As I sat there Saturday afternoon with my sketchpad and a measuring tape, working on a curtain for the closet at the top of the steps that my husband just built, I realized that this moment wasn’t really about confidence or skill. It was actually about faith.

Believing that I’ve collected the right information and that I know what to do with it is an exercise of faith. At some point, I have to just believe that I’m right, and start ripping the fabric.

This is the very same process I go through when I write for clients. Except for instead of trusting the math, I have to trust the gleanings. I talk to them about their book or web site or speech, about who they’re trying to reach, and about what their voice should be like. I ask them the questions that I think will help us get what we need to craft a story for them. And then, when I’m sitting at my computer the next day or week, there is this moment when the information is floating around in my head and a thought drops in: “oh this is how the “About” page should start,” “oh, this is what the central metaphor for the speech should be,” or “yes, this is the tone of the book.”

It takes a piece of faith to trust it. But I (almost) always do.

 An Imbalance of Faith

Doing creative work for other people means living in faith all day long. It’s information and decision: you take something in, and you decide to go a certain way with it. (This isn’t limited to writers, of course. Lawyers coming up with a defense or taxi cab drivers choosing a route do the same thing. And a zillion other examples.)

But it’s not just faith in the work; it’s faith that I’m on the right track. Faith that I’m taking on the right projects to begin with. Faith that I’ll know what to do to make the right projects and people keep showing up. I’ve (almost) always had this faith.

Yet I feel like the one thing lacking in my life right now is . . . faith. The kind of faith that helps you answer questions from your 3-year-old about life and death, that is.

A few weeks ago, I was having a conversation about this with a friend of mine who has tons of the spiritual kind of faith, which I regard with a mix of envy and impossibility. I kept asking him ridiculous questions like, “but how do you know that you believe it?” Then, we started talking about the business I absolutely 100 percent know that he could create (he’s skeptical). “You have so much faith,” he said. “How can you say that you don’t have faith?”

So I wonder: can faith be in both abundance and scarcity at the same time? Is it like having strong quadriceps with weak hamstrings? You can still be a great runner with an imbalance like that. But you can easily get hurt.

Maybe faith is just information and decision, over and over again. Or maybe this is just my approach. Perhaps we each use our own process for faith and apply it to various situations across our lives and lifespans.

The funny thing about this whole business is that I actually have faith that I’ll figure it out. Because more than numbers or words or stuff I can’t see, I (almost) always trust myself.

And, if nothing else, I finally made a new curtain for the closet at the top of the steps.

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It’s actually not because I’m working too hard. Work generally energizes me. I think it’s sort of cool to stay up late to work on things, or get up early to finish them. I think a calendar with a bunch of deadlines is a beautiful sight.

It’s not about being overworked in the classic sense. Rather, it’s about feeling burned out because I am in the middle of too many things. The middle can be a precarious place. Beginnings are great: you have that early excitement, that spark of ideas, that newness of purpose. And, more practically speaking when you’re working on a project, you often have a lovely upfront payment—a little wink that says: “You are the right person for this project. I have faith. Take the cash and wow me.”

And then at the end, there’s that final push to hit send, ship the work, hear the speech, or take the site live. It’s adrenaline. And it’s exhilarating, even when you’re totally exhausted.

But the middle. Oy. I am in the middle of nearly everything right now. Literally, I’m in the middle of a handful of projects. We’re home from the honeymoon, and it’s time to dig in. And more figuratively (but no less relevant to why I feel burned out), I’m in the middle of, you know, life. The middle of having a toddler and a preschooler. The middle of a marriage. The middle of an identity that is hard to keep up with.

It isn’t that I’m bored with any of it. I’ve got some of the coolest projects ever right now. And a very blessed life. But still, here I am in middledom, in a state of unfinishedness, where everything outstanding in my life starts flashing before my eyes: my web site video, my eBook, the mulch, the curtain for the closet at the top of the steps, the pictures I haven’t downloaded, the scrapbook I never made for the second kid. All I see are a series of open boxes with things piling out (the exact opposite of a Real Simple cover). Inevitably, middledom is a straight shot to martyrdom (“Poor me: I never have any time for myself!”). And martyrdom is a fantastic place for things like picking fights with my husband about which one of us has a harder life.

So the only antidote is pushing through. Right? This is what classic Judi would say: “Just stop it, will you? Stop whining and do the $%&ing work already.” It’s pretty much my motto. Do it already. But I don’t think it works for the problem of middledom. Because I am doing. I just don’t feel productive.

 A Middledom State of Mind

I had a new thought today: All of the stuff we say you should do when you feel burned out and uninspired might just be crap. Plans, lists, inspirational quotes, and even watching TED talks (my all-time favorite get-over-my-blues solution) are all intellectual solutions. But intellectual fixes may not be able to solve a state-of-mind problem. And that’s what middledom is: a state of mind.

My burnout problem isn’t coming from feeling like the projects are too involved or the clients aren’t responding quickly enough. It’s coming from my belief that to be unfinished is to be uncomfortable. I define myself by what I finish and produce. I am a writer, so this makes sense. I have to just do it, already. Produce, already.

But believing that to be unfinished is to be uncomfortable creates these long and scary middle passages. I think instead of constantly trying to will myself out of the middle, I might start believing that it’s not uncomfortable. That things take shape in the middle. That I won’t suddenly become a person who doesn’t finish stuff if I live and breathe in the middle a bit more.

This is a little bit of what Garret Kramer says. I got the chance to interview him for Expand Your Influence. He wrote the book Stillpower (about to be re-released), based on the idea that our state of mind is what creates our experience (not the other way around). Gritting through stuff and willing it out just binds us up, he says, and we wind up in our own way.

Instead of churning the wheel of the unfinished, I could ride the wave of the unfinished. So make deadlines—absolutely. Do it—absolutely. Produce—absolutely. But co-exist with the open boxes.

So . . . hello, middle. Let’s just be friends already.

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This is probably the best thing you could ever say about anyone. But beyond a eulogy, where it’s sometimes less about truth and more about honor, it’s the best thing to actually be true. And for my uncle, it was true: He was a man who understood situation and appropriateness—yet showed up exactly the same at his core, all of the time and to everyone.

In our modern, multi-layered lives, where our identities have as many nuances as shades of pink at sunset, where we constantly have to flip the on/off switch for roles we assume on one floor of the house and not another, where we create personas to be able to reach people and sell, sameness of character is wonderfully remarkable. It’s not that it’s hard. It’s just that we lose sight of it because it’s both so big (our entire way of being) and so small (the littlest detail of the littlest thing).

 Anything is Everything

In the past year, I’ve taken on a new belief, and it’s this: How you do anything is how you do everything. (I don’t know where this phrase originated, but I do know that I learned it from the lovely Darla LeDoux.)

Settle with that for a minute. How you do anything is how you do everything. What you bring to the most random task on your to-do list is the same as what you bring to the most important presentation of your life. The stuff that goes on when no one is looking is 100 percent related to the stuff you do to make everyone look.

You can take it to a neurotic place if you want. (“I didn’t use real lemon zest in the cookies! I’m lazy, phony, and cheap and I shouldn’t even leave my house!”)

But don’t do that. It’s not that kind of thing.

It’s just about noticing how you’re showing up in different places, and whether or not it all matches up. For us—the marketers who own businesses or take strong ownership of the brands we work for—it means this: we’re kidding ourselves if we’re creating marketing materials that don’t have anything to do with the thoughts we have when we first close our eyes before going to sleep. We’re kidding ourselves if all of our marketing is based on templates that serve to manipulate pain. We’re kidding ourselves if we’re trying to sustain a movement based on a persona that has nothing to do with how we talk to our kids, how we give a toast at a wedding, how we treat the person who works for us who makes $10/hour, how we talk to the TSA agent who needs to search our bag, or how we pay our bills.

Of course we all have bad days and bad moments and bad decisions. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about being aware that someone always needs to show up in what you’re doing, and it’s best if it’s the same person all of the time.

I think my uncle just instinctively knew this, and he held on to this idea, even as he went from humble beginnings to tremendous success. How he did anything was how he did everything.

Thanks for the lesson, Uncle Red. We still miss you something terrible.

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American Society of Journalists & Authors

I’m going because I’m looking for my Bloomsbury group.

If you’re not familiar, the Bloomsbury group was a group of smart and creative people that lived, worked, and met in the Bloomsbury area of London (the neighborhood of the British Museum) in the 19-teens and 1920s. They got together to talk about art, writing, politics, culture, and the big questions of life. It was people like Virginia Woolf (yes, I am writing about her again. I can’t help it: she’s taken up real estate in my head this year), and her sister Vanessa (a painter), but also economist John Maynard Keynes and a bunch of other people (I won’t bore you with names; you can look it up if you’re interested). It was basically a space for intellectual and creative discussion, for ideas that challenged status quo. These folks weren’t just watching modernity happen—they were forcing it.

And let me tell you, I want that space in my life right now. I need that. I’ve got to find that.

 The Flipside of Self-Reliance

I’ve been talking a lot lately about being in action mode, versus “someday” mode, about creating and believing your own story, finding your voice, and creating remarkable things. You need to have the power and wherewithal to act within you. I’ve always believed that. Self-reliance: I’ve read the essay, I’ve lived the life. I’m on board.

So here’s the weird contradiction: you’re not nearly enough. I’m not nearly enough. Being in action happens a lot more organically (and is a lot more fun) when you’re part of a circle of people who influence, challenge, and inspire you. Even semi-introverted, self-reliant people like me need that. A lot.

I don’t know about you, but I’m coming to the realization that there’s no magic formula, brilliant package, or big fish that’s going to get me where I really want to be (like, giving a talk at TED).

It’s like this: there’s my life and career on paper, which stems from what goes on in my head.

And then, there’s my life and career in the world, and that needs people to grow. It needs a Bloomsbury group. I’ve got the beginnings of one, but I want to meet and form bonds with more writers, designers, business owners, thinkers, and doers who aren’t just watching the industry—they’re forcing it. And they’re looking for a circle to be part of, too. I’m excited to see who I might meet in New York this week, having this as my focus (instead of having a focus of finding work). I’m equally as excited to see who I might meet next month when I head back to the city for Seth Godin’s event. I’m dying to meet him and hear him speak in person, of course. But the real draw is the potential for Bloomsbury. It’s the people quotient, and it’s my smartest investment right now.

The summer after I graduated from college, I traipsed all over London thinking about this Bloomsbury business—and of course, I visited Virginia Woolf’s house in Bloomsbury. But at 22, it was just a cool thing to learn about and write papers about. It didn’t have that much to do with my life—mostly because in my self-reliance, I thought my own brain was enough. I mean, it’s pretty good. But collective brain energy and being in the world of people is way, way better. So I’m off to see who I might find—virtually and literally.

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Sitting down with my Milky Way, something unexpected happened. One whiff of the steamed espresso/chocolate/caramel/milk concoction, and it was 8 years ago in my mind. A single inhale, and my brain time-traveled for 3 or 4 seconds, transporting me into some random moment in that coffee shop 8 years ago. I felt a flood of associations: magazine story deadlines and the burning desire to climb the women’s magazine ladder and be picked, what it felt like to wonder if I was really going to make it as a writer, and what it felt like to be dating my husband, without the responsibilities of kids.

It was that clear, pure, totally unexpected memory jaunt that’s only associated with the sense of smell. Site, sound, touch, taste: none of the other senses have that kind of immediate memory association that takes my breath away (I think this is universally true). Engine oil, dust, and hot metal and I’m on the tube in London; cigarette smoke and Joop cologne and I’m walking down the street in Oxford, Ohio with my graduate school boyfriend; engineered strawberry fragrance mixed with plastic and I’m 7 years old brushing my Strawberry Shortcake doll’s hair. And although I’ve experienced smell-associated memories probably thousands of times in my life, every single time it happens, it’s amazing and unexpected and I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s remarkable—every single time.

The Way Toward Remarkability

I gave a talk last week to a group of marketing professionals about how your brand is your roadmap for customer service. One of my main points was that the thing you do or the product you make is your customer service. Your brand isn’t separate from your marketing, and it certainly can’t be separate from how you treat your people. In other words, you have to be remarkable, pretty much all of the time. (This is straight from Purple Cow, of course.)

Whenever I give a talk where I’m spouting off stuff (I do like to spout), I try to take a minute to think about how it applies to me. So, what does remarkability mean for me?

In a word, smelling.

I want the work I do to be like that unexpected smell that takes you somewhere you love to go. I want to give people an experience that takes them by surprise and connects them to something crazy powerful—to their own memory, story, or experience. Whatever it is, it really has nothing to do with me. What I write is just the smell: they bring the rest.

Now, I suppose I could hire a private investigator to find out my clients’ deepest smell associations, hire a lab along the New Jersey turnpike to manufacture that smell, and then set up a time-release of it into their office, to go off when they interact with me.

Or . . . I could just capture their voice and tell a really, really great story. When people hear the voice of their brand saying all of the stuff that it needs to say about the things they believe matter, it’s almost as good as smelling the smell that effortlessly transports them. Almost. I mean can’t compete with biology. But I can use storytelling to tap into brain wiring. That’s my most remarkable gift and action.

It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase: “Judi Ketteler stinks.” (Oh I know, the puns are endless.) But if Malcolm Gladwell made “sneezing” cool in Tipping Point, I can make stinking cool.

Here’s to stinking it up.

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It never occurred to me that the reason I gravitate toward owls has less to do with an antique show bargain and more to do with what they represent. It never occurred to me that what I really dig about owls are things like wisdom, trust, and mystique.

Until I got a hold of Sally Hogshead—or I should say, her work got a hold of me. Sally is the brain (the “hog’s head” you might say) behind HowToFascinate.com, and the idea that in both business and in life, we each have the ability to fascinate people, i.e., to captivate and convince them. But—and this is the key—instead of trying to manufacture a way of being or a way of acting, our real potential to fascinate comes from who we naturally are.

Sally has an amazing TEDx talk about this, and she wrote the 2010 book, Fascinate, all about the seven “fascination” triggers that people use (power, trust, prestige, passion, mystique, rebellion, and alarm). But it wasn’t until I took The Fascination Advantage test that I really got it. (Full disclosure: I got to take the test for free because I was an early user; it now costs $17 for a Starter Kit. Keep reading and you’ll see why it’s well worth it.)

So . . . drumroll . . . according to my Basic Report, my Personality Archetype (there are 49 of them) is the Wise Owl—a combination of two triggers: mystique (primary) and trust (secondary). Now, when I first took the test, I really, really wanted to be a passion and rebellion combination, because that’s what all of the coolest people (like Seth Godin, my friend Claudia, and Sally herself) seemed to be. No one is more passionate than me about what they do, I thought. And rebellion? Please. Just my ask my husband if I ever follow rules.

But here’s the thing: it’s not about your state of mind. It’s not about your inner triggers. It’s how you appear to the world that creates fascination. It stopped me for a minute, because I really had to think about what I project. Of course, it’s still based on who I am at the core. But it comes out in a way I can’t really control. And now that I know, I feel like I have a stealth bomb at my disposal.

Turning Weaknesses to Strengths

So, okay, I’m the owl. The undercurrent of trust was obvious. People just trust me—they always have. Probably because I don’t screw them over. But also because I always do what I say I will do (barring the caveat of humanness, which means occasional mistake-making). I send out this newsletter every Wednesday. Editors have always trusted me with deadlines because I always meet them. People trust me with their stories. My husband trusts me to support the family.

What you see is what you get.

Except for it sort of isn’t. And this is the real “aha” for me. The mystique thing. What is that about? Do I come off like a carnival fortuneteller? Like Marlon Brando at the end of Apocalypse Now? Am I cryptic weirdo, I wondered?

In thinking about this, I realized that what I used to think of as weakness or lack of confidence is really mystique. It’s carefulness. It’s not giving away too much—not because I’m trying to be weird. But because I don’t have the answer for you until I just do the thing you need me to do.

For example, clients often want to know about my process. They ask: What does it look like? To which I reply, “Um, well . . .” I can outline a story branding process, but I have no idea how it actually works because I’m not even sure myself. We just start talking, and then I start writing, and then it just happens. I’m not manufacturing mystique. It’s real. But now I see that it’s actually part of my strength, because my clients don’t have to worry about what the process is. I can tell them that it just works, and because they trust me, it does.

I’m not going to fascinate anyone with fear or accolades or fancy promises of stellar ROI. I’m not going to speak that loudly, or confront people’s assumptions in an obvious way. I’m just going to do my thing.

My friend Bill summarized it really beautifully in a comment he wrote on my blog: “Judi speaks loud without raising her voice. Her writings help us to understand ourselves. I will read anything Judi writes.” (Thanks, Bill.)

I now have any of my clients who are game take the test when we start their branding process. More than once, the results they get (the report that lists your primary and secondary trigger) have actually affected some copy decisions we‘ve made, especially when it comes to stuff like voice. Again, it’s not manufacturing something; it’s about going with what’s already there, and understanding how to use it as your strength.

So, go find out how you fascinate people. And then start captivating.

And then . . . not so much.

I was NOT happy. I called my real estate agent in tears to tell her to cancel the contract. I sat at my parents’ kitchen table crying and fuming. Why was this happening to me, I wondered?

Now, I have whole years of my life that are blurry, but those few days are very, very clear. This is how I remember it: I was pissed off for a whole day. I probably kicked some things and had mini road rage. And then the next day, I woke up and ran 10 miles (I was training for a marathon, so this was a normal thing to do). Somewhere around mile four, I had this thought: “I could make chocolate chip cookies this afternoon.” (I remember the exact hill I was running down when I had the thought.)  So I made them. And in the process of getting my hands all gooey and chocolaty, I had a crazy powerful realization: making cookies at 2:00 in the afternoon meant that I was free. Free. No one had a claim on my time anymore. I could make a decision, and then do it, without checking with anyone.

I stopped being mad, and I saw opportunity instead. The next day, I decided I was going to be a freelance writer. I remember that moment, too: I was sitting at my computer, and it suddenly occurred to me that I could just do it. Sure, I had to stay living in my apartment and give up the idea of home ownership for a while. But that only meant that I had seed money: a down payment that didn’t get spent. I don’t even remember being scared. I wasn’t smart enough about business to be scared. Since I didn’t know all the ways I could either fail or succeed, I just did. I didn’t bother asking anyone for permission, because I knew I would just figure it out.

And I did figure it out—pretty well, I might add, since I’ve made more money as a writer than I ever did working for someone else. It’s only now that I look back and ask myself: “Hmm, that’s interesting. How did I do that anyway?”

Ditch the Diagram of Great

So last week, I found myself at a huge conference of (mostly women) entrepreneurs just days before my 10-year business anniversary. The event was called Be The Change, and some of the woo-woo of it wasn’t entirely my scene, but that’s okay, because it’s valuable to get exposed to lots of different kinds of people and ideas. I had some good a-ha moments, and enjoyed some awesome presentations. Suzanne Evans, who puts on the event, is an extremely gifted speaker and coach and understands the mechanics of business building as well as anyone I’ve ever heard.

But, because there was so much business information presented, I saw a whole lot of uncertainty in the crowd, too. And while the message was one of action, I saw a lot of early-stage entrepreneurs still stuck on the idea of getting it right. They wanted to understand every detail, to know exactly how to plan, and how to build their list and scale their programs in exactly the right way. It looked a lot like asking for permission. I overheard some women talking in the bathroom; one was telling the other about a coaching business idea she had, but she was stuck on trying to figure out which business coaches to run it by so she could know for sure if it was really what she was “meant” to do.

If you have to think that hard about it and ask other people, you’ve gotta get out of your head, and shut down the “meant to be” train for a while.

We have this message floating around that we are meant to do something great. (I’ve jumped on the bandwagon of this message myself because it’s pretty and shiny.) But honestly, that’s a pretty overwhelming thing to think about. When did we start obsessing about what we’re “meant” to do? What about just doing it? And great feels like a lot of pressure if you keep talking about it, thinking about it, and analyzing a diagram of it, especially because greatness is ridiculously relative. The trite language of it all makes me crazy. It’s like, stop using so many damn adjectives and just go do something.

I’m glad that I was so dumb and unconcerned with greatness when I started my business. I’m glad I started out green and got strategic later on. I’m glad that I let a plate of magic cookies guide me to my fate. Because it doesn’t matter how much you know until you just start doing stuff.

I know Steve Jobs’ face is everywhere these days whenever vision and entrepreneurship are mentioned. But as I celebrate my 10 years of working for myself and not asking permission, I can’t get the parting lines to his Stanford speech out of my head: Stay hungry. Stay foolish.

Stay hungry, and stay foolish, people. And to that, I would add: make cookies.

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You don’t have to know the plot to jump into this argument, because the crux of it is this: I’m furious at Angel Clare for what he does, and my husband admires him, and holds fast to the idea that he was just “a product of his time.” This isn’t just a debate for literary nerds and college English classes, it’s a real-life thing, and it has implications for how to raise your kids to how you run your business.

My stand is this: I think relying on this notion of people as products of their time is far too victimish. I’d rather think of time as the product of what people do. Yes, I’m a cheery humanist and my husband is a gloomy—but charming—determinist. And yes, there are some flaws to my unabashed positivity, but stick with me for a moment.

Getting Ahead of Time

Da Vinci, Galileo, Darwin, Susan B. Anthony, Tesla, Gandhi, Hitchcock, Mary Quant (who popularized the mini-skirt), The Beatles, Steve Jobs, Lady Gaga: we have whole lists of people who set trends or suggested things that were so different than what most people were saying that they get classified as “ahead of their time.” But these are just the names we remember. For every famous inventor or trendsetter, there are armies of people putting forth ideas that challenge, in every industry and in every scenario.

People start movements. People make situations. People look at what’s going on in the world and in nature and decide what they think about it. It’s pretty hard to tell your story if you’re convinced that people are just products of their time. Because then, all you’ve got are a series of facts about what happened, and you’re at their mercy. I was thinking about this as I was preparing a presentation for small businesses about telling your story, and how you have to blend the tangible and intangible layers (the hard data and the stuff that underlies it). Context doesn’t get created for you: you create it. You have to take charge of the context and translate it in an interesting, relatable way. (Incidentally, this is the step I see people missing on “About Us” pages all of the time.)

People are both change-makers and interpreters. A ton of things happen in life and in business that we can’t control or change—so then, we just have to interpret. But if you get stuck in the mindset of “things are determined to be the way they are,” how can you put forth better ideas and interpretations? How can you tell a story that inspires?

It’s not really a simple issue, and I only have a handle on part of it. I’m going to keep thinking about it—you should too.

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No one told me I was having a 10.5 pound baby, because for whatever reason, the doctor didn’t know. And for that, I’m grateful. Because I would have worried. (And then if I sensed the doctor was worried, I would have worried more.) The experience of having her would have been completely different on my end, even if the circumstances of it were all the same. If I knew going in that a miniature giant awaited, instead of remembering it as relatively routine and calm with a surprise ending, I would remember it as scary and stressful. I would have created a story to match my worry. Instead of an amazing and whacky surprise, the story would be: “Thank goodness I survived that.”

Oh, Just Stop Knowing So Much

I like to arm myself with facts and preparation. I love a good checklist. But sometimes, exchanging knowledge for a little ignorance is the best thing you can do. Because when you only know part of the story upfront, you have a better chance of getting to an uncluttered, pure kind of moment on the backend.

This is definitely true of the virtual conference I’m hosting this week. When I was organizing Expand Your Influence, I tried not to think too much about what I might find out from my guest speakers, especially since I was interviewing people who fascinated me, and I wanted to be . . . fascinated (without baggage). So, when I interviewed Amy Butler (the first call of the conference!), I set aside my star-struckness (she’s sort of my idol), and just tried to listen without a checklist.

I’m glad I did, because when she started to talk about creating a brand extension that represented the next level of her growth, I could actually hear what she was saying. And then, when she talked about being a giver first and foremost, about trying to inspire in everything she does, and about using creativity to deeply connect with people, my breath was taken away for a minute. It was a moment of, holy mama, this is a real thing. This is a way to live and work. This is a way to build a business, for real.

Instead of a story created around anticipation, a story of, “I’ll never do enough. My talent will never compare. I’ll never be able to inspire like that,” I have this other story about opportunity and potential and the excitement of what’s next. After some professional ups and downs in the past few weeks, that story is like a flashlight clicking on, a little light that whispers, “go here.”

From the girl who makes a to-do list every single day, this is completely crazy to say, but here it is: stop being so ready. Stop preparing so much. Stop anticipating what the answers will be, and instead, listen for them. Stop thinking about the outcome, and just experience it. Not all of the time, because the world will fall apart. Just sometimes. Because only the really, really good stuff that you’re not ready for—like a 10.5 pound baby or a nugget of wisdom, perfectly timed—can take your breath away.

Oh right, the final plug: If you haven’t signed up for Expand Your Influence yet, and you enjoy hearing from cool people, I think you should sign up now, because you still have two more days, and four more speakers! If you missed the earlier calls (or have to miss ones the rest of the week), there is still a chance to hear it. Register and you’ll see an option for a VIP upgrade, where you can download all MP3s. Or, just email me (judi at judiketteler.com) and I’ll explain it.

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Here is why I’m thinking of Virginia Woolf (that’s a painting of her by Roger Fry, by the way): today, while I was running, a driver honked at me and flashed me a look of contempt. (What, you don’t get the connection yet?) It was an angry honk, a “get off the road because it belongs to me and my car” honk. That I am a cautious runner and I follow all of the rules about running against traffic and never playing chicken with cars didn’t matter. I was in his way. (Even though I wasn’t.)

So maybe this dude doesn’t like people with pink iPods. Maybe he hates women. Maybe he thinks active people are stupid. I could choose to be indignant about any of that. Because I like to get indignant.

Except the honk probably didn’t have that much to do with me. So just being angry on my own behalf isn’t all that constructive. What is constructive: tracing Mr. honk-honk’s actions to the bigger problem, which is that in Cincinnati (where I live), roads are for cars, not people. That attitude comes from our history, our geography, our base of industry, the way our neighborhoods have developed, our culture, and the fact that people here won’t stop asking you where you went to high school.

So, the best thing I could do with my anger is to try to pour energy into fixing that problem—the problem of roads being for cars, not people.

But honestly? It’s not my fight. I don’t care enough. You’d think I would, because I hit the streets running about 175 times a year, and have been for 17 years. I support the groups who are trying to make roads for people, voting for ordinances and initiatives surrounding this. But it’s not going to get much of my energy. I’m not going to lead the fight. So for now, I’m better off letting my indignation go.

The Layer of Un-Victimhood

This article isn’t about Cincinnati roads at all. It’s about anger, and how when you tap into that underlying layer of anger where you’re not a victim anymore, it’s extremely powerful. But if you can’t get to that layer (or you don’t care that much about that layer), you’re better off letting it go.

So, back to Virginia: first, she got mad that she couldn’t even walk on the grass where men walked at Cambridge (she got shooed away, just like I got honked at). Then, she couldn’t go into the library where men went. Then, she got served crappy soup at the women’s college at Cambridge where she was speaking (while the men were dining on roasts and such). All of it made her angry. But the problem, she realized, was that women were poor. So she wrote a brilliant essay (well, I think it’s brilliant), where she took on that problem—the base problem of women being poor and the lack of opportunities to not be poor.

When you’re a service provider, you better be flaming hot mad about something—some established norm or way of thinking or problem that you just have to change. You just have to.

Here’s the trick though: that anger can’t really be all about you. Your business can’t just be one long vent about the problem and the pain, as you see it. It’s about you in the sense that you are you, and you are the only one living your life. But it’s way bigger than you. The crappy thing you’re mad about is a symptom of the problem you need to help solve. And if you have a business dedicated to fixing the crappy thing, you’d better be more than just a supporter (like me with the pedestrian initiatives). You’d better be a leader. But I don’t think you can be a leader unless you are ready to break out a light saber and hold your ground on why the thing you’re furious about has to change.

This is why I always ask clients, “What makes you really, really mad?” It’s okay if they want to vent. I know what I’m looking for, and I know it when I hear it: the anger that has the layer under it. The indignant thoughts that are connected to a much bigger thing. That’s where the solutions, the offerings, the packages, and the innovative ways of doing things come from.

Virginia Woolf came up with a solution: women need a room of their own and 500 pounds of a year. She didn’t stop fighting for it until she succumbed to the Thames.

So . . . where is your indignation leading you? And more importantly, what’s your solution?

P.S. Have you registered for Expand Your Influence yet? It starts Monday, March 19, and runs through Friday. It’s a FREE virtual conference all about turning big ideas into brand extensions (like books, eBooks, videos, TV shows, etc.), and I created it to help business owners figure out how to take the next step to get their big ideas into the world. I am interviewing a range of experts who have successfully extended their brands (or who help others do it): designers Amy Butler and Angelo Surmelis, authors Garret Kramer, Peter Bowerman, Meagan Francis, Kate Hanley, and Jeff Goins, business coach Darla LeDoux, and literary agent Joy Tutela. So how much does it cost? First, let me tell you about the special financing: zero money down, and zero money ever. That’s right, it’s free to listen live! You can purchase an upgrade, where you get tons of fantastic bonuses. But I’m thrilled to extend you the opportunity to call in and listen to expert interviews without spending a dime.

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