Inspiration is a steed with mighty flanks, inadequate reins, and no brakes whatsoever.

When she arrives snorting on my doorstep, I will not refuse her. I will ride inspiration and keep my life and business afloat. It’ll be okay, jellybean.

I can writhe in the throes of creation and keep my inbox manageable. I maintain the Catherine with yoga and regular-ish meals. I don’t abandon The Dude, completely. I always write the sales page first. I schedule in the time for wandering-around-the-house-picking-up-things-and-then-putting-them-down-again post-creation fugue. I have residual cash flow to buffer me from making something and then needing to sell twenty of them OMG RIGHT NOW. (While completely wrung out by the making. Yeah, not so much.) I learned this by hamstrung necessity.

Now I am learning another set of skills.

I’m learning to write every morning, and edit every afternoon. I’m playing with you in five different media. I’m mid-fling in doodle-pad mosh pits with coloured pens and bigass sketch pads and Important Questions.

In short, I’m learning how to write in those times when the mighty steed of Inspiration has gone back to her stall for oats and a vigorous rub down.

I’m learning how to create structure that isn’t a cage.

I’m learning how to be a writer, I guess.

Some of you, I can hear you, are currently declaiming.

”Oh but Catherine you are a writer, how could you not say you are, I wish I could write like you.”

Which is sweet and kind and thank you.

But I’ve never really thought of myself as a writer.

How could I? I spend the vast majority of my creative time clinging furiously to the back of Inspiration, where I control neither the distance nor the speed nor the direction.

I haven’t been a writer. I’ve been possessed by a writer on a regular basis.

And now. Dismounted and daunted and delighted and far, far too pleased by some of the previous sentences I have written. Including that one. (IT HAD ALLITERATION AND RHETORICAL DEVICES, YO.)

I’m finding, to my intense ear-tickling pleasure, that I can be good at this whenever I wanna. Allegory has moved back in. Metaphor falls on me from every cupboard door I open. I’m not waiting for 4am to tell me what to write, for the whinny of that damn horse.

Maybe soon I’ll call myself a writer.

I got to talk about writing. Does that count?

Do you know Pace and Kyeli of course you know Pace and Kyeli if you do not why not you must.

(fuck you that technique was awesome.)

(fuck you, Stephen King isn’t the only one allowed to write in internal digressions.)

(fuck, this was easier when the damn horse was in charge.)

(argh.)

So any. Way. Pace and Kyeli from the Connection Revolution are on the third year of their World-Changing Writing Workshop, and I am one of the extra bits. You can estimate how excited I was when I was asked to participate. (Hint: use a lot of caps in your answer.)

If you have Big Ambitious Goals and you want to use writing to achieve them, then this workshop will help. A lot.

I want bajillions of people to invest in the World-Changing Writing Workshop, because writing is awesome and I am in it and, you know, all the reasons ever.

And I would like many of those people to do so from here, because I would feel powerful and also make some money.

At this point, the horse snuck up to the house and slipped a note under the door with one gold-plated hoof. It said:

Make something awesome.

I shall try. Polar darlings, use my link by clicking on the words World-Changing Writing Workshop, invest in the course, and I shall deliver unto you an invitation to a special you-and-nifty-others-like-you event.

It’s called Business Storytelling.

It’s going to be awesome.

The horse has spoken.

Whinnied.

Whatever.

I fell out of love with comments.

Once upon a time, oh about two-and-a-bit years ago, I cherished my post comments. I courted them, I made languorous invitation, I flattered and anointed and eulogised them.

I did this because my business was not yet a business. It was a shiny-new website that started with four subscribers (including me, and my friend Cass), one offering, and zero sales.

I did this because I needed some feedback to keep me going until I made some money.

I did this because I had no idea what the fuck I was doing and data was vital.

I did this because I was needy, and smart enough to know I was needy.

And it worked.

Until it didn’t.

I got bored with answering every comment when at least half would be the empty ”This was a great article, thanks” puffery that my ego had grown sturdy enough not to need any more.

I got exasperated at seeing people who read every article, left appreciative comments, but never actually implemented… anything.

I started to ruminate how much my comments really mattered, epecially now they were chock-full of polite flattery. Whether the conversation was just another distraction from the real work, for my readers and for me.

Oh, and I slid down into a major depression, too.

(These things are probably related.)

Now the comments on my articles are fallow, and shallow.

Instead of 20 comments per article, I get two. Conversations no longer flourish.

It’s a persistent itch. Wondering:

Should I shut the comment system down? Reinvest the time and attention to make it rock? Do it differently?

I don’t know. Let’s try an experiment.

The Grand Commenting Experiment

The purpose of the comments on this website

• To build on and explore the idea of an article.
• To make it less scary. (Or more scary!)
• To explore possibility.
• To find other amazingpants people.
• To get clear on how to apply it to your particular situation.
• To laugh.
• To tell me I’m full of it, and why.
• To transmute ideas into action.

My part

• I solemnly swear that I am up to no good will respond to every (worthy) comment.
• I will never reply with ”Thanks!” or ”Good point!”.
• I will respond in a timely manner, although most certainly not the trigger-reflex way I did it back in the old days. But probably within… 24 hours? 48? Let’s say: as soon as I can do it well.
• I will go back through the archives to catch up, too.
• I will craft thoughtful, meaningful answers to drive the conversation – and transformation – onward.
• I will write articles that invite conversation and exploration.
• I will not pull my punches when asked for feedback.
• I will not give feedback or advice unless I am asked.

Your part

• You will only comment when you have something to say that is useful, or at least wildly entertaining.
• You will not comment just to give me a compliment.
• You will ask questions, offer your own related story, challenge my ideas, ask for feedback, or spot the Firefly/Terry Pratchett/Tank Girl reference.
• You will not offer feedback or advice to any other commenter unless they ask for it. Encouragement and sympathy are always awesome.
• You will not be a dickbag just to get attention, ’cos you’ll get deleted.
• You will come back and tell me how you used something you read to make a change. (Oh please yes)
• You will not whine if you write a comment that I do not reply to. Pretend to be me for a second and ask whether you could craft a reply that wasn’t ”Aww, thanks!”.
• You will go forth and rock it the fuck out.

Let the experiment begin! Come start it by telling me what you think of it, in the comments.

Johann was a cookie virtuoso.

His cookie emporium was famous across town, most especially for his Single Chocolate, Double Chocolate, Triple Chocolate, Quadruple Chocolate, Quintuple Chocolate and Sextuple Chocolate miracles.

His ingredients were impeccable, his equipment custom-designed and his staff were his favourite family members. Everything was safe and secure in Johann’s business.

And then, Johann awoke one morning, blasted with an obscene inspiration.

He wanted to make a rice cookie.

Not a cookie with rice flour, that had been done. Not a cookie with rice puffs, which was shameful and populist. No, a cookie with grains of rice in it. In a fearful, excited daze he walked into his kitchens.

Two hours later, he summoned Annoushka, his cheerful plump wife. She found three trays of cookies thrown out in the rubbish, one tray on the bench, and a manically grinning husband.

”Try this, my plum,” he said. Accustomed to being the bakery’s taste tester, she obediently picked up a small pale cookie and took a toothy bite. She paused. Her eyebrows creased together. She chewed thoughtfully. She ran her tongue around her mouth. She sucked her teeth. And then she said,

”I have never eaten anything like that before.”

“The texture is crunchy and smooth at once. It isn’t sweet, it isn’t savoury. It’s not dense or moist. It is… different.”

Johann smiled and then his smile fell. ”Yes, it’s very different. But I don’t think we can sell it.”

”Why not?” said Annoushka, while tentatively eyeing off another cookie.

”Because, my plum, it does not have chocolate or pecans or raisins or fruit pieces or cashews or any of the things people expect from a cookie. It doesn’t even have sugar in it! Only rice. And who would buy a rice cookie?”

Annoushka disagreed. And since Annoushka was in charge of marketing and retail strategy, Annoushka got her way.

Johann had a sleepless anxious night after Annoushka put a large ad in the paper.

It said, ”We bet you’ve never had a cookie like this before. Come try our astonishing Ricecapade Cookie. You’ll be amazed.”

Johann was distraught. He moaned, ”No-one will buy them, everyone will think we have gone mad, and Jormqvist across town will gain all our business and he will laugh in his damned beard at us. What have you done, my plum? Why did we have to tell everyone that we have lost all sense? We could have just made the cookies and hidden them up the back or something!”

Annoushka, used to life with a cookie virtuoso, ignored him and rolled over to get enough sleep. She knew tomorrow would be a busy day.

And she was right.

That night, exhausted and happy, Johann said, ”That was… gob-smacking. Did you see how Jormqvist turned up to gloat but he couldn’t even get to the counter? Ha! You are brilliant, my plum.”

Annoushka smiled. ”I am. And so are you.”

They embraced for a long, long moment and then Johann said, ”There is something I do not understand, my plum. Today we made triple our normal sales. Some of them were from those who came to try our Ricecapade cookie and bought it. But many of those sales seemed to come from people who never even looked at the rice cookie, but just bought a Quintuple Chocolate pack. Why so?”

Annoushka replied, ”Creating something unusual, daring, innovative or bold will get you attention. But the attention often wanders from what you created to who created it, and what else you’ve made. Some people may buy the unusual, daring, innovative or bold offering. But more people will likely buy the older, safer, more predictable one.”

”So once you get their attention, they still buy what they want to buy?”

”Yes, my dear. Cookie innovators will buy the new and untested recipes, and more people will go for the predictable Quintuple Chocolate. But neither group would be paying attention if you hadn’t created the innovative thing.”

”You’re a genius, my plum.”

”You already said so. Now come to bed.”

When was the last time you created something from the bleeding edge?

For me, it was last week: while somewhat sleep-deprived I wrote a sales page that made me squirmy and uncomfortable. The first line in it is Being stuck in your business is like a permanent case of blue balls.

I implored my brain to come up with a metaphor that was less intense and weird, and my brain refused to comply.

I went to my inner circle, including my just-graduated Pilot Light group, to get their feedback, and they told me it was awesome and hilarious and they would probably buy it.

And so, despite feeling jumbly and wrong about it, I hit Publish and told my wonderful Rise and Shine newsletter subscribers about the new offering and the process behind it.

To my complete lack of surprise, I got interest. One sale of the new Delogjamification service, to someone who loved the process of getting unstuck being handled in a light way, and conversations about other services, like Goddamn Radiant – a service I have been offering for a year-and-and-half without ever updating the sales page. (Although I will, soon.)

This has been the pattern every single time I have pushed my creative boundaries.

First, I freak out.
Then, I do it anyway.
And lastly, I get interest… most of it in something other than the new and scary thing.

I do not think this is a me-specific pattern.

But I want to know. So come to the comments and tell me:

When was the last time you created something that made you a bit nervous?
And what happened when you did?