What you already know
Reading a lease. Keeping a tomato plant alive. Making a pot of soup stretch for six. The things you do without thinking feel like nothing to you, and they’re news to somebody standing right next to you.
Short, unhurried notes about making something small and honest online, ten minutes at a time, at your own kitchen table. No secret, no jargon I won’t explain, and nobody keeping score.
34 short emails over about 17 days, roughly two a day. Each one carries a single link to a page that changes daily, which may be an affiliate link. One-click unsubscribe in every email. The details
Three things to lean on: what you already know, what you notice other people asking, and one small thing you share. They aren’t steps. You can sit in whichever chair you feel like on a given day.
Reading a lease. Keeping a tomato plant alive. Making a pot of soup stretch for six. The things you do without thinking feel like nothing to you, and they’re news to somebody standing right next to you.
This chair is only listening. At the grocery store, at family dinners, in the comments under a video. You keep a jar of other people’s questions, and after a while you start hearing them everywhere.
One short, plain note to one person, with a line that says, “I’m practicing. Would you tell me if anything doesn’t make sense?” Rough is allowed. Small is just right.
While the kettle boils, or before the house wakes. When the ten minutes are up you stop, because that’s what tells you this fits in your life.
You tell a neighbor about a plumber you like, and the plumber says thank you. Online, that’s all “affiliate” means. Every word gets explained as we meet it.
I can’t promise it will, and nobody honest can. What I can tell you is what you’d still have: a list of what you know, a jar of questions, and a habit of sitting down.
I came to all of this late. I was 48, I could send an email and not much else, and for about a year I read everything and clicked nothing, in case I looked foolish. Nobody was watching. I was sitting at my own kitchen table.
What I care about now is explaining things plainly, the way I’d explain them to a neighbor over the fence. I reach for kitchens and hardware stores and footpaths, because that’s where most of us learned anything worth knowing. I’m slow at some of it, and I’ve stopped apologizing for that.
I spent months looking for the secret, and I’m fairly sure now there isn’t one. There are small, ordinary things, done again and again. That’s a lot less exciting than a secret, and a lot easier to start.
Jeremy
34 emails over about 17 days. A short introduction comes first, six notes over three days, and then the main course, twenty-eight notes over two weeks. It’s free, and there’s nothing to buy to take it.
Most take a couple of minutes to read, and a few are only a paragraph. Some end with a small question. Replying is entirely up to you.
Each email carries one link, set apart and labeled the same way every time, to a page that changes daily. I don’t write that page. It may be an affiliate link, which means 512 Promotions LLC may be paid if you buy something through it. The line always reads:
“A page to look at when you have a quiet minute. It’s a different one each day, and I’m not saying it’s right for you.”Every email has an unsubscribe link at the bottom. One click and you’re out, with nothing to explain and no hard feelings.
Picture a field with no path across it.
One day someone walks across the grass. The next day another person does, close to the same line. A few weeks on, there’s a faint pale stripe in the grass. A few months on, it’s a real path, and nobody ever decided to make it.
That’s how small, repeated things work. No single walk made the path. It was the walking, again and again, in roughly the same place.
Ten minutes a day wears a path like that into what you know. It’s slow, and you won’t see it day to day. But if you look back after a few weeks, there it is.
I can’t tell you where your path will lead. Nobody honest can. But I can tell you a path doesn’t come from one big walk.
Walk it again tomorrow, if you feel like it.
Jeremy
A page to look at when you have a quiet minute. It’s a different one each day, and I’m not saying it’s right for you: [the day’s link]
From the second week. Every note is about like this: a small scene, one idea in plain words, and the one daily link.
The first note arrives soon after you join. It’s free, it’s quiet, and you can leave whenever you like.