Like you, I’ve made some sacrifices to the New Year gods—more vegetables, a month without booze.

But one of the most important resolutions I’ve made for 2020 this:

To stop selling shit on Craigslist.

Why? Why’s that so bad? It’s not bad, inherently.

Longtime users of this stripped down, early-aughts online garage sale love that you can sell and swap goods for cheap. I know I did.

I’ve conducted hundreds of exchanges on it over the years. I sold earrings. Kitchen appliances. An iPod. An iPad. Not one but two Subarus (my mom’s and mine).

Once I sold a set of plastic drawers to a handsome devil. We went on two dates. I was sold, but he, unfortunately, was not.

Another time, I sold some fake plants to a lumpy guy who—not kidding—sniffed every one of them before handing me a fan of damp cash.

I got a thrill out of selling stuff online. It seemed like free money. And for most of those years, I wasn’t making much, so every bit helped.

But it isn’t free money; it’s a job; it requires marketing, sales, delivery, contending with fickle buyers and no-shows. You’ll always find something for less than you’d expect—and you’ll sell it for less, too.

Here’s what sealed the deal for me and made me rethink this practice:

Just last week, I spent nearly 2 hours of my life coordinating the sale of a nightstand I’d inherited from a friend, and sold for $15.

“You got $15 bucks for that?” my friend said later. “You realize I found that on the street, right?”

What am I even doing?

Unless you’re a supplier running a whole Craigslist business (and plenty do), it’s hard to make your investment of time pay off for the occasional sale.

The instinct to sell is obvious: You have something of value. The thrill of a sale is obvious: Someone else recognizes the value.

But of course, this isn’t just about Craigslist.

Though I do find it troubling that I rearranged my day around coordinating a single, one-off sale for a stranger whom I’ll never ever see again, and for whom my entire value exists solely in a piece of third-hand yard sale furniture.

What I really need to ask myself—maybe what we all do—is: What is our time worth? What investment of attention yields the highest, most impactful value?

I think about my own business, and how my best efforts to grow it have rarely been the low stakes cash grab.

The best investments have been: Crafting worthwhile content; connecting great people; building and serving the right tribe; creating offers that make sense for me and the people I extend them to. Reading. Writing. Sleeping.

If there’s one thing we all do in 2020 that we’ll never regret, it’s getting clearer, and stricter, about what we’re spending our time on.

Because your time is precious. And the high water mark of your work this year will be when you created something of value, not when you wrung it from whatever saleable merch you have lying around.

Your work can and should take you further than a nightstand jammed into the back of a Brooklyn-bound uber. That I can promise you.

​I just watched the new animated Netflix movie Klaus with some friends the other night, and if it’s not in your holiday movie queue, it should be.

Not just because it’s cute and well done. But because there’s a hidden and profound message for those of us in a line of work we never imagined we’d be in.

Klaus is a clever reimagining of the origins of holiday gift giving, which begins with…a postman. 

Actually, he’s a spoiled rich kid name Jesper who’s packed off to post office school by his well-to-do father, and then sent on assignment to create a postal service in Smeerensburg, a miserable, hateful little hamlet north of nowhere. 

It’s a seemingly impossible task because its inhabitants don’t send letters; they hurl garbage at each other’s homes and generally busy themselves with petty, ignorant nonsense. 

Even the town teacher has given up teaching and turned her classroom into a fish market.

Our reluctant hero does not have a passion for letters or mail delivery. He hates this job.

But then, he spies an opportunity. 

He gets the reclusive woodsman who lives outside of town to donate his garage full of handmade toys sitting there collecting dust—and says he’ll deliver the toys for free to every child who requests one by letter.

The woodsman—named Klaus—complies, as long as he can come along, too. And off they go, in a sleigh heaped with toys, dragged along by reindeer. Sound familiar? 

Why Christmas? Jesper chooses it because it’s convenient, a built-in occasion for boosting engagement around his campaign. 

(Also sounds familiar.)

While the more religiously inclined among us may not like this one bit, fact is, Klaus is in many ways more aligned with our modern cultural take on the holiday: An opportunity to engage customers (and move merch). Which Jesper and Klaus do to great effect. 

The moral of the tale is that one kind act leads to another. 

But there’s another lesson here that I like a lot, too: 

That even if we didn’t choose or don’t even like the job at hand, we can find in it opportunity for change and growth—and life-altering fulfillment.

It reminds me of what Seth Godin says: “You are not your resume; you are your work.”

We all know what it is to have to do a job we don’t want. And like Jesper, every last one of us is looking to improve our standing in the world. There’s nothing wrong with seeking opportunities where you find them.

But the real reward comes when we can engage deeply in the work, any work, and discover where our own unique skill set meets a need and fills it.

We are the work we do. And when we give to that work, it can give back tenfold. It can change you for the better. Maybe change your whole life.

Of course, Jesper changes his mind about his career, and even about the town, because by the end both are changed.  I won’t spoil the ending for you, but you can probably guess it’s close to…happily ever after. 🙂

…P.S. If you think everyone has some kind of clear, obvious career path, think again. I was interviewed this week on the 4 Chicks Chatting podcast (great group of ladies), and I talk about just how lost I was, for a long time.

After years of working on a book, I’m finally shopping around a proposal.

And while I’m only a few weeks into this first leg of the publishing journey, I can tell you already it is not for the faint of heart.

Of course, I went into this expecting an even blend of rejection and radio silence; you’d be crazy not to. Plus, I can’t think of a single successful writer who can’t paper the walls with “no thank yous.” That’s not the problem; it’s part of the game.

Now, as you know, when pursuing a traditional publishing route, you send your proposal to an agent who decides whether it’s something she a) likes and b) can sell it to a publisher. That’s the job.

But what I’ve been hearing from very thoughtful, bright, and responsive agents isn’t just “no thanks.” What they’re telling me, is that, well, the marketplace for this kind of book (a non-fiction collection of essays), is competitive.

They tell me that what I’m trying to do is…hard.

They say writing is hard. Publishing is hard. That particular genre I want to write in? Is hard.

Of course, I know this. It also doesn’t change my mind one iota. Why? Because this isn’t helpful advice.

It’s one thing to pass on a project, to reject a person or opportunity. That’s life.

But telling someone that xyz is “hard,” is insidious: It disempowers the other person by passing the buck and blaming the world/market/industry. (“It’s not me! It’s just, the world is hard.”)

There’s also no good response. When someone tells me that what I want to write is going to be “hard,” what am I supposed to say? “Oh! Ok. Then I guess instead I’ll pitch my other book on the mating habits of the helmeted water toad.” (Which I do not have.)

Fact is, everything worth doing is hard. Building a business is hard. Ending a relationship is hard. Raising kids is hard. Getting out of bed is pretty damn hard.

Here we are, in the most joyful, fun, festive season of the year. And yet, I think we can agree, that Christmas is really, really goddamn hard.

If you listened to people every time they told you things were hard, you wouldn’t be anywhere. And neither would I.

Also because no one would have invented a damn thing and we’d all be in our homes without electricity or internet or washable fabrics.

When you look back over your life, the things that were hard to do were also worth it. And you did them for a reason.

What we have to be careful of, myself included, is falling into the trap of telling ourselves that things are hard, even too hard, and use that as a reason not to do them.

For my part, you can assume I’ll continue working on what I’m working on, regardless of how hard someone else thinks it is.

Because calling something hard is actually really easy. It’s doing the work that requires worthwhile effort.

Let’s stop talking about how things are hard, and instead, talk about why they’re worth it.

Have you seen Hadestown?

The award winning Broadway show is a brilliant, modern retelling of the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. (And yes, it will blow you away.)

Here’s the quick and dirty:

  • Orpheus and Eurydice fall in love.
  • Orpheus has been working on his masterpiece, an epic song that will change the world. He gets so wrapped up in his song he forgets Eurydice for a while, who grows very hungry.
  • Hades, king of the underworld, finds her in a desperate state, and makes her an offer she can’t refuse. She’s poor and hungry and without hope, as Orpheus kinda ghosted.
  • Orpheus goes to find her, and learns she’s gone the underworld. He vows to get her back. 

Of course, it’s not that easy. The king doesn’t let his property go just like that. But when Orpheus sings his epic song, he is moved.

So:

  • Hades puts forth a challenge to Orpheus (as the myth goes): He can leave and take Eurydice with him, but he must walk ahead of her and never turn around to check if she’s there. If he does, she will be banished to Hades forever.
  • Orpheus accepts the challenge, and with every step of that long, arduous journey, becomes racked with self-doubt.

After all, why should the king let him go? Why should he be able to get what he wants? He doesn’t deserve it. Maybe it’s a trick. The king is surely going to win. He thinks he has no choice. But he does.

We know how this ends. How it always, always ends:

He’s almost home. The light is just cresting the hillside. At that last moment, just as he’s almost home—

…He turns around.

His love has been there the whole time. At this moment in the show, she covers her face and sinks to her knees as the floor drops away, drawing her back down to the underworld, forever.

It’s a sad song, Hermes says, but we must sing it. Again and again. Each time we hope it’ll be different, but it isn’t.

Orpheus’s story is your story. My story. We go through this over and over again. Sometimes doubt seizes us and won’t let go.

We are all trying to do work that matters, work we care about—our epic song, as it were. We believe that if we could do that, if we could just get that song done, it could change everything. And it can! But if we can’t shake that doubt, we’re stuck in a vicious cycle.

The question is: HOW do you know you’re creating great stuff? Don’t rely on the critic to tell you that. It won’t.

We can’t banish the critic forever, but we can become better skilled at seeing the brilliance in our own work.

When you practice seeing what’s working, you can weaken the grip of the belief that every effort you making is going straight to hell in a handbasket.

Come experience it first hand. With me.

Join me for my one-day, standalone Pop Up Story Salon, where you will learn the Gateless method—and see what it’s like to trust your own work for a change.

I have two upcoming dates for this in-person work at the Pop Up Story Salon, and would love to have you join me:

POP UP STORY SALON DATES:

⇒ Wed 12/4, 9-5p in NYC

⇒ Thu 12/12, 9-5p in Chicago

(Learn more on the Pop Up Salon and how to snag a seat.)

I know this is a bananas time of year—even more reason to give yourself a LITTLE bit of space and quiet to focus before we plunge headlong into the holidays again.

When’s the last time someone pointed out what you were doing right? Not just “good job.” I mean, specifically and in detail something you did really, really well.

Ok. And when’s the last time someone pointed out an error you made, or a change you might consider, or ways to improve what you’ve done? Probably 30 seconds ago.

I believe that most feedback comes from good intention. They think they’re helping when they point out what’s wrong, because that way you can be better.

The problem, as Marcus Buckingham and Ashley Goodall wrote in their HBR cover story this spring, “The Feedback Fallacy,” is that traditional feedback is flawed. Deeply. And it doesn’t do what you think it will do.

“People don’t need feedback,” the authors write. “They need attention to what they do best.”

You wouldn’t believe the pushback I hear on this. People LOVE their criticism. We so want to believe we’re right about what needs fixing. And maybe we are!

Part of the problem is we dive into criticism too soon—right at the tender moment when we’re risking new ideas, new efforts. And criticism can seriously tamp down your creativity.

But part of it is just that we assume that what’s working is so obvious we don’t need to pay attention to it.

That’s incorrect. Because often we DON’T know what we’re doing right. We’re all so focused on not messing up! We’re out there tiptoeing around landmines, which ties up a lot of our bandwidth, making it hard to do, well, much of anything else.

How helpful is positive feedback? Maybe at least just as helpful as negative? Maybe two times, five times as effective? Try again.

“Positive attention is 30x more powerful than negative attention in creating high performance on a team,” say Buckingham and Goodall.

Think this is some special snowflake stuff? Some kind of everyone-gets-a-trophy tactic that panders to weakness and a need for acceptance?

Wrong again.

I’ve seen what happens when you take a group of smart, successful professionals of all stripes who’ve spent a lifetime avoiding criticism, and put them in a room with new groundrules and expectations, and no fear of criticism. .

What they create blows me away, every time.

I was so excited about the HBR article because it confirms what I have seen and learned as a Gateless trained facilitator. Gateless is a methodology, an approach to creative work (read: any work), designed to quiet the critic so that you can tap your own potential—for creativity, big ideas, all of it.

We write to a prompt and share that work out loud—and what you hear back from the group is what is specifically working and why. It retrains the mind to see what’s working in others’ work, so you can see it in your own. It challenges habitual ways of thinking, and can catapult your work forward.

What does Gateless feedback sound like? Take a listen.

My fellow Gateless teacher Becky Karush has a podcast that’s based on the Gateless method. It’s called Read to Me: The Podcast to Listen for What We Love, and each week she takes a piece of work, ranging from song lyrics to classic works to modern authors, and shares a short passage, and then does a Gateless “read” on it.

This episode features a very fun mashup of Taylor Swift and our colleague Cass McCrory, a digital marketing strategist who shared something quite personal from her own life.

The reason I point it out to you now is because Cass wrote it in about 15 minutes in my Pop Up Story Salon in NYC in August. She wrote it, read it, and we all fell in love. You will too (listen to that episode here).

It just goes to how what can happen when you give yourself TIME to write and ATTENTION to what you do best.

Try it today. Go around and point out specifically what people are doing well. All day. All week if you like. Then, see what happens.

(…If this sounds like fun, btw, I’m running another Pop Up Salon in NYC WED 12/4/19. Learn more about it + hold your spot here. )

 

When’s the last time someone pointed out what you were doing right? Not just “good job.” I mean, specifically and in detail something you did really, really well.

Ok. And when’s the last time someone pointed out an error you made, or a change you might consider, or ways to improve what you’ve done? Probably 30 seconds ago.

I believe that most feedback comes from good intention. They think they’re helping when they point out what’s wrong, because that way you can be better.

The problem, as Marcus Buckingham and Ashley Goodall wrote in their HBR cover story this spring, “The Feedback Fallacy,” is that traditional feedback is flawed. Deeply. And it doesn’t do what you think it will do.

“People don’t need feedback,” the authors write. “They need attention to what they do best.”

You wouldn’t believe the pushback I hear on this. People LOVE their criticism. We so want to believe we’re right about what needs fixing. And maybe we are!

Part of the problem is we dive into criticism too soon—right at the tender moment when we’re risking new ideas, new efforts. And criticism can seriously tamp down your creativity.

But part of it is just that we assume that what’s working is so obvious we don’t need to pay attention to it.

That’s incorrect. Because often we DON’T know what we’re doing right. We’re all so focused on not messing up! We’re out there tiptoeing around landmines, which ties up a lot of our bandwidth, making it hard to do, well, much of anything else.

How helpful is positive feedback? Maybe at least just as helpful as negative? Maybe two times, five times as effective? Try again.

“Positive attention is 30x more powerful than negative attention in creating high performance on a team,” say Buckingham and Goodall.

Think this is some special snowflake stuff? Some kind of everyone-gets-a-trophy tactic that panders to weakness and a need for acceptance?

Wrong again.

I’ve seen what happens when you take a group of smart, successful professionals of all stripes who’ve spent a lifetime avoiding criticism, and put them in a room with new ground rules and expectations, and no fear of criticism. .

What they create blows me away, every time.

I was so excited about the HBR article because it confirms what I have seen and learned as a Gateless trained facilitator. Gateless is a methodology, an approach to creative work (read: any work), designed to quiet the critic so that you can tap your own potential—for creativity, big ideas, all of it.

We write to a prompt and share that work out loud—and what you hear back from the group is what is specifically working and why. It retrains the mind to see what’s working in others’ work, so you can see it in your own. It challenges habitual ways of thinking, and can catapult your work forward.

Want to know what it sounds like?

My fellow Gateless teacher Becky Karush has a podcast that’s based on the Gateless method. It’s called Read to Me: The Podcast to Listen for What We Love, and each week she takes a piece of work, ranging from song lyrics to classic works to modern authors, and shares a short passage, and then does a Gateless “read” on it.

This week features a very fun mashup of Taylor Swift and our colleague Cass McCrory, a digital marketing strategist who shared something quite personal from her own life.

The reason I point it out to you now is because Cass wrote it in about 15 minutes in my Pop Up Story Salon in NYC in August. She wrote it, read it, and we all fell in love. You will too (listen to that episode here).

It just goes to how what can happen when you give yourself TIME to write and ATTENTION to what you do best.

(If this sounds like fun, btw, I’m running another Pop Up Salon in NYC WED 12/4 and you can learn more about it + hold your spot here. )

Try it today. Go around and point out specifically what people are doing well. All day. All week if you like. Then, see what happens.

P.S. Seriously–if you’re near NYC, come to the all-day Pop Up Story Salon Wed 12/4. It could be just the spark you need.

When’s the last time someone listened to you. I mean, really listened.

Like, you could tell they were right there with you.

It’s rare, to have someone’s attention like that.

Even right now, I only have a share of your attention. And I’m holding on to it for dear life. 

Why? Because someone’s talking over your shoulder, your texts are going off like crazy, and you’re debating whether you should go get a coffee or not (I vote yes. YES TO COFFEE.)

I bring it up, about people listening, this because lately I’ve been doing a lot of speaking and speaking ABOUT speaking (solo presenter and moderator trainings), and to me it always comes down to this:

Attention is the MOST expensive resource we have. And if you want someone to pay you with it, you better earn it. 

When you get on stage (or on screen, or at the front of the room) your job is to give people a reason why they should KEEP PAYING YOU with their attention.

Ask yourself, why should someone listen to me, and what am I doing to earn that attention? 

It’s one of the things I’m thinking about as I prepare to speak to the women execs and emerging leaders at Hearst this week (which I’m very excited about).

And if your answer to that question is, “Because I have important information to share,”—well, I think you can do even better.

Going in with info is the low bar.

I say aim higher: Go in not just to give information, but to change their minds. 

Yes. EVEN if they didn’t know there was anything to change their minds about.

For instance, I give a keynote based on my TEDx talk, “Stop searching for your passion.” The assumption I’m working with here is that people DO think that if they followed their passions, they’d be happier, and then they worry that they haven’t picked the right passion or missed it altogether.

I start there, and overturn the idea, showing them how flawed it is, and why it’s profoundly unhelpful.

Anytime you get up to say your piece, a host of invisible obstacles, assumptions, anxiety, all kinds of clutter, get in the way. So the first job is to dismantle that stuff so that the path is clear. 

That is the critical heavy lifting for ANY public speaking effort.  Not just knowing why you’re there, but what this audience believes and how your insights can affect, or even overturn, that belief. That’s how to meet them where they are.

This has never, ever steered me wrong—but it’s a step most people skip.

ALSO, GOINGS-ON TO SHARE…

DO SOMETHING COOL!

> POP-UP STORY SALON in NYC | Weds 12/4, 9:00-5:00

> POP-UP STORY SALON in Chicago | Thurs 12/12, 9:00-5:00

I’m running two live, in person Pop-Up Story Salons—ideal for business owners, execs, entrepreneurs, speakers, writers, marketers—anyone who wishes to God they had a few hours to think clearly and go deep into their own work, instead of putting out fires all day. Find out more + reserve your spot.

A few weeks ago, some friends and I decided to do something really seasonal: We went out to the country (read: Jersey) to pick apples. 

Turns out, we’d missed apple picking season by two weeks. We could buy the ones that had been picked and stuffed into paper sacks. But what’s the fun in that. 

We instead visited the pumpkin patch, picked among the misshapen, warty gourds for perfect, round orbs that we could carry and fit into our tiny New York apartments. (Plus, document on IG #fall #pumpkinspice). We proceeded to go eat burgers the size of our heads. 

Then, after it got dark, we went BACK to the orchard and paid someone to scare the crap out of us. 

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” one of our five friends said. 

“Too bad. We’re doing it.”

We bounced along on bales of hay, and were deposited back at the Demarest orchard, where the charming sunny pumpkin patch had become something much darker, where all manner of ghosts, goblins, and witches lay in wait.

There was an edge of cool in the air, the moon as bright as as bulb, casting long green shadows across the grove. We waited in line FOR AN HOUR.

When we finally stepped through the old barn doors into the yawning orchard, there was…no one. It was silent and still. 

Where were all those other people? We tiptoed through, bound together as if by glue, giddy and giggling, wondering what was about to happen. 

The world right now, I think we can agree, is scary enough. 

But what we, and many others, didn’t want the evening news, or virtual reality. 

What we wanted was to walk through an actual orchard and be taken off guard by by real people masquerading as monsters—who, I reminded my frightened friend, were heavily made up theater majors with a sweet seasonal gig. 

Even when I knew what was about to happen, I was still startled when a witch leapt from the shadows or a hunching ghoul came snarling over my shoulder. 

It worked. Humans startling humans, one of the oldest games in the book. 

Why am I telling you this? 

Because for all our bustling online lives, all the platforms we build out of thin, digital air, for all our efforts to reach each other—as I’m doing with you, via the interwebs right now—nothing can ever replace real people affecting, and sometimes surprising, real people. 

All the crazy special effects in the world cannot come close to the real-life experience of good old fashioned analog horror. Even when it comes in the form of a 22-year-old kid in zombie makeup. 

We don’t always want to be scared, of course—what we want is to be stimulated, to feel alive, and sometimes, yes, to feel that is…startling. 

Maybe you don’t like scary things. But you can startle in many ways—with beauty, with humor, with a unique thought or story or idea. 

Canned marketing does not startle. Predictable sales pitches do not startle. Carefully executed web pages designed to trigger in the name of conversion, rarely startle. 

But leaping into the path of another person, in whatever form that takes? That remains the only way to get someone’s attention. You don’t have to scare them, but you may need to startle them out of an old way of thinking and seeing. 

All five of us made it out of the orchard alive, laughing, feeling the afterglow of adrenaline returning to its natural levels. 

It was fun to be scared in a pretend situation, to fake fight with a maniac and for real flirt with a haggard ghost who kept haunting me (“Oh please, you don’t scare me,” I said. “I’ve been ghosted before.” 

So my question to you is this: 

Where are you startling people out of their habitual thoughts, fears, predictable loathing? Where have you been startled? 

Where are you helping someone feel more alive than they were five minutes ago? 

…Part of the fun of any work, your work, is being surprised by it. Delighted, awed, engaged. Have you given yourself a chance to do or experience that? Are you doing it in the work you share with the world? 

You can still access the replay of my two-part masterclass, Rekindle Your Content, where you’ll discover ways to breathe startling new life into the connections you’re making with your prospects, clients, audience. 

What’s going on in your world?

Two big things this week in mine: Wed (the 9th) is my birthday, and I’m also moving. Did I tell you that?

Not far—about four blocks from where I currently live on the Upper West Side. My requirements were that I didn’t want to have to change dry cleaners, coffee shops, or subway stops.

Boom.

So it’s not far, but in many ways it’s miles beyond where I’ve been living.

Why? Because I’m going from a 300 sq. ft studio apartment, where I’ve lived for 10 years (10!) to a one-bedroom that’s over 600 sq ft.

For people who typically eat and sleep in different rooms, this doesn’t feel like much. But in Manhattan, it might as well be Buckingham Palace.

It’s fun. It’s also…physically painful. My back is sore at me, my shoulder feels off its hinges. My right hamstring is balled up like an angry fist. I’m excited. That hamstring is thrilled, too, actually. It just doesn’t know how to show it. So it’s fistbumping the rest of my body.

One thing moving makes you do? Take serious stock. Look at what you have, what you no longer want. It’s a line in the sand, moving. And several bags of forgettable sweaters didn’t make the cut.

I’m also bracing for the vulnerability of having a team of movers, due here any minute, going through my stuff.

I mean, this is intimate stuff–this is your LIFE, being handled, packed, and heaved onto a truck.

I expect zero editorializing from these four movers, whom I’ll guess will be around 27 years old. But can you imagine if they did?

“What is this?”

“Why do you own this?”

“You sure this works with your life right now?”

These are lines of dialogue that won’t occur today. I am guessing, in fact, very little dialogue will occur.

MY POINT:

What makes us a little uneasy about moving is the same reason we’re sometimes uneasy about sharing our stuff—namely, ideas, stories, dreams.

Because sharing them feels…vulnerable.

What if you could share what you do, think, create, and know that NO ONE is going to criticize or judge or question your taste, but instead are going to look at it specifically to explore its genius?

Imagine if one of these movers held out a dress from my closet and said, “OMG this was a great decision.” (That’s not happening. But can you imagine if it did?)

I’m not a mover technically, but I do help people move their work into the world. How? By helping people see and express the genius in all the stuff that’s jammed into their closets, drawers. Things they haven’t looked at in years.

And I do it using a specific method for tapping creative genius, one I’m trained in, called the Gateless Method. And I speak about it and do workshops and retreats all over the place so that people can experience it themselves.

Last week I did a two-part masterclass called Rekindle Your Content, to help people turn content creation from soulless slog to energizing, powerful tool that you LIKE CREATING.

(And I practice what I preach, too—how else do you think these emails get written?)

The response has been so fantastic, so I thought you might want to see it. I’m making the replays available to you right now for a limited time. You can grab them right here (it’s free).

Let me know what you think! I’d love to hear.

>>GET THE FREE REKINDLE REPLAYS.

OK. Movers are here. Gotta run.

P.S. Wait til you see Part II–where people I don’t know at all share their stuff with me and everyone on the call (and there were a lot of people on there). I found it pretty powerful. I always do.