Dear friends, welcome to another Wednesday. After 47 years, I can tell you— Wednesday arrives every seven days—rain or shine. I hope that helps.
If you’re new here, welcome (and sorry in advance. :) Last weekend at a party, I met one of my readers. Hi Jill! Jill is awesome. Learning she reads The Letter wasn’t. It’s terrifying. I can write to you from behind a screen, but do not make me imagine you actually reading what I write! I prefer to believe otherwise. To borrow a word from last week’s Letter, I think this is what vulnerability feels like. Yes, that’s the feeling.
I’ll have you know I had grand plans of writing about cognitive dissonance this week, but depth doesn’t appear in the cards. Letting go of writing about cognitive dissonance relieves me of mine—the argument I have with myself when I don’t perform according to my expectations. Beating up oneself doesn’t do as we hope. Instead, it causes pain. We don’t have to experience pain generated by ourselves. We can choose peace. We absolutely can.
Fingers crossed I shower you more with this topic next week. One can only hope.
Until then, let’s go…
Write a Rain Check
In the spirit of buying once and wearing for a lifetime, I share with you a gorgeous raincoat I have not bought but want. I learned about it the way I do most things: I complimented a woman wearing it and asked where it was from.
The coat drips with quality. I knew it had a hefty price tag because it’s very clearly well-made, and well-made goods cost money to make. If the price is cheap, you can bet the thought that went into it is also cheap. No judgment! I’m not above a trip to Zara (not at all), but the older I get, the more I want fewer, better things. This Stutterheim raincoat is that.
Because I can’t do anything without you, it’s poll time.
Help, I’m Drowning
If there’s one thing I could do for my health, it would be to drink more water. If there’s one thing I hate doing, it’s drinking water. See the rub?
Watching people who love water drink water makes me feel as if I’m drowning.
My bestie asked, “Do you like your water bottle?” (which is a question only a water drinker would ask). “Like my water bottle? Like my water bottle? I don’t know what that means. So, I guess the answer is no.”
Two days later, these showed up at my door. The spout is nice. The flow is good. The lock and seal keep things dry. I guess I like my water bottle. And I like my bestie!
You’ve Been Canned
I’ve been talking to a client about creating boilerplate language. Every copywriter’s dream is to know what to say and how to say it. The convenience. The continuity. The security. The inhumanity!
Nothing takes the personality out of communication like an overtly canned response. Here’s an example I came across while looking at this pair of Levi’s.
My first thought: Good on Levi’s for responding. My second thought: Oof, how robotic and over-produced.
Someone undoubtedly wrote these words and passed them to customer service with good intentions. In a vacuum, they work. In reality, they don’t.
Every canned response deserves an edit appropriate for the situation. A brand’s personality lives inside these details. Don’t obsess over them, but don’t ignore them. They’re important enough to spend a minute on. Every interaction is.
Lest you forget, genuine can be gritty. We’re all animals.
PS: The same client sent me this insanely accurate meme.
Put Your Oxygen Oil On First
Sometimes, I recommend products I’ve never used, books I’ve never read, or clothes I’ve never bought—so sue me. Well, I’ve used this product, and I recommend it.
Ozonated Olive Oil is a miraculous multipurpose oil that heals wounds, smooths skin, works on pets, and can even be ingested. Stephen shared the oil with me shortly after we met, and I just ran out. It’s not inexpensive, but it lasted almost a year.
Go on, get your ozonated olive oil, and heal those wounds like you’re still 25.
Hamster Death
Last week, I told you about Stephen’s lab, Rango, who had to be put down. A week later, both his bee hives have gone belly-up, and his daughter's hamster, Miso, is gone.
Despite being a paramedic at one point and losing his father at another point, Stephen had never ushered a living being from life to death—until now.
Miso has been dying of old age (hamsters live less than three years). Rather than take her out swiftly, he held her for hours in a warm towel, hand-feeding her, keeping her comfortable, until she looked up at him, took one last breath, and off she went.
The only natural death he’s witnessed in 52 years is a hamster death. This is powerful stuff, y’all. What’s the lesson here? Obvi, hold your hamsters until they die! Also, all beings thrive on love, even rodents.
PS: My hamster Emma’s hamster, Mr. Jones, is very much alive. By golly, do I we love him!
I feel you on the borderline bashful reaction to someone telling you they read your newsletter. I also have a momentary “oh god, I wonder what they think of me/my writing” but then I remind myself that if they’re 1) reading and 2) outwardly expressing they enjoy it, then there’s nothing to feel insecure about.
Also, so sorry for the pet losses. Sending hugs! 💛
Hi! Just checking in to say I’m still reading and still captivated. Side note: Strangely I was more swift to read the letter when it published on Tuesday. Not exactly sure why. Seems the Wednesday’s letter gets read on the weekend because, life.