Jeff Goins's Blog, page 90

Unsolicited Advice to My Teenage Self

Dear younger, more idiotic, teenage me:

Me at 13.

There are a few things I want to tell you about yourself and your future. Hopefully, they’ll save you some pain.

But before that, here are a few quick updates from the future:

First of all, the Internet wasn’t just a fad. It’s still around. Crazy that people stare at screens all day for work and then go home to do the exact same thing for fun, huh? Well, you’re the only one who thinks so.

Second, no flying cars yet. Yeah, I know. I’m bummed about that, too.

Lastly, you got married, had a kid, and did a bunch of other grown-up stuff. The crazy part? It wasn’t that bad. Which is what this whole letter is about. So let’s jump in, shall we?

Here’s my advice to you, teen Jeff:

“Chasing girls” is a misnomer. The paradox is that you often find the one you’re looking for when you stop looking.
Keep playing guitar and creating art. You won’t regret it.
You will find yourself most contented when you think about yourself the least.
Travel sooner.
Not all commitments are bad. Make some.
The habits you form in the next few years will stick with you, in some form or another, for the rest of your life.
Don’t spread yourself too thin.
Just pick a college already.
Learn more about business. It’s not as evil as you might think.
Get into shape sooner, not for what other people think but for your own confidence.
You don’t have God completely figured out.
Read for fun, even when you don’t have time.
Restlessness is a season, not a lifestyle. Be ready to let it go.
Stop being afraid of what other people think and trying to win their approval. Everyone you’re scared of right now doesn’t amount to much.
Write. For yourself. For others. Just write. (And don’t ever settle for your first draft of anything.) There’s a reason words come to you in the middle of the night.
Buy some stock in Apple. Seriously. You’ll thank me later.

Sincerely,

The older, still idiotic You

Note: My friend, Emily, had this great idea to write a letter to her teenage self to celebrate the launch of her new book, Graceful . If you’d like to join, find out more here.

What advice would you give to your younger self? Share in the comments.

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Have you been WRECKED?

Remembering September 11: A Reflection

Note: I shared this last year on 9/11, and it seemed appropriate to share again.

It was one of those days you remember exactly where you were.

Photo credit: Flickr (Creative Commons)

The day the quiet hit

I was in the computer lab at college, in Spanish class.

Regarding what happened and how I reacted, I don’t recall. What I do remember clearly was the walk from Gardner Hall to Kirby Learning Center. It was quiet on the quad that morning, and I strolled my usual, slow pace. It was a walk of ignorance.

As soon as I passed through those doors, everything changed.

The first thing I remember was the quiet. Not a single student or professor was talking, yet the room was packed. All eyes were glued to the TV, watching the news.

I wasn’t sad or upset. I wasn’t angry. I just felt numb. I didn’t know what to think — I was in shock.

What did this mean? Was this an accident? What went wrong?

And then — shock upon shock — another airplane hit the second tower. More panic. Now fear. We looked at each other, unsure of anything.

The rest of the day was a blur. And in a way, it has been ever since.

* * *

The silence continues

Years later, I found myself in New York City, at the very site I had witnessed destroyed on television. I stood in the 16-acre void and heard a stillness that surprised me.

As my fingers gripped the chain-link fence surrounding Ground Zero, I gazed in awe. Here, thousands of souls had breathed their last. Here, heroes fell.

Somehow — amidst such heaviness — I found something powerful, something unexpected.

Hope.

It came in the form of St. Paul’s Chapel.

I had heard stories of this church that had miraculously survived 9/11, but seeing it in-person was another experience.

This tiny, 250 year-old building refused to conform to modern architecture. It was one of a few buildings left standing in a vacuum in the middle of downtown. Its spires and cemetery cowered under the grandeur of the city that doesn’t sleep.

Like a wise grandfather, it seemed to shrug dismissively at the fast, smooth ways of the world.

It was here before. And it will be here after.

Words don’t do it justice, but that little old building tells a story worth listening to — one of redemption and pain, of loss and resilience.

As I gazed at the site, the drone of the city slowly re-entered the scene. A Gray’s Papaya vendor shouted in the distance. A taxi cab honked its horn. There was the noise of life again.

I will never forget that moment. And I will always be grateful.

Where were you on September 11? What’s your reflection from that day? Share in the comments.

*Photo credit: Flickr (Creative Commons)

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The Best Writer I Never Knew (An Ode to My Grandfather)

Note: For Grandparents Day, I’m reposting this article in memory of my grandpa, Charles Ward.

Most people spend their lives dreaming of meeting someone famous — a big shot actress or world-class musician maybe. They long for a chance to connect with someone of real talent, a genius. But not me.

For years I had an amazing artist sitting right in front of me — and I didn’t even know it.

Photo credit: Lorenzo Cuppini (Creative Commons)

My Grandpa Ward was a jazz pianist, dedicated reporter, and oil painter. Among other things, he wrote plays and admired public radio, appreciated fine art and had a penchant for the classics. I have more in common with him than any other relative, living or dead.

But I never knew my grandfather like that — as the artist, I mean. For me, he was a nice man with a grumpy side who loved me and loved books. Only years after his death did I realize what a remarkable man he was. I regret not getting to know him better when I had the chance.

Fortunately, I have the privilege of preserving his memory in words — an apt epitaph, if I do so say myself. Here’s an excerpt of a piece I wrote about him, which was published in April 2012:

It’s early afternoon. Despite sun pouring through the windows, the room seems dimly lit. I know this room.

There’s a bathroom off to the side where I took my first shower—a rite of passage for a boy used to bubble baths. My mom stayed here after having my sister. While she was in the hospital, I read a letter from her every day that she was gone. All in this room.

It’s a place of beginnings, this room. But not today. Not this drab, dreary afternoon.

The priest recites words from a book that is not the Bible. They are practically inaudible. If I could hear them, I would not understand. Looking around, fidgety, I sigh. I am bored.

Books line the shelves: Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Stein; biographies, bibliographies, and literary analyses—it’s an appropriate place for a journalist, a caretaker of others’ stories, to die. 

Read the rest: When Grandpa Died

My grandfather was the best writer and artist I’ve ever known. I just wish I would’ve known that, and appreciated it, while he was alive.

I wish he could see me now, so that he could see his grandson, the published author. I wish he, the playwright, could’ve seen me performing in plays in college or performing live concerts with my band. I wish he could see my the walls of my house, lined with bookshelves. Just like his.

I think he’d be proud of me. Maybe he is.

Who is someone (a family member, friend, even famous person) you wish you would’ve gotten to know better? Share in the comments.

*Photo credit: Lorenzo Cuppini (Creative commons)

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Have you been WRECKED?

Simple Saturdays (An Essay)

My boy. He sleeps in the swing, and I slowly sip lukewarm coffee that I’ve let cool too long. The music from the mobile plays for a third time and finally his heavy eyelids fall. I sit on the couch, a small smile creeping on my face.

I can’t help it.

Photo credit: Ashley Goins

I’ve slept less than I should but more than I have in weeks, and so today I choose to be grateful. It’s Saturday, after all, and there’s little to do.

I love these days, because I get to focus on what’s important instead of on what’s urgent. Monday through Friday, five to nine — this is the work week, consumed with busyness and urgency. But on the weekends, we slow down. Mow the lawn. Read a book.

I love the simplicity of a Saturday. It’s the perfect in-between, a moment free of obligation. Because even if you do absolutely nothing today, there is always tomorrow, always another half of the weekend to catch up and strive and prepare for the coming craziness.

But today, there is none of that. There is only now. Only the moment. And we get so few of these moments in our adult life — these guilt-free snapshots where nothing is expected or demanded. So I plan to relish mine. Because who knows when it will come again?

Yes, there are dishes in the sink and a dog begging to be walked. There are bills and unbalanced checkbooks. But all of that can wait — at least for a day. Those worries were never intended for a day like today. A day so perfect as Saturday.

In Spanish, the word is Sabado — literally, “sabbath.” A rest. A break. A chance to catch our breath so that the next note we play can be strong and proud.

Today, we waste hours in the kitchen, preparing pancakes. We squander and slow down, sacrificing efficiency for delight. We turn the radio up and let the music blare. We watch movies until evening, never changing out of our pajamas. We go outside and do nothing but enjoy.

We do all this, not because we have to or need to, but because we want to. And we remember that it’s days like this that help us recharge and retreat and ready ourselves for another busy week. We do this, of course, by forgetting the fact and simply savoring the moment.

If music be the food of love, play on.

—Shakespeare 

How are you spending your Saturday? Share in the comments.

*Photo credit: Ashley Goins

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Every Writer Needs a Tribe (Have You Found Yours?)

The other day, I had three conversations:

A friend on social media told me she was tired of building a platform and just wanted to write.
Another told me there was no formula for getting published (I believed her because she written over a dozen books); however she did say that attracting a tribe of fans is important.
An established author told me writers who don’t worry about marketing are doomed from the start.

Photo credit: Joe Crawford (Creative Commons)

I believe they’re all right. Chances are, if you’re a writer, you can resonate with one of the above worldviews. You’re likely frustrated or tired or maybe even hopeful of this idea of building a tribe. And I want to help clear some things up for you…

You already have a tribe

Tribes are inevitable. You have one, whether you realize it or not.

Tribes are how we live our lives. We are constantly banding together with other people to discuss ideas and share information. Your church is a tribe. Your job is another tribe. Your group of friends is another.

You have a tribe. The question is: Do you know it?

Let’s ditch the jargon and just speak in plain English for a second. A tribe isn’t a fan club or mega, super platform; it’s just a group of people who care about something. And we all belong to a few of those, don’t we?

Choosing to lead is a choice

The scary part of a tribe isn’t finding one. It’s leading one. When I hear about artists feeling worn out by their tribes, it’s usually due to the pressures of leadership. They’re tired of leading (and rightfully so, because it’s hard work).

So when people tell me they aren’t interested in finding a tribe, I wonder if part of what’s motivating them is the fear of being a leader.

Look. Your tribe is forming — it’s out there. Don’t believe me? Google a crazy, random hobby (like ninja monkey training, for example). There’s likely a group talking about it right now.

In a world where connection is now easy and free, it’s not a matter of if the tribe will form, but when. And the real question is this: Will you be brave enough to lead? 

It’s not what you think

Maybe you’ve had this idea all wrong. Leading a tribe has nothing to do with being a celebrity or rock star or anything like that. It’s about digging deep into your craft and finding a way to help people. That’s all it is — you, using your gifts to serve.

If leaders are servants (and they are), then finding your tribe is simply answering a calling. (Tweet that)

It’s taking your vocation to the next level. Because once you step up and decide to lead, you can never go back. From that moment on, you will have people listening — paying attention to your every move.

And all of the sudden, there is a tremendous weight to your words and actions. Which isn’t always easy, but that’s the price we pay to lead. And frankly, it far outweighs the cost of not doing it.

A couple freebies

I hope you’ll take the time to find your tribe and realize that it may not be as much about you as you think. It’s about them, those people who need your words. So go find “them.” If you need some help, here are two offers:

Check out Every Writer Needs a Tribe , an eBook collection of some of my favorite posts and pieces on the topic of tribe-building. This week only, it’s free on Amazon.
My upcoming course, Tribe Writers, addresses the issue of how writers can find their tribes (both by improving their writing and learning how to spread ideas). You can get the first lesson for free, plus some other stuff, sent to you when you join the email list.

So there you go: two freebies on finding your tribe. Enjoy. And if you get a chance, leave a comment, sharing a little more about your tribe. I’d also love to hear what you’re struggling with.

What does your tribe look like? How do you need help finding it? Share in the comments.

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Have you been WRECKED?

What Everybody Ought to Know About Writing

It’s hard.
It’s harder than you think.
It never gets easier (but it does get better).
It’s scarier than it should be (but not too bad once you start).
It’s the last thing you want to do when it’s the first thing you should do.
It’s usually pretty thankless (especially when you’re doing it right).
It’s easy to begin, hard to continue, and even harder to finish.
It’s never enough; you can always do more.
It can be painful.
It’s hard.

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The Trophy: An Essay About My Dad & Fatherhood

Note: My friend Mark wrote a book about his dad and asked me to write the Foreword. I was honored to do so, and with his permission, I’ve included an adaptation of it here. As a new dad myself, I’m learning why it’s important — and hard — to be a dad.

Photo credit: Julie Rybarczyk

Somewhere, buried deep beneath stacks of comic books and other remnants of my childhood, is a trophy.

It’s old and wooden but in good shape. On the top stands a small figure made of brass. He’s playing soccer.

There are dark brown stripes along the sides of the trophy and decorations on the front. The whole thing is maybe 18 inches tall.

Near the base is a small placard. Somehow, over the years, it has never fallen off. There is an engraving, which reads:

JKG

Most Improved Player

I played soccer for only a few years. For most of my childhood I was a nonathletic kid whose only claim to fame was a spelling bee medal. I was chubby and sensitive and shy around girls. I didn’t get many awards.

The trophy

For two seasons when I was in elementary school, my dad coached our boys’ soccer team. I couldn’t run from one end of the field to the other without getting winded, so I played defense.

Dad, who had grown up playing baseball and football, never mentioned it, never called me fat.

Instead, he taught me to use my body weight to my advantage. If you don’t use your hands, I learned, you can get away with a lot in soccer. My dad taught me to aggressively “nudge” my opponents out of the way to get the ball.

At the end of the year, he gave me the trophy.

Later, I learned the county soccer association didn’t hand out trophies that year. I discovered there was a store near the mall that let you swap figures on old trophies — like a bowler for a soccer player, for example.

But I didn’t learn this for many years — not until around the same time I was old enough to understand that our cocker spaniel Jessi hadn’t “run away.”

A sweet silence

When my dad handed me the award, we exchanged no words. None were necessary. The trophy said it all: Well done. For years, it would sit on my shelf, resting near a window, easily seen by passersby.

My dad had a special way of telling me he was proud of me. How he did it was as significant as that he did it — always in a way that was honest.

If my placard had said, “Team’s Best Player,” I wouldn’t have believed it. I was smart; that would’ve been insulting. But I could handle “most improved.”

And he could’ve put a number of variations on it. Instead, he stamped the trophy with three important letters: J K G. They were my initials: Jeffery Keith Goins. But they were also his initials. No sign of “junior”” appeared anywhere.

As far as the trophy was concerned, there was no distinction between my father and me. No wonder I never got rid of it.

From boy to man

As the years went by and I grew from a boy to a man, my relationship with my father ebbed and flowed with the patterns and conflicts of life. As all sons do, I eventually came to see my father as a man, a flawed human being — the last thing we want our dads to be.

For a season, I let this lead to disillusion. But now, whenever tempted to be disappointed, I recall that trophy. And I remind myself that most dads do the best they know how.

The relationship a man has with his father is unlike any other — which really is just a euphemism for “weird.”

The role of these men is to raise us. They teach us how to build a shelf and fix a toilet. They model strength and resolve for us. They train us up in honor and integrity and how to ask a girl to the prom. And sometimes they don’t.

Either way, we grow to admire and even fear them, to hold them to an ideal that likely would mortify them if they knew it.

There is a mystery to our fathers, a piece of these men that we never know. Through their silence, they teach us. And this is part of the legacy our fathers leave us, if we will recognize it.

The fatherlessness in us all

There are some sons and daughters who grow up with fathers, and some who do not. Most of us, I’ve found, are in both groups. We had a dad, but not completely. Or, we grew up in a broken home, but others stepped in to fill the father gap.

Either way, we are forced to maneuver the chaos of puberty, college, and careers seemingly on our own, but not entirely.

The struggle may cause us to grow bitter, even cast blame on our dads for not being there when we needed them most. Or, the opposite may be true: We become frustrated because they never empowered us, never let us fail. Whatever the case, we are dissatisfied.

This is how all journeys begin — in search of something lost or something never found. As with most journeys, this one leads us back to where we started: back to awkward dinner conversations and pregnant pauses on the telephone. Back home.

Most men I know (and maybe most women) are asking a question their fathers didn’t answer:

Am I good enough? Do you love me? Why did you do this?

Some spend their entire lives agonizing over the answers. As I’ve grown up, I’ve realized there were questions my dad simply could not answer, even if he wanted to — and others he already had, in his own way.

About this book

Some say that the best kind of book is the one that reads you. I disagree. The best kind is the one where you and the author finish the story together. This book is like that.

Maybe it will recall painful memories of a broken home or an abusive situation. Maybe it will help you regain a redemptive experience you forgot.

Maybe it will stir up an unanswered question in you, like it did me, one that you realize has been staring you in the face for years — in a box underneath a few comic books with a plaque that even time couldn’t wash away.

Somehow, I talked Mark into making this book FREE on Amazon this week. You can download it now through Saturday (offer ends at midnight) for Kindle. It’s one of the best books on fatherhood I’ve ever read. I hope you have a chance to read it and be changed. Get it here.

What’s a “trophy” moment like this that you’ve had with your dad or a father figure? Share in the comments.

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3 Truths About Tribes & Why We Need Them

I didn’t invent the idea of tribes. But I’ve been using the term long before Seth Godin codified it in his book. Still, there are few resources that clarify the concept more than that one.

Photo credit: James Cridland (Creative Commons)

Understanding what a tribe is and how to leverage one is perhaps the most important lesson a leader (and writer) can learn. There are three truths I’ve discovered about the power of tribes, but before I share those, let’s define the term.

What is a tribe?

A tribe is a small but powerful group of people. It’s a fan base, a Bible study, a group of influencers. A tribe is small enough to feel personal but large enough to make a difference.

A tribe is not usually created out of thin air. More often than not, tribes are found. They are existing groups of people formed around very specific interests and passions. Many times, they’re leaderless — until someone has the courage to step up.

Here are some examples:

Trekkies are a tribe.
The Southern Baptist Convention is a tribe.
Vegans are a tribe.
J.K. Rowling readers are a tribe.
Your neighborhood may be a tribe.
Even a close-knit family can be a tribe.

All major movements begin with tribes, with a group of people who care enough to do something. And if your message is going to make a difference, you’re going to have to find yours.

Without a tribe, you’re irrelevant

You may have something to say, but if you open your mouth and there’s not tribe to hear you, what’s the point? If your words can’t spur people on, then perhaps your energy is better spent finding the people who will resonate with your message.

Because you can waste a lot of breath, spouting out a message nobody is listening to. But make no mistake: there are people who care about what you have to say. You just need to find them.

Without a tribe, you’re invisible

We all have talents and gifts that deserve to be noticed. Some of us are more comfortable with the spotlight than others, but all of us were created to live in community.

No man is an island…

But without a tribe, that’s exactly what you are: a loner, a rebel. Not a pioneer, a vagrant. As poetic as it may seem to go it alone, you need people to help you accomplish your vision (whatever it may be).

Without a tribe you’re ignorant

The surprising fact about tribes is not just that you get to lead one, but that it, in fact, leads you. The best leaders are servants. And when you find your tribe and take up the mantle of leadership, you will hear from people.

They’ll tell you what they need, what they want. They’ll share their dreams and aspirations and greatest fears with you. And if you truly care, you’ll listen.

You’ll do everything you can to help those people, and they’ll love you for it. They’ll want to reward you (of course, the irony is helping them is the reward).

But if you never take the time to find the tribe, you’ll never get the chance to listen. And you’ll always be taking a shot in the dark when you write, speak, or try to create something you think the world needs.

Time to find your tribe

The best thing I ever did as a writer was find my tribe. I spent years figuring out what I wanted to say and what I didn’t. Then I focused on a specific niche and wrote just to that worldview.

Along the way, I encountered people and listened to their stories, which helped me better understand the message I wanted to articulate (I am still learning this).

The result is a small, but powerful group of people who will follow me wherever I want to lead (which is not something I take lightly). The cool part is it’s not just me leading them; it’s us, participating in a movement together.

If you’re someone who has something to say but is still waiting for people to listen, you need a tribe. And if you’re not quite sure how to find one, start here.

Why else do we need tribes? Share in the comments.

*Photo credit: James Cridland (Creative Commons)

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Have you been WRECKED?

Fail Faster (So You Can Become a Better Writer)

From Jeff: This is a guest post from my friend Joe Bunting. You can visit Joe online at his blog, The Write Practice, or follow him on Twitter @JoeBunting. His latest eBook, Let’s Write a Short Story, is currently on-sale.

About a year ago, I wrote a guest post that completely failed. It was for a large writing blog, and over the following few days it got about 20 comments from people who all disagreed with me.

Photo credit: Nima Badiey (Creative Commons)

It felt like someone had poured ice water over my shoulders, kind of like football players do to their coach for winning a football game. Except I didn’t win.

It was painful. Embarrassing. Humbling. However, I learned more about writing from that post than from 10 posts that were well received.

If you want to succeed, do this…

Michael Cunningham says, “One always has a better book in one’s mind than one can manage to get onto paper.”

Writers are terrible judges of their own work, and this should come as no surprise. Our job is to mine our imaginations, to live in worlds that don’t exist, to create things from nothing.

This doesn’t make us the best judges of what is good or bad. And it shouldn’t.

Failure is a reality check; it’s the best teacher. And the sooner you fail, the sooner you can not fail. The faster you realize your need to change, the faster you’ll learn the skills you need to succeed.

Why you shouldn’t write a novel (yet)

To get better at writing, you need to fail faster. It’s just that simple.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that many of the great writers — Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, Leo Tolstoy, and Stephen King — wrote short stories before they wrote novels.

If you want to write fiction, you’re probably focusing on writing novels. The problem with this is that novels can take years to write and publish before you know if they’re any good.

In other words, if you write a novel, it will take years to fail.

If you write short stories, though, you can publish within months or even weeks. Short stories allow you to fail sooner and more often. Thus, you become a better writer faster.

What I mean by “publish”

Publishing can be more flexible than you think:

You can “publish” by sending your work to a critique group made up of friends and other writers.
You can “publish” by posting on your blog.
You can “publish”by submiting a literary magazine.
You can publish on Amazon.

When you “publish,” especially when you’re just starting out, don’t have unrealistic expectations. Don’t think you’re going to win a Pulitzer or be the next J.K. Rowling. That’s not the point.

This is practice, publishing practice. The point of is not to succeed; it’s to fail. The more times you fail, the more learn what not to do.

Fail in public

Practice in public — you’ve heard this before. It’s one of the best pieces of writing advice I’ve ever heard. But I’d like to take it a step further: Don’t just practice in public; fail in public.

You need people to tell you you’re wrong, that your story isn’t interesting, that the information you think is so important actually isn’t.

Sometimes they’ll tell you through their silence.
Sometimes they’ll tell you in the comments.
Sometimes they’ll send emails.

Make no mistake; failing sucks. It feels like being naked in a crowded room, like being talked about behind your back. And yet, it’s the best way to get better.

Before you can succeed, you need to fail. As C.S. Lewis said, “Failures are the finger posts on the road to achievement.”

Get in the habit of publishing your work sooner than you want. Write about the subject that scares you. Write a story that you’re not sure you’re good enough to write.

The secret lesson of failure

You’re not a failure if you fail — not really. Quite the opposite, actually. The biggest failures in life are those too afraid to try.

To be a failure all you have to do is never fail. (You may want to tweet that.)

If you want to be a success, you need to learn to fail big. That’s where the lessons that lead to success are found.

Most artists are not born great. They become great by growing into their potential. Failure helps you to achieve it.

What have you learned about writing through failure? Tell your failure story in the comments.

Note: You can pick up Joe’s new eBook for a fraction of the usual cost if you get it before next Wednesday (Aug. 29, 2012). See all the packages here.

*Photo credit: Nima Badiey (Creative Commons)

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Why You Need a Small Army & How to Build One

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.

—Margaret Mead

What does leading a movement, selling a product, or spreading a message have in common? They all require a small army of evangelists.

Photo credit: The. U.S. Army (Creative Commons)

In our world of uber-connectedness, this is how ideas are spread and revolutions are launched. Consider last year’s riots in Egypt or The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, for example.

They began with a small group of people caring so much about something they were willing to keep talking about it until the world cared enough to act. If you’re a communicator who who has a message to spread, you’ll need one, too.

You’ll need to build an army. This is what I do every time I launch a book, roll out a program, or create a product. I assemble a group of “early adopters” who can help me reach the masses. And it works like a charm every time.

Why this is important

In the post-advertising world, we don’t believe marketing. Not anymore. (Feel free to tweet that.)

We’re inundated with advertising; our airports and highways and websites are filled with messages, all vying for our attention. All trying to sell us stuff we don’t want. There’s no end to the SPAM; it can feel overwhelming.

So how do we find valuable stuff worth our money and time? Simple: word-of-mouth. Reviews, referrals, conversations. That’s the best tool to get heard in a world full of noise.

But if you’re just starting out (heck, even if you’ve been doing this for awhile), you need to help kick-start the discussion. You need to give people something to talk about.

Army-building 101

If you have a message no one seems to care about, it’s time to assemble the troops. Here’s how you do it:

Start talking. This needs to be about something people already care about. It can be a problem or struggle, even a major frustration. Most likely, it’s a point of pain.
Join the conversation. Find a place where people are already gathering to talk about the issue: go to a conference or the mall, join a social network or create one. People are talking; find them.
Create something that solves the problem. It could be an book, a CD, a course, whatever. (Note: this isn’t just for business; a song can solve a “problem” such as despair or depression.)
Build a launch group. This is what I did for my book. You might call it a beta group or a test market, but the idea’s the same. Trade the product (which you give away to the group for free) for helpful, honest feedback. Ask them to leave a review on Amazon, talk about it on social media, and tell their friends.
Encourage word-of-mouth. Do something remarkable to get your launch group talking. Make it scalable so that if they tell their friends, their friends are likely to tell others — and so on. In order to do this, you may need to create what Seth Godin calls a “purple cow” — a truly remarkable publicity stunt or gimmick that others can’t help but share.
Keep rewarding loyalty. Give stuff away to people who talk about you.

The secret to launching anything

There’s a lot of talk about marketing and movements these days, about how to successfully engineer the spread of ideas. The truth is these things never work according to plan.

Malcolm Gladwell’s book, The Tipping Point, perfectly illustrates this concept. Truly viral ideas spread in the most unusual, idiosyncratic ways. And that’s precisely why they catch on. It doesn’t feel like marketing.

Your job isn’t to force this to happen; it’s to help it. And believe it or not, you can do this. All you need is the most essential tool to getting a message to spread.

It’s not an ad or marketing campaign. Not even a great web design or strong social media presence. Heck, it’s not even a platform. No, it’s something much more simple:

PEOPLE.

That’s what spreads ideas, sells products, and starts movements. People talking to other people. Anything else is just hype or someone trying to sell something.

Don’t be fooled. If you want to start a movement, spread a cause, or sell a product, all you need is a small army of committed evangelists.

If you stick around, I’ll show you more of the specifics about how to build one (click here to get these posts delivered to your inbox, if you’re not already in the tribe).

In the meantime, check out this guest post I wrote for DIY Themes: One Incredibly Overlooked Key to a Successful Launch.

So how about it? Are you ready to start your small army? Share in the comments.

Note: I’m pretty sure Chris Guillebeau was the first guy I heard to use the term “small army” when referring to an audience of evangelists for your message.

*Photo credit: The U.S. Army (Creative Commons)

Disclosure: Some of the above links were affiliate links.

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