I used to call myself the reluctant blogger. When the term blog was coined, I dismissed it as frivolous. I studied journalism in college before Al Gore invented the internet, at a time when stories were called articles and were written on electric typewriters (look it up). When blogs came along, it seemed that everyone and their brother had one, and it sort of ruffled my feathers that anyone could call themselves a writer.
Yes, I was a real snob.
Do you work with clients? If you’re a service provider, or healthcare practitioner, therapist, real estate agent, or anyone who works one-on-one with a variety of people, this blog is for you.
You have an opportunity to powerfully connect with your clients by simply sharing your interactions.
Maybe you have a weekly newsletter or a blog already up and running. You likely have a website and an email database. So how often are you communicating with your fans or followers or potential clients?
I’m not proud of the fact that there are unwashed dishes in my sink, a pile of unfolded laundry on my bed, or a family of dust bunnies under my dresser. But I’m writing. And when my writing time increases, my usually high cleaning standards take a dramatic fall.
You’ve learned a thing or two in this lifetime. Maybe you know the secret to making the perfect souffle. Or how to be a stepparent to kids who refuse to say your name. Or maybe you want people to know how prayer has changed your life. Whatever it is, there is some message that you feel called to share in a blog.
Pssst. I’m going to urge you to steal the ideas in this blog. Because I did.
But before the blog police come busting in my door and drag me in front of the court of ideas where I’ll have my misused words thrown in my face and—
Wait, this is starting to sound like a dystopian novel when it’s supposed to be a blog.
Here’s the truth:
When I was pregnant with my first child I was enamored of the idea of using a midwife. I hired a seasoned professional named Lorna. But my son was breech and arrived via a scheduled C-section, so Lorna was replaced by an anesthesiologist, a surgeon, and a floating sea of faceless, masked nurses. I was disappointed that our preparations had been for nothing. Until I awoke one morning, groggy from morphine, to hear her arguing in the hallway with the pediatrician. She was refusing to let him give my son a shot that we hadn’t discussed.
It was a summer day in 1977; I was watching “Days of Our Lives” with my mom while she folded laundry. The announcer broke in. “Elvis is dead,” he said, and my mom cried. I was too young to follow politics, and two years later, I would barely register the upheaval in Iran, but in my world, Elvis Presley reigned supreme. So I cried too.
This week I went to a Meet-up event for writers– something that’s been on my to-do list for ages. There were seven of us at the Village Tap in Roscoe Village. We sat on the back patio with a noisy crowd of Cub fans. Above us a section of the cloth roof was rolled back like the lid of a sardine can, showing us a sliver of sky. We took turns posing questions to one another and shouting our answers down the length of the picnic table.
DABBLE class: Crafting an Inspirational Blog
Sunday, April 17
Lincoln Square, Chicago
WEEKEND OF WELLNESS RETREAT: May 13-15
Lincoln Way Inn Bed and Breakfast
409 N. State Street
Franklin Grove, IL
Not sure how to start your blog? Click here for a short video blogging tip!