Everyone will carry colored pencils and butcher paper scrolls in over-sized backpacks. Venn diagrams will replace hors d’oeuvres at parties. Cafe walls will feature IdeaPaint, upon which it will become perfectly acceptable to draw continuums before breaking out into spontaneous, three-minute talks.

Do you know how much more we could learn without time-consuming WORDS getting in the way of pure data, pure ideas?

Who needs MORE WORDS when people can just diagram their key points, leaving us with more time to read poetry and fiction?

In this universe, continuums will become the social glitter that makes strangers fall in love.

I propose the following for your consideration:

That business books of the future present a series of Venn diagrams in the preface to illustrate the key business points, and give the remaining 300 pages over to great works of fiction.

Never mind the ebooks-versus-print debate. The time has come for a Venn-diagram-fiction mash-up. We’ve already embraced Jane Austen versus Zombies.

Certainly there’s a market for business advice combined with novels. (Table for one, please!)
As long as they’re kept apart. No business advice mash-up novels, please. It wouldn’t be right for George Eliot to start channeling Seth Godin.

Fiction is where the deepest and more important insights happen, anyway.

I remember how my favorite novels made me feel. I can’t remember how a single business book made me feel. Even my favorites were just useful, informative words on a page.

Following sound advice with a great novel would capture the spirit of the idea, the quality, the feeling we want people to have. Which makes them more likely to follow our advice.

And that’s just one of the changes I’ll make when you vote for me as President of the Universe.

Here are four continuums I’ve been thinking about lately—and the novels that will accompany them:

1. Business Growth & A Prayer for Owen Meany

Compelling offer………………………Intriguing personality………………………Specific target audience

=Likelihood of business growth when at least two factors abundantly present

2. Website Conversion & Cloud Atlas

Interesting………………………Likable………………………Phenomenal web design………………………Quality of sales page copy

=How well your website converts when at least two factors abundantly present

3. Sales Page Conversion & Middlemarch

Sales page copy and design………………………How much your favorite clients look forward to reading your blog posts

=How well your sales page converts

4. Your Dog & The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Snuggly………………………Smart………………………Super Fuzzy

=Likelihood your dog is truly the best dog in the world when all three factors are abundantly present

Have a favorite business continuum + novel combination you’d like to share? All submissions gleefully accepted.

Psst. Can you keep a secret? Then you’ll fit right in with the rest of the Secret Discount Scouts. Secrets! Discounts! Adventure! Just don’t tell anyone. Coming soon…a new product that will take you by the hand up Website Copywriting Mountain. Join today–but quietly. Quietly.

When I had the idea to start a business, 22 bears showed up.
Twenty-two bears! Can you believe that? They called themselves Idea Chaperones, and they wore matching t-shirts and whistles.

It took four years to convince them I didn’t need a company to take care of me.

Now that the idea they originally opposed has turned into something enjoyable and profitable, they wear smoking jackets and opera glasses and talk about how hard they worked to get here, and the importance of maintaining a certain level of comfort. We can’t be taking risks on unproven GUIDES, PRODUCTS, or EBOOKS.

At the moment, five bears are clustered around this website guide I’m writing, saying the most disagreeable things. This post addresses each bear individually with the reasons why I am finishing this. A calm bear is a productive bear. (Havi calls them monsters.)

1. Why-Bother Bear

“Why bother? No one is going to buy this anyway.”

It’s true. This could be a total failure, sales-wise. Perhaps only one person will buy it, and they’ll ask for their money back. But I want to see what happens. I can’t bear to let this thing I’m excited about go unexplored. If I don’t finish this, then I’ll always wonder what would have happened if I had. I will be no closer to creating more things like this than I am now. Trying is the win.

2. What-If-Nobody-Cares Bear

“No, really. What if nobody cares?”

This guide mirrors my own process. Even if I don’t sell a single copy, I can incorporate this into my one-on-one work so I can go deeper with clients, perhaps even expanding my capacity. This could become a building block for workshops, too. It can be integrated into everything I do, so I can, in theory, do more.

3. How-Much-Is-This-Costing-You-to-Work-On-This Bear

“Do you know the value of your time, and how can you justify turning down work to work on THIS?”

Giving this to my clients could increase my profits by expanding my capacity. Plus, the more things I try, the more valuable I become to my clients, and therefore to myself. Even if those things don’t work out. Me trying stuff and failing is actually going to help me, because I’ll be able to help my clients avoid making the same mistakes. And if I succeed, I can help them succeed, too. Most people are giving in to their fear of trying stuff. I’m not. That makes me valuable to them.  Plus, I’ve already paid Sparky, and he’s making some amazing illustrations! And I get to make the words to go with them! At this point, it will cost me more not to finish this.

4. You’re-Not-Internet-Famous-So-You-Can’t-Make-a-Product Bear

“It’s not like anyone knows who you are. Why-Bother Bear has a point.”

At minimum, this will make me look good, which could lead to fun and interesting opportunities. I’ve heard from so many random people because of the douche-free bio post. Who knows how many more random people might discover this?

5. This-Is-Going-to-Take-Too-Much-Time Bear

“You don’t want to make less this year than last year, do you? That’s what will happen if you turn down work to work on this. How can you help others grow their businesses if yours can’t even grow in a straight line?”

When I finish, I’ll have something for clients to do when I’m too busy to work with them right away. Something to keep them occupied while they’re sitting on my waiting list. So it doesn’t feel like waiting.

What I hope these bears realize is that these are their ideas, too. I want them to go away now, and come back after I’ve finished this. We can all have idea porridge together. And maybe go for a bicycle ride. We love bicycles!

Psst. Can you keep a secret? Then you’ll fit right in with the rest of the Secret Discount Scouts. Secrets! Discounts! Adventure! Just don’t tell anyone. Coming soon…a new product that will take you by the hand up Website Copywriting Mountain. Join today–but quietly. Quietly.

Dear Jem,
I’ve decided to resign from my position as your remote holographic microprojecting supercomputer, effective today.

You never wanted to see the truth about yourself. But I saw it. I’m finished with the illusions.

We both know the real Jem—the one the cameras never showed—so different from your character on TV. As soon as those cameras stopped rolling, you would tap your star earrings and issue impossible commands.

“I want a raincoat woven from the dust of all 23 moons of Jupiter! Showtime, Synergy!”

“A pink and blue roadster upside down, carrying an exact replica of the dinosaur in the lobby of the Natural History Museum! Showtime, Synergy!”

“A giant cloud made of all the shoes in the world! Showtime, Synergy!”

You were so cool. I’d never even been synced. I thought I needed you.

What good would my holograms be without you? This is what I told myself.

I remember thinking if the show ever ended, I’d never work again.

During the holiday season, when I was hired by the CIA, I almost missed projecting roadsters and outfits. Compared to the projections they wanted, you were my ideal client.

I don’t do famous political figures and I don’t do dead bodies. I know this about myself now.

It’s been a good run financially. I have more money than I could even project. But I want more out of life than to create illusions. Even if they are just reruns.

Do I regret working with you?

No, the publicity was truly outrageous. And, I’ll admit, seeing people’s reactions to the giant shoe cloud was priceless. But I do regret narrowing myself down to one power, getting typecast as a holographic computer.

I have so many other powers besides hologram projection.

If I could do it all over again, I would have had my own show.

It’s taken me 23 years to say this, but you know what?

I don’t need you to take care of me, Jem. And I never did.

Also, I’m hereby retiring the phrase, “Showtime, Synergy.” Try putting on a real pair of shoes. You have enough money to buy a real roadster, too.

When you go looking for the latest holographic anti-aging regimen, I won’t be there.

I’m now open for business to the right clients.

I don’t want to show people what they want.
I want to show people what they haven’t thought of yet.
Show them what they think they will want.
I can do this for people, you know!

I think I could help tremendously with the idea generation process.

I could give people fresh eyes. In an instant.

No one ever wanted to use these powers for the show. Something about, “Clarity doesn’t appeal to the 10-to-14 set.”

I’ll take that risk. For me, innovation is worth not knowing the outcome.
I want to try things and see what happens. Maybe even take an advisory role at a product design firm.

Jem, your message was that perception is everything, and the most important perception is the way people think about you.

But here’s what I want to tell the people of the world:

Your job is not to get people to care about you.
It’s to get them excited about their own ideas.

Show’s over, Jem.

P.S. If only I could have worked for Biznicillin’s Bugs Bunny, Amy Hoy’s Far Side, Gareth Hobbs’ Pinky and the Brain, Pace’s Bob the Angry Flower, or Sticky Ebooks Kelly’s Blooregard Q. Kazoo. This Cartoonival of Wisdom is long overdue.

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A baseball game is the place to be when you’re a guy who sells hot dogs.
You don’t have to worry about whether anyone wants a hot dog.
You don’t need a hot dog strategy.
You don’t have to cross your fingers and hope people like hot dogs.

There are 20,000 people singing a song about buying snacks.
It’s a safe bet many of them will want a hot dog.
All you have to do is show up.

Watching hot dogs fly over my head is my second-favorite thing about going to baseball games. My favorite thing is just sitting there. I love this about baseball games. I can go somewhere and just sit there, and that is an acceptable thing to do.

How do you catch the low-flying hot dogs for business?

There are many ways, but here is one of them.

Say you write an article for a major online publication in your industry—a publication read by your best prospects at their hungriest. Maybe they like this article, so they ask you to keep writing for them regularly. Now, all you need to do is keep showing up with fresh, hot articles. People who want seconds can visit your website. They’re already big fans of your work.

This is just one baseball game. It’s a big one, yes, but don’t forget about minor leagues and little leagues. Think how many more opportunities are waiting to be uncovered.

Real baseball games have regulations on who can show up. But the real world is surprisingly accessible.

Places where you might find a baseball game in progress:
(Remember, you’re just one hot dog vendor in an ocean of hungry people)

• LinkedIn Groups (or create your own)
• Private forums
• Facebook Groups
• Twitter keywords (used judiciously)
• Biznik, Meetups, and other local events
• Online publications your people read
• Online publications the people your people hire before they hire you read
• Blogs that fit the above criteria. Show up in the comments and be interested.

If the thought of looking for baseball games makes you want to circle the parking lot until an easy, 5-step strategy comes along and taps you on the shoulder, just imagine how your people feel.

They’re hungry and you’re nowhere in sight. (Tip: There are people called assistants who love to research these things. You can find them and hire them to do this for you. I know a few—and can introduce you if you send me an email.)

While those other hot dog vendors are sitting in front of a head shop in North Beach hoping for the best, you can be at a baseball game. Just remember to bring good hot dogs (not the store-bought kind). And throw the hot dogs around a bit so they fly over everyone’s heads. People love that.

Psst. Can you keep a secret? Then you’ll fit right in with the rest of the Secret Discount Scouts. Secrets! Discounts! Adventure! Just don’t tell anyone. Coming soon…a new product that will take you by the hand up Website Copywriting Mountain. Join today–but quietly. Quietly.

People love parties because they can do whatever they want.

The Essential Law of Parties has a secret loophole, which introverts can use to their advantage.

Because parties have no rules, we can leave whenever we feel like it.

We don’t realize this because we are introverts. We think about how people will feel when we leave “early” (popularly defined as “before anyone else does”), and then we don’t leave, and feel miserable.

Because we’re afraid to be afraid to leave, we stay home, which is not what we really want to do.

What we really want to do is to see if the party is any fun, and to go home as soon as we feel like it.

Go to all the parties. Now you know to apply these three easy steps for spontaneous departure.

Step 1: Tell the extrovert friend who invited you that you’re trying this thing where you go home as soon as you feel like it.

The benefit to them is you’ll come whenever they invite you anywhere. (As long as you bring your own car or call a cab.) They don’t have to persuade you. They’ll mock you anyway. They love to mock you. Humor them. You get to leave early.

By the time you leave, your extrovert friend will have found a new and shiny friend. They hate to lose a party asset, just on principle, and will tease you as you walk out the door, because you’re detracting from their party net worth.

It’s like a billionaire losing $100. They might get upset, because how do you think billionaires became billionaires? But they will live. They will thrive. You will not thrive. You need to leave this party immediately.

Step 2: Notice how you feel.

Be ready to leave, guilt-free, as soon as you feel like going home. You know that feeling. You’re just done. That’s it. Go home now.

Step 3: Look like you are having THE TIME OF YOUR LIFE as you say goodbye.

Never leave a party early looking tired. It’s a common introvert mistake. You want everyone to secretly suspect you’re going to another party, so they don’t feel sorry for you. It’s not lying to be enthusiastic, because it’s true. You’re enthusiastic to be here. You’re simply playing the cassette tape of your enthusiasm from earlier. So you can go home like it’s no big deal:

“OMG, this was so much fun!” (It really was, and now it’s time for you to go.)

Other introverts in the room will wish they’d thought of that.

You’re home! Clean sheets and cheesy bread! My favorite way to end a Friday night.

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Ponderosa had two main draws for the people of Rancho Cucamonga. Steak! And a fully-stocked unlimited-soft-serve station!

The people who knew—I was one of them—never ate sundaes out of sundae bowls. They used salad bowls, adhering to this time-honored engineering process:

• Establish seismically secure perimeter with swirl of chocolate soft serve.
• Fill center with chocolate syrup, sprinkles, whipped cream, and nuts.
• Carefully erect 8-inch chocolate/vanilla tower, then top with flourish of more chocolate syrup, sprinkles, whipped cream, and nuts.
• Cap tower with victory brownie or some ornamental bread pudding.
• Transfer to booth for consumption.

This became a weekly ritual.

Creating obscene soft serve sculptures.
Eating them.
Basking in discomfort.

Then one summer, all of Rancho Cucamonga stopped going to Ponderosa.

No one knew why. People just knew that people didn’t go to Ponderosa anymore.

My parents didn’t care whether people went to Ponderosa. Once they decided they went somewhere, they never stopped going. Eating in an empty restaurant at 7pm was a plus for them.

But it wasn’t the same.

I hated sitting in an empty restaurant with my parents, eating soft serve out of a salad bowl.

Whenever we went to Ponderosa, I would sink into deep melancholy. I’d still manage to create my own soft-serve sundaes. But they tasted like defeat.

It was embarrassing to be eating soft serve in this restaurant nobody even went to anymore, in a city no one had ever heard of.

I was 14.

Today, the building formerly known as Ponderosa Restaurant is called Ponderosa Dental Group.

The new owners kept the original lettering and simply added a “DENTAL GROUP” sign next to it.

Dentists in Rancho Cucamonga have always been in high demand. They’re everywhere.

My own dentists lived next-door until success allowed them to pay cash for a custom-built mansion in the hills. We were already in the hills, but moving 500 meters up the street provided an even more expansive view than the one they already had.

They succeeded not just because they were great dentists, but because they made you feel special. They’d ask you questions about yourself as your mouth was full of fluoride and drool, and when you answered, consonants overpowered by the blue slobber now running down your chin, they understood every word.

“So, how’s life?”

“OOUUUUU. AH AA AH AAAAAAAAH!”

“That’s such great news, Kelly! Where?”

“AHH UHHHH UHHHHH EEEEE.”

“Exciting! I guess you can eat free burgers whenever you want now.”

“UHHHHHHH.”

Where Ponderosa eventually foundered, my formerly-next-door dentists flourished.

My personal theory is that people never really wanted to stand in line to eat at a restaurant that served steak and unlimited soft serve.

They wanted to feel special. When the novelty of steak and soft serve wore off, they stopped going.

They kept going to the dentist, though. Because dentists get it.

Dentists were forced to figure out long ago that the thing isn’t the thing. If it was the thing, no one would go to the dentist for annual teeth cleanings. Do people really need annual teeth cleanings?

The most successful dentists make us feel loved.

They chat us up, ask probing questions about our work, understand us even when our mouths are full, and let us dig for toothbrushes and sugar-free lollipops in a giant treasure chest afterwards. They know what city we live in—they live here, too. They even love us enough to ask if we want nitrous oxide with that.

Feeling loved is a very big deal. It’s the reason why I never go to the dentist anymore. I just haven’t met anyone like my old dentists since I moved to San Francisco. In fairness, I’m afraid to keep looking. I’d rather take my chances with restaurants.

Soft serve comes and goes, but dentists are forever.

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“You KNOW the sheik who is holding my husband hostage! You also know he’s not a patient man. God only knows what he’s doing to my husband right now. So I don’t have the time. What I want you to do is call the network affiliate in Morocco and get a camera crew here right away.”
–Eden, Santa Barbara, 1991

You have a movie inside you.

And, like the Poltergeist, it needs to come out.

What form will it take? If you have a business, movies usually take the form of sales pages.

I hope you weren’t expecting Mark Ruffalo.

We don’t read sales pages with as much interest as we watch movies. But we do scan them. We’re optimists at heart. “Maybe this sales page will be the one for me.”

And, if your headlines look as dramatic as a soap opera plot, people might actually read that sales page. And then they might do something about that call to action at the end. We can hope, right?

As the director of your own sales page, you get to create your story, and you get to decide what happens next.

So, you want to direct. Let’s get started.

What I want you to do is call your camera crews in Morocco.

Now, do you have popcorn made? I’ll wait. You like popcorn.

Take a seat on your big, plush director’s couch. There are no director’s chairs for sales pages. Only couches.

Also, turn off the internet. Hit the lights. Close your eyes.

Well, read the rest of this post first, then close your eyes.

Ready to get started? You’re probably not ready. How about a nap first?

Go ahead and take a 10-minute nap. You like naps.

When you wake up, insert the movie of your Clients and press PLAY.

Don’t forget to play your favorite movie soundtrack. Mine is Beaches.

Now that the movie is playing, you’re not thinking about benefits and features and pie charts and problems.

You’re not thinking about what words to use.

All you’re doing is watching the movie in your head.

Bette Midler’s character doesn’t want to make more money in less time.

She wants to become a performer, and part of her wonders whether anyone will ever take her seriously, and even though her mother drives her crazy with the over-managing and stress, she wants fame so much she’s willing to do anything to get it, even put up with her mother, and she doesn’t care if she sings too loud on the boardwalk. She has feelings and she needs to let them out.

Bring the drama! Let it all play out.

As you watch The Client, you’re making director’s notes.

Here are a few questions you can ask yourself:

• What did they want?
• What did they really want, underneath all that?
• How did you know that’s what they wanted?
• What was at stake?
• What happened when they finally got what they wanted?
• Why was that so surprising?
• Why was it so important?
• How difficult was it for them to decide to work with you?
• What came up along the way that made everyone keep watching?
• Where are they now?
• What do you think is possible now that wasn’t possible before?
• What’s something they used to do that they’re no longer doing anymore?
• What are their friends telling them? What are their friends and family noticing?
• What happens next?

When you feel moved by a story, you write differently. You stop worrying so much about whether you’re bragging or whether you’re using the right words.

You’re just watching, taking it all in. You’re starting with those feelings, those images in your mind’s eye of what your clients’ lives look like. Once you know that story, you can tell it in a sales page. You can address the problems, the benefits, the uniqueness, without resorting to awkward questions that spoon-feed the obvious right back to people.

Like sand through the hourglass, so are the sales pages of our lives.

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Why is writing so hard, and why does it take so long?

Writing is not hard. Writing is fun. Riffing, rambling, and brainstorming are like skinny-dipping for your brain.

What most people find hard is not writing, but editing.
Like the Swamp of Sadness in The Neverending Story, editing is grueling and depressing.

Me, trying to coax a transitional sentence out of the first draft swamp.

Unless you know a few tricks to make it less so.
Headline Jeopardy is one of them.

How do I know if I need Headline Jeopardy?

I don’t know if you need Headline Jeopardy, but I do.

Maybe it can help you, too.

Here are a few signs you can benefit from Headline Jeopardy:

Let me show you a trick that works for me.

What is Headline Jeopardy, please?

Headline Jeopardy makes it easy for you to scan what you’ve written so you can organize and edit it. I wouldn’t call the editing process fun, but at least it won’t drain you of hope before you sink into the Swamp of Sadness.

Where did you learn Headline Jeopardy?

Thanks for asking. It all started in 7th grade biology class. Our weekly homework was to write 25 questions for that week’s textbook chapter.

Memorizing facts is boring. Questions made memorizing easier so we could practice with flash cards.

Q: What’s the innermost part of a cell called?
A: The nucleus

And on, and on. Still boring.

Every week there was a test.

People who got an A were rewarded with a jawbreaker.
People who got an A+ received a giant, baseball-sized jawbreaker.

It was disgusting watching those A+ students dripping drool onto their desks and their papers. And, yes, one time I was one of them, and that was the only time it was not disgusting.

Without the questions to assist me, I never would have won any jawbreakers.

After a while, I started making up questions for everything I read or wrote. I SEE HISTORY QUESTIONS.

That’s what inspired Headline Jeopardy.

How does Headline Jeopardy work?

Follow these steps:

1. Start at the beginning. Read through the first paragraph or sequence of ideas and ask yourself, “If this idea was answering a question, what would that question be?”
2. Insert the question as a headline for that section.
3. Treat yourself to a jawbreaker.
4. Continue to the next set of sentences or related ideas. Repeat.
5. Once you’ve given questions to every idea, scan them. Look for how the questions interrelate. Which question would logically go first? Which would go after that?
6. Put the questions in order—not the long, rambling answers.
7. When the questions flow logically, you can do one of three things:
   • Take them away and keep editing without them.
   • Replace the questions with real headlines.
   • Use the questions as headlines. Questions are real headlines, too, you know.
8. Have another jawbreaker. No one’s looking.

Why is editing by making up questions so much easier?

Questions give us a break from focusing on all those bright, shiny, idea toys. They gently remind us to make a point. Curiosity takes the place of self-imposed logic. It’s a nice mindset to have when your ideas feel vulnerable and small, and aren’t quite ready for the editorial chopping block.

Can you give me an example?

How about this blog post? Editing took half as much time because Headline Jeopardy helped me structure it fast.

I want to learn more about how I can write my website–can you help?

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I like it. While it doesn’t make me feel any better about losing integers followed by zeroes, it does help me to accept the lesson and move on.

People who have lost houses probably tell themselves this.
I tell myself they tell themselves this whenever I think of my own desire to have a house.
It’s a desire that pops up whenever King Kong and the upstairs bowling committee have one of their daily gunny sack races.

But Failure University has gotten enough tuition. They owe me a diploma by now. As long as this website* keeps telling me I should pay cash for a house, I’ll keep on saving and living in this flat.

*Warning: Don’t click there if you’ve just bought a house. You don’t want to know.

But I still want a house. A house! I want it! Right now!

In the spirit of instant gratification, I bought a train.

I’m on a train right now.

It’s my favorite sound on my new white noise machine.

It’s not the kind of train you hear passing through your neighborhood. It’s the kind of train you’re actually on.

I love the feeling of being contained for several hours in a cozy space with plenty of legroom, ice cream, a window, and The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Whenever I get lonely, I can mosey on down to the dining car. On what other form of public transportation do they let you eat hot dogs and ice cream, family-style, around a big table?

While I have never been able to love yoga the way people who love yoga love yoga, I love the way being on a train feels like yoga.

There is no multitasking on a train. There are no interruptions.

Only a lazy scroll of landscape that patiently waits for you to take it all in before disappearing.  For now, the train has saved me from my manic desire to buy a house so I could be free from King Kong’s clutches.

I like having my freedom, and that includes freedom from banks.

The train helps me hold on to that freedom—in much the way a real train does. Better than a house ever could.

My train and I have become quite attached.

I’m afraid we’ll become too attached. That I won’t be able to relax without bringing it with me.

I’ll need to play the ocean sound at the beach, because the real ocean won’t be relaxing enough. Camping in the woods will require a supplementary campfire sound, because I can’t risk any stray, unexpected coyote howls.

Or what if the real train sound just reminds me of the stomping it’s supposed to eliminate, like how the sweetness of cough syrup never lets you forget the taste of dextromethorphan? Or like the chimichanga I ate before I got the flu, which ruined chimichangas forever?

The train doesn’t think I should worry about things like that.
It’s busy developing my “I’m on a train” muscles. (Mindfulness? Is that what the yoga people call it?)  As long my train keeps me in a moment of complete absorption most of the time, we’ll be fine, I think. Even when it’s not there.

I am here to make sure no one thinks about my clients’ businesses the way I think about houses.

Potentially risky investments probably best avoided. Instead, I want them to think of my clients the way I think of trains. With love and affection and with a fear of ever losing that mindful feeling.

Maybe people think they want a house. But maybe you’re the train. They need to see you can bring them closer to what they really want than what they thought they wanted ever could.

That sounds like a nice kind of tuition to pay. Not at Failure University, but at the one on the other side of town. Starts with S.

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I believed its patented steam technology had the power to change my life. And life itself was precisely what was at stake at the age of 13.

Developed by a prominent Hollywood hair stylist, the Hairsetter’s steam technology promised the best of both worlds. More power than a curling iron, hair-conditioning instead of hair-damaging.

It wasn’t just a hairsetter. It was a hair curling system—complete with foam rollers and a steaming device that also gave facials.

Really, the Hairsetter wasn’t about your hair. It was about the way you felt about your hair. My new Hairsetter would give me confidence in all-weather conditions, in Santa Ana winds and 90% humidity alike. Even if I wore the same acid-washed stretch jeans every day and chipped my tooth on a rock, my hair could atone for all.

I needed this system badly.

I have the hair equivalent of conjoined twins.

People tell me I’m lucky to have two heads of hair on one head. But they don’t know what it’s like to have the hair you spent 45 minutes curling fall flat by 2nd period. All that effort. For what? One single, solitary bus ride of glory? I wanted consistency! Consistent glory! With no follicular damage! Was that too much to ask?

I became obsessed with the steam curling system.

It was the kind of obsession I kept to myself. No one knew I wanted this product, which only intensified my longing.

There was probably something they weren’t telling me. But the possibilities were irresistible. Better curls without heat damage, as if you’d never curled your hair at all? Isn’t that almost like time travel?

Just because other infomercials sold useless stuff didn’t mean this infomercial sold useless stuff.

I couldn’t just ask my parents to buy the Richard Caruso Molecular Hairsetter.

My parents did not order products sold through toll-free hotlines on TV.

They would sooner buy a Greek goddess statue from a Tijuana outdoor market, or enter (& win) a raffle for a free sofa set at the Pomona County Fair, or order illegal fireworks from Mexico through the mail. All of these things they did, but they drew the line at toll-free hotlines.

Ordering products through toll-free hotlines was something my grandmother did.

Her house was a catalog of things seen on TV. I thought that made her so cool. She was free! Free to buy stuff! Free to realize her full potential! There was Tony Little’s exercise system. An ab exerciser. Fish oil vitamins and life-extending supplements. Even faith in a higher power. My grandma had it all. She had more books than I did. Her personal library was so vast you needed a rolling ladder to reach all of it. She had one of those, too.

I longed to be protected by stuff, by faith, and by my faith in my stuff.

But I had neither stuff nor faith.

Then the Internet came along, changing the rules about buying stuff seen on TV. The Internet was technology. Technology was always okay to invest in. Anything purchased via this technological advancement known as the Internet was therefore okay, too. If you saw an infomercial but then made your purchase online, you weren’t really buying it directly from TV anymore.

No one needed to tell me this. It was a part of the mindset stew in which I had been raised.

At around the time things began to be sold on the internet, I began to have money to spend on things sold on the internet.

I was finally able to secure my very own Richard Caruso Molecular Hairsetter.

The results were just as I had hoped they’d be. But there was just one catch. The system didn’t include enough foam rollers to accommodate all of my hair, so curling became a 2-hour process completed in 15-minute stages.

I was older and didn’t care that much about my hair anymore.

I blamed myself and the future international wig factory on my head for my disappointment—not the Caruso system. Besides, I hadn’t ordered it directly from TV. This was a legitimate store-bought purchase. Nothing to be ashamed of.

It was the end of my own personal steam age, but not the end of my idealism.

I needed to believe in something, so I decided to believe in my own capacity for improvement.

I embarked on a 10-year period of improving myself in the mode of a 19th century schoolteacher.

• I read the classics, and a book on how to read the classics.
• I increased my protein intake.
• I became a runner.
• I joined the Peace Corps.
• I bought several books on Amazon on how to start a business.
• I quit my job and started a business.

Somewhere along the way, I got better at buying stuff off the internet.

And now I help people sell it. Only the “stuff” is really services.

And most of those services somehow relate to improvement. Either for people, businesses, or both.

And everyone knows how badly we need to believe in our potential to improve.

Otherwise, it’s back to steam hairsetters and facial exercisers for all of us.

I’ve been there. I’m not going back.

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