The cursor blinks at you twenty-three times before you realize you’ve been holding your breath. That’s normal. Peggy from across the street types with mittens on, which is worse. At least you can feel the keys.
Anyway, hi! I’m Emma. That’s me up there. Last year I started this magazine out of that little studio apartment in upstate New York. I had no idea what I was doing, and I didn’t tell anyone for three months in case it failed. The fear wasn’t small. Posting that first call for submissions felt like inviting the whole fourth grade to my birthday party and thinking nobody would show up but my mom.
I used to think business plans were for people with degrees that ended in “studies” or “business administration.” People who don’t didn’t have to Google “how to get prearppoved for a car loan” or “boot emoji” or “samaritously” (there is not, apparently, an adverb form of “good samaritan”). I still think those are the people-types best suited for a business plan. I just started Coming Up Short without one (and used “samaritously” with confidence).
Here’s what I know: The big project doesn’t care if you’re qualified. It will be big whether you’re brave or trembling. The first issue doesn’t ask for a resume before it exists. Sometimes, you build it with steady hands. Sometimes, your hands shake and you send out a submission form with nowhere to upload a file. Twice. You fix it. You move on to the next thing, and maybe you won’t have to do that thing twice.
I think about my mother who never toasted an English muffin she didn’t burn. She toasted one every morning anyway. Scraped the blackened layers into the sink, lathered enough butter on that it pooled in every (now slightly shallower) nook and cranny, and ate. This seems relevant.
Starting while scared means you make the bad version first. You let it be bad out loud, right there on the internet where people are looking. Then you make version two, and that one might be better. Or version three. You won’t know which until you’ve made all of them, so you have to make all of them. This is the only way.
The magazine is fine now. Not perfect. Fine. Some people read it. Peggy from across the street can’t even feel her keyboard through her mittens, but she’s starting a podcast.
That’s it. That’s the whole thing. You do it scared, or you do it not at all, and not at all is worse. I still don’t know what I’m doing, but people did come to my party.
If you need a little help pulling your mittens off or have a wobbly idea to bounce around, please send us a message. We’ll help. We can’t wait to hear from you.