Written 20 November, 2007
In theory, I have BIG problems with the American system of free enterprise, for on the surface it’s a dog-eat-dog, every-man-for-himself, I’ll-get-mine-and-to-hell-with-you, social Darwinistic nightmare. It could never work.
And yet it does, after a fashion. A lurching, twisted fashion, to be sure, but it works. Somehow.
Picture a 12-year-old. In Arizona. In August. It’s 110 degrees Fahrenheit(>40 C.) It hasn’t rained since April. You have no air conditioning. A doorbell rings. It’s an 11-year-old who looks up at you with innocent face and says, “You wouldn’t want to buy any Christmas cards, would you?”
That’s me. A born saleswoman. True story. I think I sold three boxes of Wallace Brown cards. To people who felt sorry for me.
And yet I’m thinking of engaging in shameless commerce.
I already have, sort of. I formed, with Sweetie, Acme Tweakers, a do-it-yourself terraforming/building/landscaping/decorating business. But we never really advertised it. So it doesn’t count.
What is on my mind this time is a store.
A store in which to sell my stuff.
Glad you asked.
Things like my (with Sweetie) torii gate and my fabulously ugly, leaking water tower and the Well of Death and my merry-go-round and a line of jewerly I made after I built turquoise jewelry for myself because I couldn’t find any I liked in Second Life.
I'm not much better at marketing myself than I was when I was eleven, but what the hey, I'm going to try it.