose to marry and have kids. And while I was present, available for my family, forfeiting the hours I couldhave been making it with my muse was a battle I engaged in daily. Much of my fiction focuses on this internal war. My novel, Reverb, illustrates the cost of a guitarist’s obsession with creating music. Disconnected confronts the reality that women can’t ‘have it all’—be everything we want to be, and still be there for our kids and family.
We glorify the brilliant author, the renown artist, the genius scientist, successes in business, often secretly wish to be one of them. Entrepreneurs that have built global companies made their startup their newborn, investing their time and energy in growing the business. To become great at anything means obsessively working at that job or craft, honing a skill set with relentless practice, which is the fundamental reason why genius is so rarely achieved.
Google “Genius,” and “Einstein” is in the first several pages of search returns. Einstein had intellectually incoherent views on politics, economics, and psychology, and by most accounts from colleagues and family, he sucked at relationships. Focusing solely on math and physics, he neglected most everything else, but he was one hell of a physicist.
Regardless of where we began, obsessive practice, to the exclusion of most everything else is a reliable indicator of achieving genius status. And now that my kids are grown and on their own, I have more time to make it with my muse, and I do. But truth be told, while years ago it mattered to me to be someone, achieve ‘famous writer’ status, or at least a Wiki page, not so much anymore. I’d never have been an art director, or an entrepreneurship educator, or cultivated the intimate relationships I now have, or earned the status of partner and Mom if I’d chosen the road of pursuing the genius title. I’d miss too much living such a hyper-focused life. Besides, it’s much easier to hang at home and watch Netflix than it is to pursue greatness. {- ;
I’ll never forget the first time I saw the world wide web. It was 1995. I was in my rented townhome in Alameda, a small island on the east bank of the San Francisco Bay. I already had a dial-up modem plugged into my Mac LC that I used to send graphic files to lithographers and printers through FTP (File Transfer Protocol).
I don’t know where I heard about Netscape, probably from a business associate. But I remember the afternoon I logged on for the first time. The interface was full color visual, the first I’d seen, since FTP was only black text on a white screen and no images. The Netscape logo— the uppercase N sinking into a black globe against a starry aquamarine sky, was… beautiful.
Once I registered, the next screen had bright, colorful illustrations of a spacecraft, a construction site, a radio tower and more. Under each drawing white text against the black frames said, “Explore the Net. Company and Products. News and Reference. Community.” I was floored, drop-jawed. The interface gave me choices to go anywhere. Netscape was a portal to news sites, businesses with ‘websites,’ online communities, a virtual store, and reference libraries from around the world.
I called my roommate into my bedroom/office space to show her what I was seeing on my screen. “This changes everything,” I practically whispered, sure that this portal was the beginning of a connected world I only dreamt of as a kid.
As I sat there clicking on each navigation link, then exploring each site the Netscape browser delivered, I recalled when I was 8 years old, sitting in the back seat of my mother’s huge Chevy while she drove me and my sister home from school.
“One wish,” my mom asked us spontaneously. “One wish. Right now. If you could have anything you want, what would it be?” She often came up with non-sequiturs like this to fill the void of silence after she’d asked about our day at school and got, “Fine,” from both of us.
I answered instantly. “World peace,” and I meant it. My brother had come back from Vietnam a wreck. Depressed. Angry. I’d watched war on TV nightly.
“That’s a stupid wish,” my sister said, sitting up front in the passenger seat. I cowered in the back seat, and shut up. “It’ll never happen. Human’s are selfish. It’s part of our nature. We can’t change who we are.” She was 2 yrs older than me. Surely, she must be right. She wished for a new purse.
“This changes everything,” I’d said to my roommate as I browsed the internet that first time. And I believed it. A portal to the world would let us see how others lived, and let others see what was possible. In 1960s to 1990s U.S., most of us had a place to live in, and enough to eat every day. Most kids were vaccinated from horrific diseases, and didn’t die from the flu. We got a free education, through at least high school, and 20–30% of the population got a college education as well. And in California, college was cheap, making it accessible to most anyone.
My roommate stood over my shoulder staring at my screen as I went from site to site through Netscape’s ‘portal.’ She seemed unmoved by what we were seeing, and in short order went back to her room. I stayed online the rest of the night and into the early morning hours, amazed. I perused news sites, read articles from all over the world. We could never ignore atrocities happening anywhere. Millions would know instantly, and the United Nations would have to stop them! The privileged would no longer be able to turn a blind eye on poverty or disease, even in the most remote places seeing it daily on their computers. We could talk to people around the block or in other countries we’d never meet, and share ideas, and feelings. We’d see how similar we all are, how we all feel sad, or happy, or mad at times. We could connect 24/7, and never feel isolated or lonely again. The internet was a window to the world, and the view would surely motivate all of us to care for each other like never before.
This is the argument I gave to my dad at Saul’s Deli, eating bagels and lox a few years later. As a lover of technology since childhood, he too was on the internet, one of the first adopters in his advanced age group. He shook his head and gave me his indulgent smile, pausing before taking another bite of his bagel.
“The internet changes nothing. It is a tool, like a screwdriver. It won’t change human nature. And it won’t save us,” he said. “We’re going to have to do that. Until we learn to care for each other beyond ourselves, we are doomed.” He took a bite of his bagel and savored the mix of salmon, onions and bread, satisfied in the moment.
“You’re wrong, dad,” I exclaimed with certainty. “The internet is connecting the planet. For the first time in human history we are becoming one world.”
“One very small world, which everyone wants their piece of,” he said. “We’ve invented technology we can’t handle, from the Bomb to this internet. Getting bombarded with information isn’t going to change how we react to it. And the more technology we invent, the more likely we’ll implode with it.” He sighed, looked at me lovingly. “You can’t change the world, baby. Best just to focus on taking care of yourself, and your family.”
It was 1998. I had no idea what was coming with Web 2.0 and now 3.0, how the internet would evolve into the dangerous, manipulative MARKETING PLATFORM it has become. But I left Saul’s Deli that morning sure my father was wrong.
My daughter is studying for her SAT—her college admissions test. I never took the SAT because I got a D in algebra, twice. To advance to geometry, I took the same class again, from the same teacher that didn’t explain anything the first time. I didn’t get the concepts behind the equations, or Mr Mulvaney’s assertion that “it’s just the way it is.” Even algebra has a reason for why it works the way it does.
I didn’t take the SAT because I was afraid I’d fail it with no math background. In fact, every time I even thought of math, I felt anxious. I was a failure, stupid that I didn’t get quadratic equations, as most of my classmates seemed to. I couldn’t apply to a California university, or any four year college worth attending without taking the SAT. Instead, I attended Jr College for two years before transferring to UCLA. I studiously avoided math classes, as they were not required for a degree in Design.
Fast forward 5 years, and I wanted to apply to graduate school to study Education. Not only did I have to take the GRE, which had advanced math, but before registering for the test, I had to have teaching experience, in a real classroom, which required I pass the CBEST, which also had algebra and geometry. Panic. How was I supposed to pass any standardized test when I never passed algebra, and never learned the higher levels of math that was sure to be on these tests?
Enter my friend, Bert. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll teach you algebra, and geometry, and any other basic math you need. You’ll pass the tests.”
He had to be kidding. “I failed algebra twice! I’ll never be able to learn all the math I need to pass these tests.”
“Don’t be absurd. You are one of the smartest people I know. Of course you can learn algebra.”
The familiar terror was choking. Did he not hear me? “I FAILED IT TWICE, and never advanced to geometry. I suck at math!”
“Not likely,” he said with confidence. “More likely, you got turned off of it by some careless teacher, and the gates in your brain shut down. All you need to do is get out of your own way. Open your brain back up, so you can learn what you need to know.”
“I’m an artist, a qualitative person, not quantitative. I’m just not into math.” I was trying not to kill his delusion that I was smart.
“But you need to know it to pass these tests to get into a graduate program. So suck it up, let go of your fear, and get it done.” Bert was already in graduate school, studying for his doctorate in Psychology. “You have some worthy goals. Make them happen. I’ll help you.”
I didn’t want his help. I didn’t want to learn math, or, more likely not learn math, prove to him, and myself, how stupid I really was. He was being so kind it was impossible to keep defending myself. But I still did not believe him. “Maybe I’m just not smart enough for advanced math.”
“Hmm,” he said, staring at me intently. “Remember the show Get Smart?”
Ok…“Yeah.”
“Remember the opening? Max enters that hallway with the thick metal doors that slide open one by one as he approaches them. And each slams shut behind him as he walks down the hall?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s what your brain is doing when you think of math. The doors, or gates to learning are shutting down in your head. You are so freaked out because some lazy teacher made you feel stupid, and you bought it, hook, line and sinker. Stop it! You’ll make a great teacher, or professor, or whatever you want to do with education. Learn math, and move forward.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“But it is. You just have to open the gates in your brain that make it possible to learn, well, anything.” He smiled. I did too, couldn’t help it. With his words, he’d just introduced hope.
We were having this dialog at Jerry’s Deli, in L.A. Bert took the pen the waiter left to sign for our bill, and on an unused napkin wrote out a quadratic equation. I frowned, felt anxious. Here we go. Now he’ll see how stupid I really am.
“I can see by your face, you’re already freaking out.” He laughed. I scoffed. “This is good!” He was clearly excited. I felt pissed off, embarrassed. “Let’s explore that feeling. Talk to me about it, what does it feel like?”
“I feel scared, and stupid.”
“That’s your first two gates. Big, thick, metal doors shutting you out of learning. So, let’s start with feeling stupid, because that’s likely why you’re feeling scared, that I’ll see you, or you’ll see yourself, as stupid.”
“OK…”
“Do you think you’re stupid?”
“With math!”
“Our brains don’t work that way. You can’t just be stupid in one area. Either you have a functioning brain, or you don’t. Most of us have functioning brains. Are you telling me you don’t believe you do?”
I thought about that. Of course I have a functioning brain. I graduated college. I got good grades, even in high school, except for math. “I have an OK brain, I guess.”
He laughed. “So, there goes your first gate. Poof! It’s gone. It was bullshit anyway. Good riddance.”
I smiled, but fear and doubt still lingered.
“Here’s the deal,” he continued. “Every time you think of math, or we work on equations, notice how you feel. Pay attention to how your brain is operating. Examine the messaging it’s feeding you, and the bullshit it’s telling you. Qualitatively break it down to check if it’s right. Every time your brain says, ‘I can’t do this. I’m not smart enough,’ call BULLSHIT. Counter the voices of doubt. YES, I AM SMART ENOUGH! Then go back to the problem and work at figuring it out.” He took a sip of his tea. “Work at it long enough, and hard enough, and you will.”
‘The gates in my brain’… I could literally feel them all of a sudden. Bert was right. Every time I even thought of math the gates in my brain shut. And not only with math. Every single time I found it hard to learn something, anything, I now could see it was me, getting in my own way, allowing my brain to convince me of bullshit. All I had to do was examine my own feelings more carefully, embrace the ones that supported my success, and reject those that didn’t.
I studied algebra and geometry in a three week refresher course offered through the CBEST testing program. I passed the test, and subsequently my GRE, and though I never followed through with my graduate degree in Education, as having kids and writing became my priority, I teach at some of the top universities on the planet.
The best bit, I now know how to prevent the gates in my brain from shutting. As long as I identify my fear, face it, dispel it with reason, I can keep my brain receptive to learning. And with enough hard work, I can learn, well, just about anything.
I run between 3 and 4+ miles, five days a week. And I’ll continue to run as long as the benefits outweigh the drawbacks.
I hate feeling fat, and running is the quickest calorie burn I know of (my me-time is hugely limited with an active career and two kids). Running helps me think. It not only activates neural connectivity, it’s also a quiet space, undisturbed by kids or clients. I get to listen to my music, blasting through my earbuds, let it absorb me, the rhythm drive me, and in moments it feels like I’m flying.
I run whether I’m healthy, sick with a cold or flu, or anything else that isn’t laying me out on my death bed. I’m afraid if I give myself one excuse not to run it will lead to another, and in short order I’ll quit running. But I won’t quit, as long as the benefits serving my needs outweigh the hardships.
Benefits that fulfill Need/Desire is, or should be, the foundation of all marketing efforts.
Digital advertising is now the hip slick and trendy way to market. And no doubt, there are great marketing opportunities online. Websites, landing pages, social media marketing, e-blasts, analytics…etc, are TOOLS to market with. But marketing online, or offline, IS THE SAME THING. The basic principles of marketing must be applied to sell and grow any company.
Print, online, or on the friggin moon, Marketing is selling BENEFITS that fulfill WANT. There is no such thing as NEED. It is merely a construct of desire. Advertising, PR, branding, visual design, copywriting, marketing communications are, or should be, developed, designed and produced to SELL products/services/ideas/messages. ‘Likes, Engagements, Views, Impressions’ are all bullshit “vanity” metrics to stroke egos so you’ll buy more online ad space.
Startups these days typically begin their marketing efforts by flooding the internet with digital ads, videos, polls, games and such. These branding and selling campaigns push products and services without distinguishing a clear desire or solution for anyone. They do not tout the benefits of what these startups are selling, or identifying any specific groups of people who will likely find value in the features of their offerings. No matter what Google and Facebook tell you about their targeting AI algorithms, online ads are not tightlytargeted to people likely to benefit from your specific product, service or message. This “Fire, Aim, Ready” approach clearly illustrates why 90+% of all startups fail.
I’ve been a MarCom specialist in the San Francisco Bay Area for 20 yrs. I’ve worked with a ton of startups who do not consistently promote their offerings features and benefits, or realign their marketing efforts to outshine competition, nor do they invest in developing new products that fulfill anyone’s desires. And I’ve watched them fold again and again, sometimes in ridiculously short order.
Marketing 101— IN ORDER (Ready, Aim, Fire!):
1. Get Ready and Productize Your Idea: Identify the features, benefits and differentiators of your offering that fulfill a desire, or offer a solution to specific target markets likely to find value in your product, service, or message/mission (non-profit).
2. Take Aim and Create Brand Identity, and Marketing Campaigns: Establish an identity (logo), and voice (tagline), as well as marketing efforts—digital, print, and pitch (in-person) campaigns that fulfill a desire, or offer a solution to each specific target audience.
3. Fire!—Launch Marketing Campaigns: Motivate people to ACT—to click, to subscribe, try, or purchase your offering, or buy into your message.
The new order of entrepreneurs are weened on social media and tech. Universities, startup schools and bootcamps generally teach their students to launch backasswards. They promote the MVP model of innovation. Building a MVP (minimum viable product) may have worked for a handful of successful startups, but it took them a hell of a lot longer to reach profitability than necessary. In most cases, MVP is a recipe for failure. Relying on consumers to figure out what benefits your offering should fulfill for them is time consuming, expensive, and lazy. It is the job of the entrepreneur to produce a product or service of value for specific groups of people before launching your business.
Unfortunately, opting for A/B testing, and SEO keyword tricks over real content—selling benefits fulfilling a desire—and relying on Google Analytics doesn’t actually SELL much. Measuring response rates isn’t new. It’s been in the background since advertising began, and generally offers limited utility. Marketing is dynamic! Results vary by target audiences, the day a campaign launches, time of day, day of week, the weather, behavioral trends, sociological and financial climates, to name just a few factors that determine response.
The principles of Marketing may be simple, but motivating people to bend to our will is not easy. Beyond the primary building blocks of any campaign, (Ready, Aim, Fire), at the core of effective Marketing is psychology. Online, or on Mars, understanding your customers and potential customers’ psychology is mandatory if you want the greatest response to your marketing efforts. Marketing pros study people, not code, since coding, especially with ever-emerging technologies, is time consuming to learn, and generally requires a different kind of awareness than psychology. I’ve yet to meet a web developer/designer who’s demonstrated mastery in marketing. Competent at software development means they’re investing their time in technology, not in the study of human behavior.
I tell my clients that digital marketing is not ‘the answer’ to effective marketing. New avenues of selling will arise, and others fade away. But the growth of any business, or nonprofit message, or even activity, like running, depends on the benefits continually fulfilling a desire for a specific group of people.
My mother was crying when I walked into the kitchen around sunset, her hips sunk into the linoleum counter top. She was slouched against the handle of the refrigerator door holding on to it as if to hold herself up. I looked over at my father who sat in his usual place at the head of the kitchen table. He had his stoic face on but his sadness was palpable. My sister sat across from him. She too was crying.
“What’s going on?” I was afraid of the answer, hoping it had something to do with my 98-year old grandmother since anything else was sure to be very bad.
“My Pepper dog is dead.” My mother kept her head down but I saw her tears fall to the floor.
No. That can’t be. When I left for the beach that morning she was fine. “Are you kidding?” The words sort of fell out of my mouth, hope trampling reason. It was clear she wasn’t kidding. Everyone stared at me with their jaw somewhat dropped but they didn’t say anything. “What happened?” It just seemed so implausible— not after 14 years and to date the dog had never been sick.
“We think she got bit by a rabid squirrel, or ate something poisonous.” My dad tried to keep his tone even but I caught the quiver. “Mom found her in the backyard in the bushes after calling her in for dinner and she didn’t come.” Then I saw the tears cascade down my father’s cheeks. I’d seen my dad cry only one other time, when JFK was assassinated. That’s when I ran out of the house. And kept running.
No! This can’t be happening. Not Pepper. Not my beautiful pound-hound Shepard. Not my best friend, sometimes my only friend, always there all these years to let me know I was valued. I should have taken her to the beach regardless of the hassle of looking out for her all day, kept her with me, safe, like she’d protected me from lonely. I should have played frisbee with her more, done more road trips, spent more time with her. I ached for more time with my bright-eyed, big eared dog.
I ran as fast and hard as I could, for as long as I could, trying to outrun reality, trying to outrun the hurt in me. My Pepper dog was gone, the first loss of a loved one I’d ever experienced, and the idea of her gone from my life was so profoundly empty, black, lonely, lonely, lonely it made me physically ill by the time I got to the bridge, stopped in the center and threw up over the side into the L.A. wash. When I finished, I leaned my face against the cool metal rail, and cried.
“I HATE YOU!!” I screamed at the heavens. It was dusk by then. No one was around. Not a whole lot of people even knew about that bridge. At one end was an upscale residential neighborhood, on the other were exclusive condos. “How could you take her away from me?! I HATE YOU!” I yelled at the top of my lungs through my tears, knowing I wasn’t speaking to anyone; no one, nothing was hearing me. I guess what I meant was, ‘I hate me.’ Right at that moment the loss hurt so badly that I hated myself for loving her.
“May I help you Miss?” He asked softly, but it startled me anyway. I hadn’t seen him approach. He had come across [the bridge] from the condo side. He was Indian, from India, with the softest brown eyes I’d ever seen. I think he thought I was going to jump off the bridge.
“My dog died,” I told him. I started crying hard again as that reality sunk into my heart. I don’t know why I told him. So often when people ask we’re supposed to pretend we’re fine because they really don’t want to know anyway. “I really loved her.”
He nodded, let a few moments pass in silence then said, “My aunt died last week. I am still very sad. I miss her very much.” He stood erect a few feet from me, his head slightly cocked to one side. He let his eyes rest on mine for only a moment then he looked down, consumed by the black hole of loss.
“I’m sorry about your aunt,” was all I could think of to say. The man had put his aunt on par with my dog, and I was humbled, and grateful.
“I’m sorry about your dog,” he said. “I hope your sadness will temper in time with good memories.” He gave a slight bow and moved across the bridge.
His kindness tempered my pain, a ray of light in the suffocating blackness. I watched him until he disappeared into the neighborhood beyond, but did not lose sight of his wisdom.
I left the bridge soon after him. On my way home I let my mind wander over my time with my Pepper dog. I cried. I even smiled once or twice through the tears.
My sadness has tempered over the years. Most times when I think of her the memories are sweet. But to this day, 35 years later, the pain of her loss still fills me with unmitigated terror, a now ever-present awareness of the enormous cost of love.
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