In a 2003 interview, Todd DePastino, author of “Citizen Hobo: How a Century of Homelessness Shaped America”, said, “One famous quip had it that the hobo works and wanders, the tramp drinks and wanders, and the bum just drinks.”1

Frank worked and wandered. He would come home to Cleveland once in a while, his clothing so filthy his mother would make him take it off outside.

When his sister, my great grandmother, Margaret Grant Coughlin (middle name in honor of the Ulysses S.), asked how he was able to get along, he said that it was because he could read the signs.

Hobo signs.

Hobo signs are a system of symbols, often made with chalk or coal, used by travelers to communicate with each other about local conditions like safe places to stay, friendly people, or dangerous areas. More fascinating information about this here.

Signs could be combined. For example the stick figure with the triangles that means “Kind woman lives here, tell pitiful story” is actually a combination of two symbols, the stick figure “Kind woman” and the triangles, which mean “tell pitiful story.”

Image credit and copyright: Linda Marie Johnson

Luckily, Ma was also interested in her family history, and so asked her grandmother— the aforementioned Margaret Grant Coughlin (who we all knew as Grama Lillie)— to write some things about her family. Here is what she said about her brother, Frank.

I’ve been interested in genealogy since I was 12, so I had the chance to talk to both Grama Lillie and my (great) Aunt Bess about their family. Bess was actually a better source because she was less prone to sugar coat the truth to preserve your opinion of someone. But when asked why she thought Frank wandered, even she said, “You know, that’s just how he was.”

On the 1920 census, Frank is listed as living with his parents and driving a truck, but after that paper trail goes cold—except for a single image of an index card found on Ancestry.com. According to this sparse record, Frank died on 28 May 1935 (he was just 40 years old). The card also indicates he was interred at St. Joseph Catholic Cemetery in Woodland, California, plot 244.

So, that’s where he died in California but we still don’t know why, or how. To find that out, I need to see his death certificate. I ordered it just now from Vital Check. They said it will take about 90 days. Given he’s been gone 90 years, I think I can wait. But I’m curious to see what it says.

When I dive into an ancestor’s history, I’m filled with empathy for who they were and what their life was like. What made Frank wander? How did the overall family dynamic impact him. His siblings. And their children.

And ultimately, how does my awareness of his life and choices impact my experience, and the person I am.

A kind woman, for example.

Just don’t try telling me a pitiful story.

I’ll make you a sandwich.

But that’s it.

Joe’s father, Louis, was born in Pâturages, Belgium (now known as Colfontaine) and came to the U.S. in 1885 when he was about 22. His mother, Sarah Simonin, was born in Sorrento, Illinois. She married Louis in October of 1897, and Joe was born in July of 1898. His two sisters, my aunts Sylvie and Adelaide, came later, in 1904 and 1907.

Sarah’s father, Victor, was also a coal miner but he had immigrated to the U.S. from Haute Saône, France in 1865, when mining wages were higher and working conditions were better. He was able to purchase some houses to rent and some land where he kept a small plot to farm and a few milk cows.

Mining in the early 20th century was an increasingly unstable occupation. There were strikes and injuries, and in Louis’ case, the tavern. Sarah was a very smart and capable person who, like most miner’s wives, did all kinds of things to keep the family afloat. In addition to taking care of kids and keeping house, she rented out her father’s houses, bred the heifers to get calves to take to market, and went with the doctor to help women deliver their babies.

She was also determined that Joe and his two sisters would have a better life and she knew the only way to do that was through education.

At that time, the best way to get that education was through the International Correspondence School, a pioneer in distance education founded in 1909. In 1914, at age 16, he undertook the certificate program for Mining Engineering. The hope was that it would allow him to become a foreman at the mine and not have to spend so much time in the pit.

This is my favorite receipt from the stack that were in my grandfather’s personal effects, which my Dad passed onto me.

An ICS course cost about 120 dollars, which was expensive but doable because the school had taken a page out of the Singer Sewing machine marketing strategy and let students break it up into installments and pay over time.

Joe was bright and applied himself and so passed the exams with high marks. Based on the dates on the exam receipts, it took him almost three years to get through it.

Oddly, out of the 40 classes required for this course, the receipt for the surveying module was the only one missing. Then, through research, I found his 1918 WWI draft card. There his occupation is listed as—surveyor.

Education, in combination with his efforts and desires, allowed Joe not only to lift himself out of the mines, but out of labor completely. Ultimately, he would become an engineer, and hold two patents. The journey was more complicated than that of course, but the point is, Joe was the first person in 12 generations who did not work his entire life as a miner because he had access to education.

Joe wasn’t the only one whose life was forever changed by this access. His two sisters, Sylvie and Adelaide went to nursing school, which allowed them to remain independent. Sylvie became an operating room nurse and hospital administrator in Vandalia, Illinois, and never married. Adelaide worked as a nurse for a time, and then as a sales person. (She did get married but not until she was in her 40’s.)

Joe’s son Russ (my Dad) and his two daughters (my aunts Margaret and Irene) were the first to go to college, and my Dad was determined that my sister and I get our degrees as well. My sister plowed through her degree in three and a half years. I got mine too, though my path was not nearly as straightforward!

My sister and I both have our own businesses now, which is another conversation entirely, about the paradoxes of independence and responsibility, and the need to coexist among the strange bedfellows that are safety and risk, as we tread that path.

Would we be here without the education we received at those institutions of higher learning? In my case, no. Having a degree checked a box that eliminated a barrier and allowed me to compete for employment that led to projects that led to key connections with people who have been pivotal in my success.

Just like that ICS course eliminated a barrier that allowed my grandfather to compete for employment that was done in the sunlight, instead of by lamplight.

My Dad had sensitive hearing and he passed that trait on to my sister and I. I swear sometimes I can hear grass growing across the street. (Only half kidding.) Anyway, we all really hated that whistle.

One day, a Mr. Coffee coffee maker appeared on the narrow counter next to the stove. It cost $40 in 1971, which is equivalent of $320 in today’s money. My parents lived frugally, but if Ma really wanted something, Dad would make the funds available. (We had one of the very first microwave ovens, the one that looked like a conventional range, but included microwave capability in the oven cavity. It also was extremely expensive compared to a standard oven.)

ID 19513469 © John Kasawa | Dreamstime.com

The Mr. Coffee machine was invented by Vince Marrotta, an engineer who sought to solve the problem of coffee becoming bitter when the basket of grounds was left in a coffee percolator too long. The result was a machine that would heat water to the perfect temperature (200 degrees Fahrenheit), and then control its flow over the grounds for the exactly the right length of time.

Our Mr. Coffee machine, however, was very rarely used to make a pot of coffee.

Dad realized that he could use the Mr. Coffee to make his tea. He got up early for work and so would fill the carafe with water and run it through the machine without anything in the basket. He’d then leave the burner on so the water stayed hot(ish) for Ma’s coffee—a teaspoon of Folgers instant and two tiny white tablets of saccharin. When the water got low, she’d run another carafe through. Dad would turn the machine off before he went to bed.

What Dad gained in convenience, peace, and quiet, however, he surely sacrificed in taste.

To brew tea properly, water has to be oxygenated to a certain point, which happens between 208-212 degrees F. You’re also supposed to let a tea bag steep 3-5 minutes and I know that never happened. So what Dad was drinking was basically light brown hot water with milk and sugar. This didn’t seem to bother him. Dad had a serious sweet tooth so I suspect he was in it primarily for the sugar. The hot water, tea dust, and milk were just accomplices.

From that day forward, on the countertop in my parents’ kitchen, was a coffee machine of some sort, its carafe full of hot water; a small jar of instant coffee and a dish full Lipton tea bags in the cupboard; and in a cut glass sugar bowl, some pink packets of Sweet and Low, which in later years Dad used instead of table sugar: doctor’s orders.

In December of 2014, my parents left their home and went to live with my sister, and the always on coffee-water pot was no more. And then in 2016, Dad (April) and Ma (August), also were no more.

Today, there is a coffee maker on our counter. A programmable Hamilton Beach 12-cup that cost $25 (about the same as a 12-cup Mr. Coffee).

I use it in the morning to make a half pot of Lavazza Classico, strong enough to stand a spoon up in it so it is not diluted by the generous pour of half-and-half and a pump of sugar-free salted caramel syrup.

There is also an electric tea kettle. It makes an low, angry, rattling noise when the water boils and shuts off automatically once it reaches temperature. My husband and I use it to make tea. PG Tips for him and Ty-Phoo for me, both brands recommended by a British-born friend.

I pour the water over the bag and set a timer for four minutes. I put a few tablespoons of milk (not half and half) into a cup and microwave it for a few seconds to take off the chill. When the bell rings, I remove the sachet, stir in too much some table sugar and then add the milk. I actually like a properly made cup of tea better than coffee, and I bet Dad would like it made this way, too.

We could afford to upgrade the coffee maker.

But my husband doesn’t often drink coffee, and, like my Dad, I’m in it primarily for the cream and syrup. The coffee’s just for cover.

And, it just wouldn’t be the same.

“Hey, Parnelli Jones, slow it down!” shouted the cop directing traffic, as I careened past him.

Parnelli Jones. It had been a few decades since I’d heard that name. Dad knew him. And Bill Stroppe, too.

ID 48075934 © Randomshots | Dreamstime.com

Dad was a product development engineer specializing in brakes at Ford and worked on Bronco in the early 1970’s. Parnelli Jones was a legendary race car driver and racing team owner. Bill Stroppe—who has been referred to as the “Carol Shelby of the 4x4 world—was an off-road racing pioneer and a builder who contributed much to the development of the Ford Bronco.

Bill Stroppe was also the one responsible for getting Parnelli Jones into off-road racing, which ultimately led to them winning the Baja 1000 and Baja 500 in 1970 and 1973. (The Baja 1000 and 500 are challenging off-road races held on the Baja California Peninsula in Mexico, where various classes of vehicles travel hundreds miles across harsh desert terrain.)

Note: If you love racing, seek out a copy of Parnelli Jones’ autobiography, As a Matter of Fact, I am Parnelli Jones. It’s fantastic.

The Bronco had been in production since 1966, but to capitalize on its performance at Baja, and engage off-road enthusiasts, Ford began offering a special-edition “Baja Bronco” in 1971. (Nice deep dive on how that came about here.)

At the dealer, a buyer would tick the “Stroppe package” box on the order form and Ford would send the semi-complete vehicle to Bill Stroppe’s shop in Long Beach, California. There it would be outfitted with a reinforced chassis and upgraded suspension, among other things.

The Stroppe Broncos also sported a distinctive paint scheme: Wimbeldon White, Astra Blue (roof) and Calypso Coral (aka Poppy Red). Only 650 were made, and since they were marketed as off-road ready, not many of them have survived. At this writing, a 1973 Stroppe “Baja Bronco” is listed on the duPont registry for $174,800 USD.

***

Dad traveled a lot when we were kids, often two weeks out of four. Mostly to the west coast, either Los Angeles or to Kingman, Arizona about 25 miles southwest of the Yucca Proving Grounds. He loved Arizona and its warm, sunny weather. He complained about the smog in LA.

In LA, he would run Los Angeles City Traffic (LACT) tests, a specific route run on public streets and highways that was designed to simulate real-world driving conditions. It featured a number of very steep hills that under the right circumstances could lead to brake failure.

One day, I asked Dad if the brakes ever went out on a vehicle he was testing. He said, “Yes. I put a truck through the test track wall once.”

First I’d hear of it.

Dad worked in a building that was across the street from my high school and so if we had to stay late, he would give us a ride home. This day he diverted to an access road near Greenfield Village with an undulating red brick wall. On the other side of the wall were the Ford Proving Grounds. He slowed the car down and pointed to a place where the bricks in the wall had clearly been repaired.

When I asked him when it had happened he just said, “Oh, a while ago.”

I think there was a lot I didn’t know about my Dad.

***

Dad visited Bill Stroppe when he was in LA but I know he also went to Baja California with Stroppe and Jones. Was he there in his capacity as a Ford engineer, or just helping out? Did he go on a Baja pre-run? Ride in one of the chase cars?

Stroppe passed away in 1995 and we lost Dad in 2016. I just missed Jones, who passed away in June of 2024 at the age of 90.

There’s no one left to ask.

Still, I like to imagine my Dad in a Bronco off-roading with Parnelli Jones at the wheel. Did it happen? Probably. Possibly. Truth is…I hope so.

***

There’s a old Polaroid of 11-year old me in a Baja Bronco T-shirt Dad brought back from one of his trips. (I’m including just the T-Shirt because I don’t want the original image vacuumed up by an LLM who will do with it who knows what.) If anyone reading this has one of these shirts in the back of a drawer somewhere, I’d love to have it.

I grabbed my bass off the wall and sat down to play and—I just wasn’t feeling it. It was like the three of them were in a fishbowl happily swimming around while I flopped around on the outside looking for a way in.

***

I learned to play bass at age 40, during my world-class midlife crisis. I was dating a musician who had a three-room rehearsal space on the second floor of a factory not far from Chicago’s meatpacking district.

One night, tired of my campfire guitar playing, he took me into one of the rehearsal rooms, put his beat-up black bass in my hands, stood me in front of his bass rig—two 15” Eden speakers, stacked, powered by an Ampeg SVT4 head—and turned it all the way up.

I plucked the E-string, felt the air from the two big speaker cones whoosh into my back, and that was it. I put down the guitar and never looked back.

Over the next five years, outside my day job in IT at an ad agency, bass became my life. I played bass two, three, four hours a day. I listened to music and meticulously deconstructed bass lines. I interviewed bass players for bass guitar magazines. I worked freelance for a bass guitar manufacturer.

If you know me, you know I do nothing halfway. If I’m in, I’m all the way in.

The boyfriend assembled a band, and we played out a couple of times a month. Parties. Small community events. Some early shows at Betty’s Blue Star Lounge where we actually got paid. Not a lot. Breakfast money. Still, it was a thrill. I got a lot of attention. I was a chick bass player who could actually play.

Then, I was an insider—100%.

Photo Credit: ID 205300654 © Rafael Da Silva Pereira

It was fun to be on stage but I soon discovered that my memory was not reliable when it came to retrieving three sets worth of memorized bass lines—unless I spent hours upon hours driving them into my fingers. And while this issue wasn’t that hard to hide in a band that wasn’t that good, I knew from my interviews with professional musicians that once I got with better players it would be game over—quickly.

A couple of bands and another bass player boyfriend later, an opportunity opened up to audition for a noted Chicago blues artist. Was I good enough? If I could remember the freaking parts, absolutely.

However, that gig would also involve playing until 5am three nights a week at a blues bar and then going to a day job, which is what the band leader, a CTA bus driver, had been doing for decades.

If my memory was better I might have gone for it. Retrospect, it’s probably a good thing my memory wasn’t better. The blues scene is rough. (IYKYK.)

I continued to play and practice, doing little gigs with some local musician friends but as the years passed it was feeling more and more like work with no real reward.

Still, I had this skill I had invested years in developing and it seemed like a waste to just walk away from it.

I told myself I needed an $800 Taylor GS Mini acoustic/electric bass because it would allow me to practice and play unplugged might entice me to re-engage, and it did.

I used it to learn the original bass line to “Walk Don’t Run,” an instrumental 60’s surf tune by The Ventures from YouTube. I took it to Jeff in hopes we could play together. We quickly discovered he had learned a different arrangement in high school jazz band. To make it work, I would have had to learn a different bass line and what little energy I’d managed to gin up went out of it.

***

So, as I sat in with my friends and my spouse trying to find some way to contribute to a half dozen songs I’d never heard much less played before I realized this: Save for the four songs whose bass lines are driven so far into my muscle memory I could play them dead drunk and laying on my back, playing mostly just stressed me out now, and with few exceptions, it had done so for a while.

Dropping in on new songs and having to figure out something to play on the fly is sort of SOP in jam situations and I used to get some reward from my ability to make the music feel good with my limited chops. And there is value in that but it got to the point where that was the only situation I was ever in.

Some people just like to play and don’t get too wrinkled up if it doesn’t sound perfect.

The problem is I know what it’s like to be well-rehearsed and play so well that there is that little pause before people start clapping because you and your bandmates commanded all of their attention and they need a few seconds to come back to earth.

My professional musician friends will know exactly what I’m talking about. They’d also tell you to create that, everyone has to be all in.

***

This outsider-y feeling has arisen before and in the past I’ve doubled down and pushed my way back in.

My response this time was to take the dog and go upstairs to our room and close the door. Open up my laptop and spend the time writing. Doing my art, all the way.

Right here. On this page. With you.

And with that act, I let the bass go. I did it without swearing it off or taking any oaths. I’ll play or I won’t and I’m just not going to mind what happens with it anymore.

Compared to my parents’ modest three-bedroom home, ours is a palace. It’s a big four bedroom colonial on the northwest side of Columbus, Ohio. It has a fenced yard that backs up to an easement and beyond that a copse of woods that can never be developed. The kitchen cabinets are new and there are granite countertops. And there’s a linen closet that contains among other things, a dozen big fluffy bath sheets.

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash

What got me thinking about this was a random Facebook reel with a guy who referred to “comfort addiction.” I poked around the Oracle (aka Google) and my takeaway is it’s not that we are addicted to comfort as much as we’ve experienced comfort “inflation.”

Could I live without fluffy bath sheets? Yes, of course. Without the latest iPhone? Again, yes. Without an iPhone, i.e. a cheap Android phone? Yes. Without a cell phone? No. (And I think about how crazy that is, often.)

Wanting to be comfortable is not the problem. That’s human nature. The problem is that the cost of maintaining the level of comfort we’ve become accustomed to (or aspire to) is steadily increasing. We’re already making adjustments, mostly in the form of more aggressive attention paid to prices and experimenting with different stores. That’s how I discovered Aldi usually has goat cheese for $1.99 a log. (You’re welcome.)

Air travel on the other hand, has undergone radical comfort contraction. Ten years ago, a standard seat was a perfectly acceptable experience, even for a long trip. Now that same ticket sends you to the back of the plane where your knees hit the back of the seat in front of you and God forbid the person in front of you decides to recline. So that’s a situation in which something that used to be adequately comfortable has been made wholly uncomfortable and we now have to pay to get back to what used to be par.

Comfort comes in different flavors. For example, I’d love to replace the useless microwave/fan over the stove for a real range hood so we don’t set off the smoke detectors every time we pan fry a steak. So, I bought a $450 Hauslane range hood only to discover I would need to spend $2,000 more to install it and fix the tile. Ooof.

My parents would have lived with the microwave. Just sayin’

We ended up selling the range hood on Facebook Marketplace for $200. (Ouch.)

The other thing driving this rumination is that the last week of every year I look at spending and develop budgets and the net net is unless our resources go up, our comfort level is gonna have to go down. Maybe not a lot and maybe some of it can be achieved by eliminating things that don’t deliver on their comfort-y promises. (I’m looking at you $5 bricks of butter.)

We could continue as is, but it would be at the expense of our future so we can afford to replace those worn out bath sheets with new fluffy towels when the time comes.

If there are prescriptives, they are this:

• It’s OK to live with the scratchy towels (or whatever your equivalent is) if it is allowing you to meet your financial goals.

• It’s OK to change your mind, i.e., live with the microwave. Your future self will thank you.

Love and fluffy towels. xo hb

Homer had walked by my drawings with little or no comment for weeks, and those in the know knew that was not a good thing. The fact he took the time to correct this one meant he finally saw something there worth correcting. Which I inferred to mean I was getting better. Either that or he was just throwing me a bone. Either way, it was appreciated.

So much of the talent in that room was incredible and the drawings reflected this. The forms, elegant. Perspectives, perfect. Renderings, beautiful, with the requisite star shaped “bird shit” highlights placed just right.

Photo by Ashwin Vaswani on Unsplash

My forms were pedestrian at best and the depiction of them flat as a pancake. (I never did figure out the highlights. And don’t get me started on perspective.)

Point is, no matter how hard I worked, I could not conceive of those forms and even if I could, I couldn’t get them out of my head onto paper in a way that accurately—and aesthetically—communicated my ideas.

The problem: I did not have “IT.”

“IT” being the inherent magical sensibility, intuition and intelligence that when combined with stunning visual communication chops makes one a great designer and/or artist (most of the greats are both).

When it comes to visual art, not only do I not have IT. I don’t have It, or it, either.

You cannot manufacture IT. You either have IT or you don’t.

And I didn’t.

At the time, the Industrial Design program at Center (now College) of Creative Studies (CCS) had a forced attrition policy. They admitted 60 students per class but only graduated 13. We all knew this going in and worked like fiends hoping we would survive.

Alas, at the end of my fifth semester, the instructors reviewing my portfolio recognized my dearth of IT-ness and I was not invited back for a sixth.

Don’t feel bad for me. It was an experience! And I took with me what I learned about design thinking—in theory and in practice—and it has served me well ever since that fateful afternoon in December of 1985. In fact, everything good I have been able to create in my life is the product of the design thinking and problem solving skills I learned and practiced there.

In 2005, about 10 minutes after I started playing bass, I signed up to attend Victor Wooten’s week long Bass Nature Camp in Tennessee. Once again, 60 people, this time musicians of every age and ilk, who were hoping to accelerate their development under the expert tutelage of Victor Wooten, his brother Reggie Wooten, David Welch, Anthony Wellington, and the great Chuck Rainey.

The first afternoon we all played a little something. When my turn came I sounded—awful. I’d love to blame it on my instrument—for some reason I’d brought an unwieldy boutique 5-string whose tone I could not control vs. my steady 4-string Fender. And while that poor decision certainly contributed to my stress, it wasn’t the true source of it. I was in over my head.

Once again, I was an “it” in a room full of “Its” and “ITs”.

Sigh. I would just have to tough it out and absorb what I could. And I did just that. The theory classes were painful but there were also a lot of practical tips and tricks Victor shared that saved my ass on stage later.

HB with Chuck Rainey and Reggie Wooten, July 2005 after a ripping fun final jam session where I held my own—barely. © LHelenaBouchez

Again, don’t feel bad for me. The friends I made there—David, Oz, Toné, and others—are still friends to this day. Plus, who else do you know who can start a fire with a twig and some string? (That was in the Nature part of camp).

I’ve played music in some capacity since I was six—ukulele, guitar, trumpet—so I am a musician. Plus, I loved the bass and was all in since I plucked the open E string while standing in front of two 15” cabinets and felt the air whoosh into my back.

In fact, I loved the bass enough that for the next 10 years I invested hours upon hours into practicing. More than one professional player I took lessons with told me I had “the part you can’t teach.” Meaning, I can make the music sound and feel good and I can play in what they call the “pocket.” And because I understand my role, I can do a whole lot with a little.

So, when it comes to the bass, I do have “It.” (I was just too green when I went to camp for it to show.)

What I did not have, nor would I ever have when it came to the bass, is “IT.”

This became abundantly clear during an interview I did with John Howard, a Nashville session musician and bassist for the band Sixwire.

First call session musicians are able to hear something once and play it back.

Me: nope.

They also can remember the basslines to thousands of tunes and when faced with something new can make a bassline up on the fly. They have auditory eidetic memories.

Me: nope.

When I asked John how much he practiced, he said, “Eight hours a day.”

That was a lightbulb moment for me. Because even if I did have IT, which I already knew I did not, I realized I was not willing to practice bass eight hours a day, even as much as I loved it.

What I was willing to do, and in fact at that point was already doing at work and with my freelance clients, was write eight hours a day, sometimes more.

Today, I make a good living as a co-writer and editor of nonfiction business books. And I’m blazing a path toward writing on my own account, which is what I’m doing here on Substack.

So, why so many detours? Why spend 10 years of art school and 10 years honing my bass chops? Why didn’t I just start out as a writer?

Well, I did. I started writing stories and poetry in the second grade. It just took me a while to get back to—IT.

During this immersion in pilot culture (and eau de jet fuel) I learned a thing or two about aviation.

For example, there are two sets of regulations governing the operation of civil aviation aircraft. One is Visual Flight Rules (VFR) and the other is Instrument Flight Rules (IFR).

Flying “VFR” means the pilot flies in weather that allows them to see where the aircraft is going, specifically with visual reference to the ground and by visually avoiding obstructions and other aircraft. When pilots first get their license they are typically qualified to fly VFR only, meaning they can only fly when they can actually see where they are going.

To fly “IFR” requires additional training leading to an Instrument Rating. Under IFR, the pilot flies based on what instruments in the flight deck are telling them and navigates based on electronic signals. Pilots of private jets must be able to fly IFR because at 41,000 feet all they can see out the window is clouds and sky.

For some of us, the experience of navigating toward goals, especially long term goals, is all clouds and sky, all the time.

We’re always flying blind. Specifically, time blind.

Time blindness is a condition where your perception of time is—skewed.

ID 35507461 | Instruments Private Jet © Zandphoto | Dreamstime.com

You’ve experienced this warpage of time if you’ve ever entered into a state of what psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (Chick-sent-me-hi) called Flow. Flow is about fully occupying the present moment while you’re involved in something, which leaves you satisfied and energized at its conclusion.

Flow’s evil twin is Hyperfocus, which left unchecked can lead to a lot of narrow, repetitive (and unhealthy) activities, where you become blind to amount of time that has passed. For me, scrolling social media on my phone instantly induces a state of hyperfocus. (I never feel good after I emerge from a bout of hyperfocus.)

Interestingly, most of the writing I’ve seen around time blindness seems to focus on shorter term relationships with time. The missed appointment, the forgotten phone call, the blown work deadline, etc.

Doesn’t it just make sense, though, that time blindness would also include difficulty seeing a clear path to the future?

For example, when I conceive of a goal and draft a five-year plan to achieve it, my brain literally cannot tell me what “five years” means. In fact, my brain understands life about 16 waking hours at a time, max.

For me, the inability to grok time, means all time—long and short. And that is where the aviation analogy comes into play.

I realized that to achieve anything big, I had to start flying IFR.

For me, that means creating a detailed “flight plan” and navigating from point A to B to C, etc. and course correcting as needed based not on how I think I’m doing that day but rather on what my instruments are telling me.

I’ll give you an example.

Like most women of my vintage, my metabolism has slowed down and so the pounds go on faster and come off more slowly than they used to.

I used to be able to fly my fitness goals VFR, meaning go to the gym “more” (whatever that was) and maybe cut out bread and pasta for a month or so to ditch the extra fluff. That worked, until it didn’t.

Thanks to social media, I recently discovered Xtine Cardenas, a gifted and no BS personal trainer based in Canada. (FD: I belong to her community but am not a direct client.) In one of her videos, she mentions how she was on the FAFO weight loss plan until she realized to lose weight she needed to be in a calorie deficit. (Me: Oh. Ah. OK.)

So, how does one achieve a calorie deficit? Well, you do some algebra based on your current weight, your goal and timeframe and you come up with a number that represents a calorie deficit. Mine is 1477. Then you have a couple daily metrics to hit in terms of consumption of fat, protein, and carbs.

That’s my flight plan.

My instrument panels are Snap Calorie, a calorie tracker and veSync, an app which pairs with my smart scale. I also have access to an InBody machine at my gym. The InBody is more accurate, but the veSync tells me my weight and where I’m getting better or worse vis-a-vis body fat, BMR, visceral fat, subcutaneous fat, etc.

I know as long as I am loading in good (read: honest) data consistently, my calorie instrument will let me know how I’m doing with my allotment so I can adjust my decisions accordingly. Then, my scale instrument will let me know where I’m at so I know how much further I have left to go. If I’m consistent with it I know I will get to my destination in time, which is to be down 20 pounds by January 25, 2026. (I know there’s an exercise component to this too, but for the sake of simplicity…)

Do I have any sense of how much time 15 more weeks is? Absolutely not. All I know is what happened today and I only know that because of my instruments (tracker and scale).

Pilots will tell you the hardest part about learning to fly IFR is to override your natural instincts and the resulting perceptions and put your total faith in the instruments. The minute you stop believing and responding to that information and revert to relying only your instincts, all is lost.

The flaw in this metaphor, of course, is that if I make a mistake (or five) I’m in no danger of dying or taking others with me. Same with using this approach to achieve some longer term business goals. Though, failure in either area could have more serious consequences longer term.

Hence my need to have a way to move consistently forward toward my goals—without being derailed by my brain’s “future deficit disorder.”

Anyone else out there dealing with time blindness? Would love to know your thoughts.

One time, he took me on a ride around the block in his 1950 Studebaker Champion. He’d removed the back seats to replace the carpeting, so I was standing on the floor behind him, hanging onto the back of his seat. Totally illegal, even in 1967. I’m also sure Ma was not home.

This was before he built the garage and I think Ma got sick of it and all of its various parts and pieces cluttering up the driveway, so he got rid of it. (FYI, well-restored Studebaker Champions now go for around $17,000.)

For a time, he settled for tinkering with our existing cars, adding a fake hood scoop to our powder blue 1970 Ford Maverick (when Maverick was a car) and painting the area around the taillights black.

Then, in the spring of 1977, a buddy of Dad’s showed up with a trailer and deposited a 1966 Ford Mustang in our driveway. I have to imagine there was some negotiation with Ma that it would live in the garage when he wasn’t working on it, and it did, most of the time.

ID 240878690 © Paul Hildreth | Dreamstime.com

The car was dark blue (likely Caspian Blue Poly 12547) with a dingy white faux leather roof. Rust—everywhere. Inside, the headliner and carpet were filthy but the turquoise and white seats and door panels—Mustang’s premium “Pony interior”—were intact and fairly clean. It also had the center console option, which cost $51 ($500 in today’s money). Standard gauges.

I spent that summer out in the driveway helping Dad grind off rust and patch holes in the fenders with coffee cans and pop rivets. (Resourceful, yes. Recommended, no.) We then applied (a lot of) Bondo to the new metal, sanded it, and smoothed it all out as best we could with glazing jelly followed by wet sanding with a fine grit paper.

It was hot, dirty, dusty work—and I loved it. It created so many opportunities to hang out with my father where we worked together quietly, speaking only about the tasks at hand.

Dad continued to tinker with the car, and I continued to help where I could until the fall of 1980 when I went off to college. While I was away, he pulled the gas tank, which had a leak, and created a temporary fuel source, a small red metal gas can that held about two gallons, which he tucked inside the engine compartment.

Completely safe. Ahem.

That said, I should tell you that Dad was a product development engineer, which is a specialized role responsible for inventing ways to adapt things the product designers drew so they actually worked in the real world. So, he did know what he was doing. The purpose of the temporary tank was to be able to continue work on the new 302 cubic inch (~5.0L) engine he’d put in, since the original 289 (~4.7L) V8 was seized.

At some point the car (with its temporary tank) got trailered down to Ohio to a relative who had converted their one-car garage into a paint booth.

So…when painting with a paint sprayer, unless you know how to control for all the various factors, you end up with an uneven surface sometimes referred to as “orange peel.” I know this because in art school I had to paint a ton of product models, and learning how to set up the sprayer properly, hold it at the correct angle, and get the right amount of paint on evenly was part of the process. (It’s really hard!) Orange peel can be overcome but it requires wet-sanding and polishing the whole car to even out the surface. Let’s just say in this case, the juice was not worth that squeeze.

Anyway, the car was trailered back to Michigan and put back into the garage, where it sat. And sat. And sat. And Dad didn’t do another thing with it for the rest of his life.

Still, he couldn’t let it go. When my parents moved back to Ohio in 1994, the Mustang went into the semi, along with 16,000 pounds of other stuff (a real number) and he paid $300 a month for its storage for the next 22 years.

To be clear, this is a man who would have, had Ma permitted it, repaired his sneakers with silver duct tape rather than buy a new pair. I know what you’re thinking. Trust your instincts. And read on.

***

In 2016, my parents passed on within four months of each other, even though my father was 12 years older. After Dad died (he went first) I told my sister I’d start cleaning out the storage units.

I took the keys to the storage unit off the hook on the refrigerator at my parents house and headed over to the facility to assess the contents of what had over the past 22 years expanded from one to three storage units. I knew one of those units had the car in it. I didn’t know what I would find in the other two but given I’d found 12 hammers after just a few hours sorting through my father’s workbench in the garage, I braced myself.

My cousins Jeff and Tommy offered to help. We started with the most recent unit first. It was an odd collection of items that included an antique wood burning stove, several bicycles he had intended to repair and give away, a mountain of lawn mower parts, garden implements, and old oil cans. In the corner was his acetylene torch and two tanks still on the original dolly. (We spirited that thing out of there post haste—without the manager seeing it.)

The second unit was full to the rafters. Dad was an avid junk picker. Everything was a future project or something someone might need some day. I didn’t recognize anything in the first or second layer but then I saw the red tractor—the one that I used to help him cut grass down at my grandmother’s place in Massillon.

The gas in the tank had turned to varnish and its big back tires were flat. I said we should find someone to fix it and give it away. Tommy, who had a lawn mowing business, said no one would want it. Somehow the three of us heaved it into the back of Jeff’s truck and he hauled it to the metal scrapper.

A piece of my heart went with it.

There was one unit left to look through and it was the one with the car.

I managed to get the door unlocked but had to go get the manager to help me roll it up because it had been so long since anyone had been in there.

The car was covered with dust inside and out (the driver side window had been left open an inch). The tires were flat.

There were some surprises. For one, he’d saved the original 289 engine! The original hubcaps were in the back seat.

I was expecting memories to pour forth. Maybe some tears. Instead there was just—gravity.

I pulled the door to the unit down, replaced the lock, and got back into my car, where I sat and thought about the car and my Dad for a long, long time.

***

It was the middle of October, about two months after Ma died, when my sister Lisa called me at home, then in New Jersey. Interim, my cousins had made dozens of trips to the scrapper and the dump and they had gotten most of the stuff out of two of the three units. Similarly, they’d filled the tree lawn up at my parent’s house with junk six weeks in a row, which the North Royalton sanitation workers graciously made disappear.

Lisa said, “Listen, I need to know if you are going to take the Mustang or not because Jeff knows a guy that really wants it and who said he’ll finish the restoration and take it to car shows.”

I told her to give me a day and I’d let her know for sure this time.

Dad would have wanted me to have that car, and I really wanted it, if only for that reason. The problem was I wasn’t skilled enough to complete the restoration myself and to have someone else restore it right would cost thousands. Plus, I had no place to park it so it would have to go from one storage space to another and that didn’t seem right, either.

My sister called again the next day and said I had to decide because they were emptying all three storage spaces by the end of the month. Then she said this: “Look, Jeff said the guy who wants it said he’d restore it and name it after Dad.”

I grew up in the garage working on cars, hanging out with car guys working on cars, and going to art school with car guys, so I knew what it took to do a restoration like that. Dad had gotten the car running, but in mechanic speak that just means the engine turned over and stayed on. It still needed a real gas tank. Was this guy a mechanic? I didn’t know. Then, there was the body, a whole other skillset. The paint issues could be overcome, but the minute he discovered the coffee cans and pop rivets it might be game over.

Still, I chose to believe, so I could let it go.

I still think about the Mustang from time to time.

What I’ve realized is this: The car may be gone but what it meant to me didn’t go anywhere.

I took that with me.

This is a photograph of the first page of the livret issued in July of 1874 to my great grandfather, Louis, by the province of Hainaut in the arrondissement of Mons, Belgium. He was 11 years old.

Image ©L. Helena Bouchez 2025

Louis likely started out as a breaker boy. A breaker boy’s job was to pick rocks from coal traveling through a chute below them as it passed. Ten hours a day, six days a week.

He would then have progressed to door boy, whose mind numbing job was to open and close the door to the mine. Then mule driver, whose job it was to drive the container of coal out of the mine so it could be hauled to the top for sorting. Then miner’s helper—a laborer and apprentice, and finally, miner, whose job it was to liberate the coal from the rock with a pickaxe and/or explosives.

It wasn’t until 1884 that Belgium passed a law prohibiting boys under 12 and girls under 14 from working in mines but these rules were often ignored because many families still needed the child’s income. (1) It wasn’t until 1914, when Belgium implemented compulsory schooling, that the practice of child labor was finally ended.

Employers not only recorded and validated the beginning and end dates of each work engagement, they also held onto the booklets for the duration.

The livret d’ouvrier functioned as a tool of social control and enabled industry and government to effectively restrict and control the movement of workers.

When a worker wanted to travel outside the immediate area, he had to go to his employer and retrieve his livret d’ouvrier — and would have to notify his employer where he was going so they could release him. Those without a valid livret d’ouvrier could be arrested for vagrancy.

In Victor Hugo’s story Les Miserables, set in 1815 France, policeman Javert asks Jean Valjean for his livret d’ouvrier. As a parolee, Valjean has no livret, only a yellow “feuille de route” also known as a “passeport jaune” (yellow passport), which immediately identifies him as a former convict.

Created by the French regime in 1803, livret des ouvriers were temporarily abandoned in 1830 after mine workers destroyed their livrets during riots at Borinage. However, an 1840 royal decree by King Leopold I of Belgium incorporated the livret d’ouvrier into Belgian law, and livrets became widespread there after 1845.

The first engagement in my great grandfather’s book is 16 July 1874 – 19 August 1874 at Produits Colliery in Belgium.

Image ©L. Helena Bouchez 2025

Between 1874 and 1884 there were several more engagements; those I can make out include Belle et Bonne, Mines de Escarpelle, Mines de Lievin, and du Charbonniere Douaisienne.

In 1879, Louis’ father, Seraphin, moved the family—who had lived and worked in Pâturages (now part of Colfontaine) for at least 11 generations—to Hersin-Coupigny, Pas de Calais, in the north of France to work in the mines there but it was no easier.

Belgians got the most difficult jobs for the worst wages. And the French workers basically hated them. Management’s habit of hiring Belgian miners to replace French strikers, did not help!

The final entry in Louis’ livret was in 1884: “Vu a las Mairie du Hersin-Coupigny” literally “To see the Mayor of Hersin-Coupigny, Pas de Calais.” This entry coincides with the date of a letter of good character Louis obtained in preparation for his immigration to America in 1885 to work in the mines in central Illinois.

There’s much more to this story, ex. my discovery by trawling the baptismal records online at genealogy sit Family Search that were were actually seven children born, four of which died before they were two years old. Only the second (Louis), fourth (Adolphe), and fifth (Albert) children survived. All three worked in the mines. Two of the three (Louis and Albert) immigrated to the US.

I have been researching my ancestors on both sides since I was a teenager. For many reasons, it’s this line I connect with most. Over time, I’ll unpack more of this history and its impact on future generations and you’ll see why.

Every time I write about these people I feel so incredibly grateful and fortunate to have been born in 1960’s U.S. instead of 1860’s Belgium. Just sayin’.

Anyone else have miners in their ancestry?

* This essay includes only one citation. It was something I originally wrote for fun, so don’t come for me. I have the research documents saved. When I write the creative nonfiction book about this, I’ll just have to retrace my steps!

(1) https://www.belganewsagency.eu/compulsory-education-ended-child-labour-in-belgium

He came out, popped the hood and had me start the car, my first, a 1973 Chevrolet Impala. He saw the smoke and told me to pull it into the driveway near the garage so he could jack it up and see what was going on underneath. It was cold and damp out and the roads were slushy. In other words, March in southeastern Michigan.

Dad got out the creeper—essentially a board on tiny wheels—laid down on it, and scooted under the car. Muttered something about the engine “making oil.”

I expected him to tell me to park it until he could get parts. After all, he was a crack mechanic who could fix anything.

Not this time. Instead, we ended up driving it to the junkyard. He said I could drive Ma’s Ford Zephyr to and from art school interim, but I would need to find a new car.

This was pre-internet 1984 so I scoured the local Tradin’ Times and found an ad for a 1978 Ford Thunderbird coupe for $1,300. I made an appointment to go see it and Dad threw some tools and the creeper in his van and we went to check it out.

Photo By Sicnag - 1978 Ford Thunderbird Hardtop, CC BY 2.0,

It was butter yellow, with a brown vinyl roof and opera lights on the B pillar. Concealed headlights, which I loved, but Dad didn’t because they tended to break, meaning they failed to close when you shut the headlights off. Five foot long doors and a hood so big it had its own zip code. No rust. Inside, brown velour bench sheets. Power windows. Overall, very clean.

***

The 1978 Ford Thunderbird was huge—225 inches long and 80 inches wide, and a beast at 5,000 pounds. Starting with the 1977 model, the T-Bird was Ford’s entrant in the personal luxury car market, to compete with the Buick Riviera. It got about 10-11 miles per gallon—if you drove conservatively.

***

Dad looked under the hood first and then jacked up the car and scooched underneath. He didn’t say anything. We then drove it around. The power steering action was so silky you could turn the wheel with one finger. And its 302 cu in (4.9 L) Windsor V8 engine satisfied my main criteria, which was that if I needed to stomp on the gas pedal to get out trouble on the freeway, the car would get up and go. Dad told the guy we’d take it and he’d come back the next day with the money.

Back in the van, Dad said, “Looks like the oil pan gasket needs to be replaced, but just keep dumping oil into it and we’ll fix it in the spring.”

Two months and five quarts of 10w-30 later, I heard the connecting rod knock. The previous owners had put in heavy oil to mask the sound.

***

The car sat in the driveway until April when Dad and a buddy used the cherry picker (engine hoist) that lived in our backyard to take out the old engine.

I spent the better part of that summer sanding and painting the inside of the engine compartment with Ospho rust treatment. The engine compartment sans engine was the size of a small apartment and so there was a lot of real estate to cover.

It was meditative work, except when I accidentally got the stuff on my hands, which burned. I had my assignment, but rarely was I out there by myself. The garage was my Dad’s “man cave” and so it was good to hang out with him while he puttered even if neither of us said too much.

***

In fact, one of the best things about hanging out with Dad in the garage, or being in the car, was not having to say anything if you didn’t want to. You could just go ask if he needed help and he’d give you something to do. I sorted a lot of nuts, bolts, and washers into jars.

Conversely, Ma and her people were all about the drama, Dad was all the way on the other end of the spectrum; and possibly on the spectrum. His inability to read people created a lot of problems for him personally and professionally.

To that end, I don’t think Dad ever really got me and he was just as much of a mystery and so in a way we were even. The greatest joy in that relationship I think for both of us was really in the experience of working together.

***

While I was busy painting the perimeter of the engine compartment, Dad was busy prepping the new engine that would go back in it. It and the 4,574 other parts that connected it to the car were spread out on the garage floor.

I knew my dad was good at changing tires, replacing brakes, and changing oil and spark plugs. He’d also told me lots of stories about things he’d done in his younger days, like being pit crew at a racetrack. But I’d never actually seen him do anything of this magnitude before.

Then one day in early fall I came home from school and my Dad handed me the key to my car.

I slid onto the big brown velour bench seat, stuck the key in the ignition and twisted it forward.

The engine turned over easily and roared to life.

For Dad, it was just another day at the office.

For me, it was a magic moment I’ll never forget.

Thus, we gained entry to Chicago’s then vibrant motorcycle community, in the mid-1990s.

Photo Credit: Michael Baier, public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

One of our Sunday morning rituals was to meet up with our friends at the Highland House, a restaurant in Highland Park, on Hwy 41, 25 minutes north of Chicago.

On a typical Sunday, about 300-400 bikes would come through between 7am when the place opened and noon, when people began to disperse.

We’d roll in, find a parking space, go inside to the counter and get a cup of coffee and pre-made breakfast sandwich (forget about trying to sit down if you got there after 9 a.m.) and then stroll around the parking lots of the restaurant and adjoining gas station checking out the bikes. Old Indians, Harleys of every vintage, touring bikes (basically cars on two wheels), Ducatis, custom choppers, bikes with sidecars, trikes, you name it.

There also were groups of people who got together to ride, usually meeting at Highland House and then trekking further north to Fox Lake and the Broken Oar for lunch and onto Wisconsin’s two-lane highways where they could open it up and relax because there was less traffic.

One of those groups was “Zell’s Angels.” Zell as in Sam Zell, the billionaire Chicago real estate magnate, who was an avid biker. One of Zell’s Angels was a guy named Peter Szollosi.

My ex had worked for Sam’s son Matt, and so he already knew Peter and so we’d chat him up sometimes at the Highland House. Peter and I got to talking and I found out he was Sam’s go-to guy for marketing, special events, anything creative. Intrigued, I asked if I could come downtown some time for an “informational interview.” He gave me his card and told me to email him and set up a time and we’d do it.

At the time, I was looking to change jobs, and I hoped maybe he might be able to help me out. That didn’t happen, but what did would change my life.

***

Peter’s studio was on the 26th (top) floor of Riverside Plaza, considered Chicago’s finest Art Deco building, which began life as the Chicago Daily News building in 1929.

Instead of a desk, there was a high drafting table with a bar height stool, which faced a large window. The walls were museum white and festooned with drawings and cartoons. There were shelves full of books on art and media.

After some light chit chat (probably about motorcycles) I mumbled something about looking for a new opportunity.

I’m not great at talking when I’m stressed to begin with, and here I was punching way over my weight and I knew it.

Peter thought a minute, and then he said this:

“What’s your agenda?”

I asked him what he meant by that.

He said, “What is it you want out of this at the end? What’s your agenda?”

I’d already mumbled the thing about the job, and he didn’t bite, so I knew that wasn’t happening.

So I said, “That’s a good question. I have to think about it.”

We concluded our conversation and he gave me a quick tour of Sam’s sumptuous wood-paneled office, which was filled with several desktop automatons.

Peter explained that they were just a few examples of the end-of-the-year gifts Sam sent to associates all over the world, and that he was the one who came up with the concepts and got them produced. He then turned a few of them on, and they were truly spectacular.

After the tour, Peter showed me to the elevator, and I hopped a Metra train home, head spinning.

What was my agenda? Not just in regard to Peter, but in general?

From then on, whenever I felt stuck or unclear, I would go back to that question. It has never failed to clear the fog.

***

After that meeting, we emailed back and forth about once a year or so, until one time I emailed him to check in but got no reply, which was strange because he’d always replied before.

I searched online to see if I could figure out where he went.

What I found was his obituary. A lovely piece in the Chicago Tribune that explained in detail just what a creative force of nature he was.

The cause was kidney cancer. He was just 56 years old.

***

The Highland House, previously a pizza place called Hal’s, had been welcoming bikers since the 1950’s when the clientele was more Marlon Brando’s the Wild Ones and less weekend warriors with pristine leathers riding spendy Ducati Monsters. It closed in June of 2003. The owners wanted to retire and sold the one acre site to an Acura dealership who turned it into a parking lot.

***

I’d give anything to be able to talk to Peter again and let him know what I did with his question and how many other people I’ve shared it with.

So in his memory, I pass it on to you to use when you are stuck and need to figure out next steps on something.

So, let me be the one to ask you: What’s your agenda?

Photo by Danielle MacInnes on Unsplash

You want to write a book but intuitively you know you’re never going to make it happen on your own. You probably don’t even know why, so I will tell you. 

1. You don’t have the 500 hours (or more) over 18 months (or more) or the inclination to devote that much time to turning your big idea into an actual finished book. 

2. You don’t know how to make a book. Yes, it’s a craft and there’s a process. You could learn, but see point number one and then double the time—because learning. If you’re like my clients—you’re not going to do that, either. 

3. You have no desire to manage the copious amounts of minutia involved in getting a book to press—even if you’re self-publishing. If you are going to get a book deal with a traditional publisher, multiply that headache by about 500%. And when I say headache, I’m talking migraine. Example: You know those cute quotes you see atop many chapters in business books? That’s called an epigraph and they are special permissions snowflakes that often require you to pay the publisher of the book they came from for the rights to use them. That’s just one example. I could go on. It’s tedium to the max. 

So then, how are so many of your peers getting books out? It’s simple. They are hiring someone to help them!

Writing a book is not unlike software development. As a business leader you know what outcome you want. To get that outcome, you hire a software development firm who then works with you to make your vision into reality. You don’t go sign up for a class in Python!

Extending the analogy, software development is expensive. But if you select the right outcome, the ensuing program should pay for itself manifold. Same with a book. If you take the time to figure out what the thesis of the book is and what’s required to support it, and it’s written in a way that’s respectful of people’s time and attention, it will raise your profile in ways nothing else can.

So how does working with a co-writer work? First let’s define the roles. I refer to myself as a co-writer but I am also a book strategist, and developmental editor, and project manager. I wear a lot of hats. Basically, I’m responsible for making sure the book actually happens, including fanning the flame to keep your enthusiasm for the project alive for a long, long time!

• Book strategist: Helps you figure out who your audience is, where their pain points are, and what it is you have to offer in terms of subject matter expertise that would advance their agenda. 

• Developmental editor: Makes sure the book hangs together, sequences properly and reads like butter. Acts as the reader’s advocate to make the very best use of the reader’s time.

• Project manager: Has control of the myriad items required and keeps the plates spinning and delivering on time. 

• Co-writer: Interviews, researches, challenges the non-writing author and then translates their thinking into words on the page, making them sound like the best version of themselves. Basically bolts onto your brain and does what is required to get the book actually written. 

You might also be wondering, what’s difference between a co-writer, a co-author, and a ghostwriter? Here’s my take.

• A co-writer gets a shout out in the acknowledgements (at least I do). Sometimes you see Jane Doe with Josh Ray. The second name is typically the co-writer. A mention in the acknowledgements is good enough for me. I don’t want to dilute my client’s credibility with a “with.” It’s not my book!

• A co-author is just what it sounds like, two people who partner up to create something together. In that case both names go on the cover of the book, i.e., Jane Doe and Josh Ray. In that case, my job as co-writer is to figure out what the blended voice is and that is actually a lot of fun. 

• A ghostwriter is usually a subject matter expert who essentially takes an idea and uses their knowledge to write a book and puts someone else’s name on it. The ghost’s name is not associated with the book in any way. This anonymity is often written into the agreement and non-disclosures also can be required. Some people love to ghostwrite and that’s fine. It’s just not my jam.

Yes, I take my client’s ideas and amplify them but let’s be clear: the controlling ideas and the core subject matter expertise originates with them and the author is driving the narrative. I’ve also noticed working with a co-writer is becoming sort of a status symbol. That’s nice because the author is happy to mention me as having played an important role in bringing the book to bear.

It’s great to have one person who can wear all the hats but you can also get it done by engaging an experienced co-writer with developmental editing experience and bolting that person on to a book project manager who will handle production, e.g., directing the copy editor and proofreading and all the other pieces such as pre-order, launch, etc.

Point is, if you really believe a book would transform your business (and it can, I’ve seen it happen many times) do yourself a favor and give up on going it alone. Instead, use your leadership skills to assemble the team you need to help you manifest it—and do it now. Because as the old Chinese proverb goes, “The best time to plant a tree is 20 years ago, and today.”

Note: Cross posted to executivewords.com

This isn’t about block. I’ve written 7,000 words this week. Some good stuff. Problem is I can’t figure out what any of those vignettes really mean. All failed to reveal to me what they were about and it wasn’t for lack of trying.

I’ll show you what I mean (briefly):

My grandfather was a member of the Ohio Nut Growers Association. There was a huge black walnut tree next to the garage. They dropped softball-sized light green fruits, the squishy remains of which needed to be picked up in the spring before one restarted lawn mowing. Once liberated from their protective sheath, they were tough to get out of the shell. Black walnuts also have a very distinct, and some may argue are an acquired taste. I could go on…if I knew what I was trying to say. Black walnuts a metaphor for…what? I don’t know!

I started a children’s story about goals that won’t stay gotten. (Think: Phantom Tollbooth.) Then I ran across Tiny Habits by BJ Fogg, which is blowing my mind and so I’ll come back to this one once I’ve internalized that system.

Professor Schochet’s business math class. One of the last classes I had to take in my quest to graduate from Wayne State (BA in Art 1990) was business math. This worried me because where words and sentences were my best friends, numbers and formulas were aloof strangers. I just couldn’t connect.

Math was a foreign language and if I was going to pass this class, I needed a skilled interpreter. This I found, and more, in Professor Claude Schochet, who held a PhD in mathematics from University of Chicago, with extensive post doctoral studies (K-Theory, anyone?). Dr. Schochet was so obviously in love with math, even the lowly algebra of business mathematics, that you couldn’t help but induct his enthusiasm. His instruction also was masterful. Not only were his explanations crystal clear, he also knew precisely the order in which to deliver the concepts so the knowledge would “stack” properly and be remembered.

I went to every class. I hung on every word. I did all the homework. And, I got an A. In math. If you needed proof that miracles can happen…look no further. To be clear, the miracle was that I landed in this remarkable and accomplished educator’s classroom. The grade was gravy.

This experience remains at the forefront of my memory, 30 years later. Why?

Again, I have no idea. Is it Kriyananda’s “you teach with your vibration” thing again? Or the relief of knowing I may not be the math moron I thought I was. (Change in self-perception? Shift to a growth mindset?) OK, but what’s the universal truth? See what I mean?

Moving/Michigan. I’ve moved 25+ times since 1983. My first apartment was a gracious 11th floor studio in The Park Shelton, a former residence hotel located at Woodward Ave. and Brush Street, across from the Detroit Insititute of Arts. (Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo lived in the building for a time when he was doing the murals at the DIA.) The area is now known as “Midtown” and the building has since gone condo. From there, I bounced around the Detroit metro area until 1992, when I moved to Chicago.

So I’ve moved from Michigan (Ferndale to be exact), to Chicago (Irving Park) to Middletown (Hillbilly Elegy), to New Jersey (Hopewell, where General Washington’s troops once marched through our backyard). And Ohio (Columbus) is up next.

I don’t miss living in Chicago or Middletown. I know I will miss living here in Hopewell but am looking forward to the Columbus adventure. I didn’t think I missed Michigan, but given my emotional response to this video…

Video: Missing Michigan (Credit: ShyBoy/Wendy Waldman/Abraham Parker/Mark Nubar)

OK, Michigan. What is it I’m really missing? And what is the universal truth, the reason anyone else should care? I know it’s something about the concept of home. Appears more rumination is required.

So, there you go. The real time process of a writer of creative non-fiction. None of my ideas would “sit down” in time and I had to ship, so I just made that the topic. Ha! This ain’t my first rodeo.

Have a lovely holiday.

xo hb

Photo by Eean Chen on Unsplash

I got the courage to strike out on my own as a freelancer after I got laid off from my IT job at a Chicago ad agency in December of 2004. I was in the middle of an epic mid-life crisis and so hanging with a group of wild ass artists, photographers, musicians, and (use your imagination), all of whom were hustling on their own account and making ends meet, though barely.

I thought, “Wow, if they can do it, I bet can too.”

I started hanging out on some technology forums and going to networking meetings. Within a few weeks, I’d picked up a user manual for a community grants database at a local bank. That led to some copy writing for a manufacturer of refractory materials (complex and fascinating), and then a friend I met at a networking event made a referral that led to a nine-month long gig writing Sarbanes Oxley policies and procedures (IT and accounting) for a consulting company, for more money than I’d ever made in my life.

The full time assignment paid amazing but not only was it fork in the eye boring it also killed my freelance pipeline. While figuring out my next steps I went to work at a boutique PR firm whose owner taught me how to be a professional writer, (i.e., construct cohesive bylined articles and blog posts based on three bullet points and two URLs ) and the rest is history.

It’s not always been a bed of roses but I’m in charge and responsible for whatever happens—bad and good—and that’s just the way I like it.

If you’re laid off or languishing in a W-2 job and considering becoming a freelancer, here is what you need to know.

1. Decide you are going to be one of the best of the best in your field and work tirelessly to get there—and stay there. Sure, it will make you more attractive to clients. But more importantly, it will allow you to actually hit send on the email carrying that proposal with your ridiculously high fee. (Note: you may break out in a cold sweat or laugh out loud but it’s OK because if you meet the above mentioned best/best criteria, you’ll probably get the job, too.) Advanced tip: Once you get that fee, increase it 10% for the next prospect and keep doing that till someone says no.

2. Know that your biggest competitor is the person staring back at you in the mirror. That’s the person who wants to give discounts because the client is nice and you don’t want to lose them or insult them or make them feel uncomfortable. Ignore that voice and remind yourself you are the best of the best and the value you deliver to that client is worth every penny of your ridiculously high fee.

3. Your loose connections are your lifeline. Strive to meet as many people as possible all the time and if there’s any energy there at all make the effort to connect with them on a voice or Zoom call at least once. Everyone loves to “know a guy/gal.” Let that person be you. For example, I just concluded Seth Godin’s Freelancer Workshop and connected with a whole bunch of awesome, high-quality individuals, whom I’m still in contact with offline. One connection I met in 2005 while subscribed to Shankminds led to a series of referrals that have delivered upwards of $300,000 in revenue to date. Put yourself in front of people. You will kiss some frogs, but you also might meet that one connector like I did and ka-ching!

4. Figure out a way to fish out of your depth and above your pay grade. For example, like and comment on the Substacks written by important people you respect. Don’t know any strangers. If you read something that inspires you, give a genuine compliment. High profile people put their pants on just like you and me! You’d be surprised who writes back!

5. About three or four times a year, let your network know you exist and have bandwidth. My favorite tactic for this is to write an email that goes like this:

Hi [Friend’s Name],

Just a note to check in. Saw online your new book dropped last month, congratulations! I pushed out the link on Twitter, let me know if there’s any other was I can help. [Basically, two sentences that show you bothered to check up on them and do them a solid. In other words, pay it forward.]

The reason I’m writing is I have a couple slots open for [what your offering is] in Q1 and so if you know anyone looking, please pass me their names and emails and I’ll follow up.

Thanks so much in advance. Questions, let me know.

Best,

[Jane Rockstar]
Business Name
Website
Email
Phone number

All the above stuff should be in your footer so if the contact forwards your email to someone it’s all there. This quick email has delivered a lot of business for me. Please shamelessly steal it. It works.

OK, that’s all for tonight. Email me with questions and I’ll answer them in the next post. (You can remain anonymous if you want.) A rising tide lifts all boats.

xo hb

P.S. If someone from your network sends you some people to contact, do it immediately! Let me know if you want a sample email and I’ll write one and drop it in the comments.

I’m subscribed to some brilliant Substacks, whose offerings are much lengthier than mine, more voluptuous in their details and research, and very clearly works of art that the writer spent many hours developing and polishing. (And, there are pictures.)

It makes me wonder if I should be doing more here, or more, less frequently.

Then, I remind myself that what people like about my writing is the immediacy. What you read here is pretty much the way it pours out of my noggin. I start with a nugget of an idea and then see where it wants to go. At the end of the piece, we both know.

When I get in this space of intimidation one way I fight back is to re-watch this 2012 video by the oh-so-brilliant Vi Hart: They Became What They Beheld: Medium, Message, Youtubery. (Ooops. Sadly, Vi recently deleted her YT channel. I found it on Vimeo!

1:12 — Artists create audiences. Write to amuse and inform yourself. Now write this on a post it and stick it to your monitor.

All for now. xoxoxo hb

P.S. Aforementioned Brilliant Substacks

Scott Monty (Timeless and Timely)

Rishad Tobaccowala (The Future Does Not Fit in the Containers of the Past)

Doug Levy (Friend and former medical reporter on Covid-19. Very informative.)

Heather Cox Richardson (Letters from an American)

P.P.S. Current self talk to drown out the self-doubt: “Lalalala they are all so great but I’m doing my own thing lalalala artists create audiences lalalala be inspired not intimidated lalalala you, too lalalala…”