Author: admin

PRE-EMPTIVE SPOILER WARNING (AKA “THE ETHICS CLAUSE YOU’LL IGNORE BUT SHOULDN’T”)

This email is written like a rabid squirrel on espresso to mimic the greasy-fingered, soul-sucking tactics of marketers who treat humans like ATMs with hair.

The profanity? The aggression? The deliciously manipulative structure? That’s the point.

It’s a funhouse mirror.

A warning and not a blueprint…

If you use these sins to manipulate instead of serve, you’re not a marketer. You’re a carny running a rigged game where the goldfish die.

Don’t be the asshole. Don’t be John Doe. Got a product that’s better? A service that doesn’t taste like despair?

Then your moral imperative is to shout it loud. Hoarding ethical goods is a sin too. Let them choose. Let them breathe.

But don’t cry when karma serves your head in a box.

Now. Let’s dance with the devil but only if he signs a consent form first…

SE7EN DEADLY MARKETING LESSONS

So. You wanna be John Doe?

You wanna crawl inside the meat-puppet skulls of your audience and play their dopamine receptors like a demonic kazoo.

Let’s talk about the 1995 Seven.

The one where Morgan Freeman’s detective aura battles Brad Pitt’s bone structure and a killer who’s really into moral arts and crafts. The seven sins. The box. The flies. The what’s-in-the-fucking-box scream-whisper of capitalism or whatever.

I’ve said this in many forms over the years if you’ve been paying attention…

Marketing is just sin-jujitsu. You take their worst impulses and twist.

Let’s break it down like a ribcage full of razorblades…

Lust

You don’t sell shoes. You sell foot-fetish fuel. You don’t hawk perfume. You sell the throat-punch memory of your ex’s neck sweat. Make them thirst. Tease. “Click to uncover.”

Lust isn’t about sex. It’s about the gap between what they have and what they itch to have. Leave them panting at the edge of the “Buy Now” button.

Gluttony

Feed them till they burst. More content. More deals. More MORE. Autoplay. Suggested for you. “People who bought this also bought a fragment of their own soul.” Gluttony isn’t about satisfaction. It’s about the ritual of consumption. Cram their cart. Stuff their notifications. Watch them chew through subscriptions like a starved rat eating its way through your stomach as the bucket gets hotter and hotter…

Greed

Limited stock. Countdown timers. “Only 3 left!” (There’s 3000 left. You monster.) Greed isn’t currency. It’s panic. The fear that someone else will get their treasure. Turn buyers into dragons hoarding plastic trinkets. “Exclusive access.” “VIP tiers.” “You deserve this.” (Spoiler: They don’t. But fuck it, neither do you.)

Sloth

One-click purchases. Pre-filled forms. “Skip the tutorial.” Sloth isn’t laziness. It’s impatience weaponised. Reduce every decision to a reflex. Autofill their lives. “Subscribe and never think again.” They’ll thank you while their muscles atrophy into pudding.

Wrath

Hot take: Outrage is glue. Pick a side. Any side. Make them angry at the other side. “Don’t let THEM win.” Wrath isn’t conflict. It’s loyalty. Unite your tribe against a common enemy (real or imagined). Sell pitchforks and torches. Market share = war territory.

Envy

Stage the perfect life. Curated imperfection. “Look what THEY have.” Envy isn’t wanting. It’s comparison as self-harm. Filter. Retouch. Highlight reels. User-generated content which is free labour. Turn followers into stalkers. Make their neighbours’ grass literally greener. (Did they use spray paint?)

Pride

“You’re special.” “Be legendary.” “Treat yourself.” Pride isn’t confidence. It’s narcissism monetised. Sell them their own reflection, polished and pixel-perfect. Premium memberships. Gold-plated USB cords. “Because you’re worth it.”

Here’s how you can be the antidote…

The seven sins aren’t shackles. They’re mirrors. Stare into them long enough, and you’ll see the rot. Or the redemption.

Marketing isn’t inherently evil. Humans are. (Mostly.) But here’s the secret they don’t sell in your $2000 “Dark Lord Funnel” course.

Good shit sells itself…

Flip the sins.

Lust → Passion. Make them crave your product like it’s the last spark in a wet matchbook.

Gluttony → Abundance. Overflow with value till they’re drunk on trust.

Greed → Generosity. Give so much they feel guilty not buying.

Sloth → Ease. Remove friction, not dignity.

Wrath → Courage. Fight for them, not against “enemies.”

Envy → Aspiration. Make them want to be better, not bitter.

Pride → Purpose. Let them buy into a legacy, not a lie.

Be the cure. The unapologetic, neon-bright alternative to the vultures picking at society’s bones.

Market like your product could save a life. Because maybe it does. Maybe it’s insulin. Maybe it’s art. Maybe it’s just a really fucking good taco.

Stephen Walker
https://stphnwlkr.com/theleague

P.S. Go check out Seven if you haven’t. It’s wild and the twist gets me every time.

If you’re not diggin’ these tasty little emails anymore you can hit the unsubscribe button right here >>> unsubscribe

Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

“When we have no choice but to become greater, we do.”
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As we said on Monday:

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Darkness — pain, suffering, trauma, fear, doubt, anxiety, illness, disease — is not scary.

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Darkness is not scary; fear of darkness is scary.

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Darkness uses fear as it’s power source, weaponizing our imagination against us.

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Remove the fear, remove the power, and darkness dissolves on it’s own.

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Which brings us to Part 2:

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​How do we stop fearing the darkness?

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The answer:

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​Use it productively.

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When a negative is used to create a positive, the negative itself becomes a positive.

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So our strategy is simple:

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​Find the benefit hiding in the darkness, and turn it to our advantage.

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(as a teacher once told me… if you’re living with a demon, have it make your coffee in the morning)

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And there is perhaps no greater benefit to the darkness than this:

When the darkness closes in, when our back is against the ropes and heavy blows are raining down…

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​…When we have no choice but to find a deeper well of strength to pull from and fight back…

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…We do.

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We find our deeper strength, strength that hides under the surface when life is smooth and easy, waiting until the day we need it.

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A well of strength that, once accessed, can be accessed again.

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Strength that can be pulled from for the rest of our lives.

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​Yes, darkness makes us stronger.

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Because when the bar is about to crush us, we lift it.

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When the tiger is at our heels, we run faster.

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And, when we have no choice but to become greater, we do.

​

• T

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​P.S. In case you missed it:

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​This clip pairs perfectly with today’s email.

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​Unsubscribe | Update your profile | 5-420 Erb St. W, Suite 433, Waterloo, ON N2L6K6

Voice is always an interesting topic that rears its ugly head in the writer community.

It’s not the kind you use to order tacos or argue with your cat though…

A writing voice is what I’m talking about.

That slippery fucker that’s either hiding under your bed dressed as Kafka, or screaming through a megaphone as a knockoff Tarantino.

You’ve been told to “find it” like it’s car keys.

The thing is though. Your voice isn’t lost. It’s just buried under all the bullshit they taught you in school, the trauma of middle school book reports, and that one tweet that went viral and made you question your entire existence.

Murder your heroes.

Your voice isn’t hiding. It’s smothered under the wet blanket of every author you’ve ever aped.

Love Neil Gaiman? Great. Now write a paragraph in his style, then set it on fire. Watch it burn.

What’s left in the ashes? That’s your shit. That’s the DNA.

This is a big one in the copywriting world…

Talk like a human, not a thesaurus.

You’re not writing a Renaissance Faire scroll. If you’d say “this sandwich tastes like a foot,” don’t write “the gastronomic experience evoked podiatric undertones.” Stop that shit.

You have to look at writing as if you’re confessing to the page.

Write a secret you’ve never told anyone. The time you stole, lied, licked a battery.

Doesn’t matter. Burn it after. The point is to vomit raw you onto the page, no filters, no “but what will grandma think?”

Embrace your inner cringe-lord

Your voice is cringe.

Good.

Cringe is the mold that grows on the authentic.

The world doesn’t need another polished pebble.

It needs your jagged, broken-glass laugh.

Write drunk, edit sober (metaphorically)

Write a sex scene where the real monster is awkwardness. A hero who picks their nose. A villain who just wants to nap. Let it be messy. Let it be embarrassing.

Steal your own life…

That time you got dumped at a water park?

The way your dad hums showtunes while doing taxes?

The intrusive thought about licking a subway pole?

Harvest it. Marinate in your own weird.

Write a Yelp review in the voice of a Victorian ghost. Rewrite the Starbucks menu as a Norse epic. Scream into the void until the void screams back in your accent.

Voice isn’t born. It’s built.

From the corpses of everyone and everything you’ve ever loved, hated, or doomscrolled past.

Make a toxic smoothie.

Blend Toni Morrison with your group chat.

Shakespeare with shitposting.

Twilight fanfic with Cormac McCarthy.

Drink it. If it doesn’t make you hallucinate, add more tabasco.

Use your tics.

Do you default to sarcasm? Poetry? Rambling footnotes that overexplain like a nervous wizard (guilty?)

Lean in. Double down. Make your tics a style.

Borrow voices like a library book.

Write a scene as a noir detective. Then as a bored teen. Then as a sentient Roomba. Take what clicks. Burn the rest.

Your voice isn’t a static thing. It’s a feral thing.

A werewolf. A sentient stain. It’ll shapeshift. But you gotta stop apologising for it.

Kill the right way.

Grammar rules? Fuck ‘em when needed.

Plot structure? Throw it into a woodchipper.

Write a chapter as a grocery list. A battle scene in emojis. A love story in spam emails.

Go niche or go home.

Love body horror? Write a rom-com where the third act twist is a parasitic twin.

Obsessed with baking? Make a thriller about sentient sourdough.

Your voice thrives in specificity, not “universal appeal.”

Argue with yourself. Write a manifesto about why your voice matters.

Then write a counter-manifesto calling it pretentious garbage. Let them fight. Winner gets the crown.

Voice isn’t found. It’s claimed.

Through blood, bad drafts, and the humility of realising your “genius” sounds like a mime cosplaying Hemingway.

Write until it hurts. Then write more. Finish the story. Let it suck. Let it be a first pancake that’s burnt, lumpy and glorious.

Test it in the wild. Read it aloud to your dog. Post a snippet anonymously. Watch people call it “deranged.” Good. Deranged is a brand.

Kill the clone army. Stop comparing your voice to anyone else’s. Margaret Atwood didn’t write The Handmaid’s Taleby asking, “But is this vibey enough for BookTok?”

Your voice isn’t in the woods. It’s in the wound. The one you keep poking to see if it’s still there.

Stop looking for it. Use it. Write like you’re carving your name into a prison wall.

Write like the rent’s due and the devil’s knocking.

Write like no one’s listening, because that’s the only way they ever will.

The demon’s hungry. Feed it your fear.

Or don’t.

But if you don’t, you’re just another ghost that’ll die on an unread page.

Stephen Walker

http://stphnwlkr.com/theleague

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

YOU’RE HUNGRY.

Not the oh-shit-I-forgot-lunch kind of hungry.

The kind that gnaws.

The kind that starts in your gut and climbs your spine like a rat with a meat cleaver.

You haven’t eaten in three days.

Not since the power grid coughed up a hairball and died.

Not since the cucumbers in the fridge started screaming.

(You don’t question the screaming cucumbers anymore. You just leave the kitchen. Fast.)

Here’s the thing about the end of the world…

It’s boring. Apocalypses aren’t fireworks and leather-clad cannibals on flaming Harleys…

Nope, they’re this:

Day 1: Your kid fills a Tupperware with dead ladybugs, calls it “soup.”

Day 2: You drink hand sanitiser. (The raspberry kind. Classy.)

Day 3: You Google “can rage cure lactose intolerance” while your ex blows up your phone with texts like ”u still alive???”

The baby monitor crackles. Static, then a wet gurgle. You pretend it’s nothing.

(Spoiler: It’s never nothing. This isn’t a Hallmark movie. This is David Cronenberg directing an infomercial for baby monitors.)

You stumble upstairs.

Big mistake…

The nursery door’s ajar.

Inside… Crib bars bent like liquorice twists. The air smells of burnt honey and regret.

And there, in the corner. Your kid.

Except their skin’s peeling off in ribbon-curls, pink and shiny as raw chicken.

Their eyes? Two oily marbles.

Their mouth? A wet hole full of teeth that aren’t theirs.

“Mommy,” it says.

(Or the thing wearing your kid’s voice like a skinsuit says.)

“I’m hungry too.”

LET’S PAUSE.

Because here’s the secret they don’t tell you in those shitty self-help books

(Looking at you, ”Apocalypse for Dummies”)

You don’t get to be the hero. Heroes bathe in sunlight and have moral compasses sharper than a vegan’s eyeliner.

You? You’ve got…

A half-empty bottle of Xanax (circa 2019, vintage)

A crowbar named “Mr. Cuddles.”

A love for your kid that feels less like warmth and more like swallowing a lit sparkler.

You choose the sparkler.

THE THING THAT ISN’T YOUR KID lunges.

You swing Mr. Cuddles. It screeches. A sound like a thousand Instagram influencers discovering they’re all wearing the same outfit.

The crowbar sticks. Of course it does. The thing’s flesh parts like warm brie.

“Fuck,” you say.

And then, louder… “FUCK.”

Because parenting pamphlets never mentioned this.

(Your Child: Demonic Possession and You! – Free with coupon.)

It lunges again. You dodge. The Xanax bottle rattles in your pocket like a tiny ghost.

Take me, it whispers. Swallow the whole damn thing and nap through the rapture.

But you…

(Wait. Hold on. Let’s talk craft for a sec. You’re writing a protagonist here. Give them agency. Make them choose. Not a saint, not a demon. A person. A person who’d sell their soul for Wi-Fi and eats grief like it’s gas station sushi. Got it? Good. Now back to the screaming.)

…you grab the Xanax. Not to swallow. To bait. You shake the pills like maracas.

“C’mon, you little sphincter-waffle. Dinner’s served.”

The thing hesitates. (Even monsters get anxious, pal…)

You throw the pills down its throat. It chokes. Gags. Its skin bubbles like nacho cheese in a meth lab.

Then POP

It explodes.

The aftermath? Chunks. Everywhere. One lands in your hair. It whispers, ”Mommy…”

You pluck it out. Flick it into the ruins of the crib. “Call me Mother,” you say. Because boundaries matter.

Then comes the epilogue:

You sit on the porch. The sky’s the colour of a bruised avocado. Your phone dings. It’s your ex… ”u good???”

You type back ”Peachy. Kids are hard.”

The sun rises. Or maybe it’s a wildfire. Either way, you light a cigarette with a shaking hand and laugh. Because what’s next?

Who the fuck knows.

But you’ll choose it.

(And if you don’t? Well, fuck it. There’s always hand sanitiser to wash it down with.)

Now if you stuck it to the end.

This is what I get up to during the day while inhaling every bit of caffeine possible, when I don’t have adult responsibilities and the weather is absolutely god awful.

Semi-horror-apocalyptic short story ideas scribbled down in a notepad, followed by sending it to my editor who will tell me if it’s a good idea to write out fully and make it thing.

Nothing too crazy and something I’m focusing more on in the future.

So if you see me plugging a collection of horror shorts. I’m trying to knock Stephen King and Dean Koontz off of the top spot.

Stephen Walker

https://stphnwlkr.com/theleague

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

Back in 287-212 BCE, our boy Archimedes of Syracuse was famously associated with having insights while having a bath.

According to the well-known story, he discovered a method for determining the purity of gold while taking a bath.

He noticed that water displaced when he entered corresponded to his body’s volume, leading to his principle of displacement.

The story goes that he was so excited by this discovery that he ran naked through the streets shouting “Eureka!” (meaning “I have found it!” in Greek)

Now I’m not going to be running through the streets naked anytime soon.

(I don’t want you to have to gauge your eyes out with a rusty spoon, I mean it’s not even February yet…)

But it dawned on me that myself and a few creatives use this “Sitting for ideas” thing to well, come up with new ideas.

And in a nutshell it’s you either soaking in the bath or having a nice long shower.

Or if you’re out for a walk or a nice long hike, the brain does this magical thing where it just starts to come up with solutions for problems you might have.

Or gives you a metric fudge-ton of ideas to play with.

It’s how I came about writing this email today.

I had to venture out into the wild and bare knuckle box my way to the back of the milk isle.

Fighting off old people looking for milk that doesn’t expire for at least 3 weeks.

All before 9 am

All before my first coffee…

Which brings me to my next soap box message which applies to what I’ve just written.

Writer’s block is the biggest scam since someone tried to sell me decaf coffee.

You know that feeling when you sit down to write and your brain suddenly decides to perform its one-act play called “I Have Never Had An Original Thought In My Life And Never Will Again”?

That’s not writer’s block. That’s your brain being a melodramatic teenager who just discovered existentialism.

Writer’s block is like your cat sitting on your keyboard.

It’s not actually stopping you from writing, it’s just being an attention-seeking asshole.

But if you combo together long walks, long soaks or even washing the dishes by hand, your brain will automagically come up with ideas and thoughts and that’s where you can pull from.

Writers block is just procrastination in a trench coat and the quickest way to kick its ass is to do what I suggested above.

Now if you’ll excuse me.

I’m gonna go soak in the bath.

Stephen Walker

https://stphnwlkr.com/theleague

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

January.

That temporal dumpster fire that felt like it lasted approximately 74 years while simultaneously disappearing faster than my will to wear pants.

Let’s be honest…

January was rougher than gas station coffee. It came in hot with its “new year, new me” propaganda, then proceeded to throw more plot twists.

February is our redemption arc.

January was the tutorial level. The warm-up act. The coffee before the coffee. Now we’re entering what I like to call “The Reality Check Reality Show”

Where we either double down on our goals or admit we’ve been lying to ourselves harder than when we say “just one more chapter” at 3 AM.

More writing

Less procrastination

Increased caffeine efficiency

Decreased time spent watching squirrels plot against me

January Goals: Finish the novel, get fit, achieve yoda-like enlightenment

February Goals: Write SOMETHING, don’t die, keep plants alive (ish)

Every day is a new chance to write

Every word count is a middle finger to resistance

Every cup of coffee is fuel for the revolution

Every squirrel is still suspicious

Stephen Walker

https://stphnwlkr.com/theleague

P.S. Yes, I wrote this without pants while planning February’s creative assault.

P.P.S. January was just the practice run. February is where we start playing for keeps.

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

I get this asked on occasion and it’s nothing new.

And a lot of people who start off, believe they can build whatever it is they want and people will come.

Yes, that can happen but it’s unlikely and it’s making you rely on luck, instead of proven principles.

Now remember this. I didn’t invent what I’m about to share. The only thing I’ve done is take the old timely principles and kept doing it over and over until I got it to work.

Granted things change in the social media world. Most of these principles stay the same.

So if I were new to this whole game I would tell myself to look around and find problems that keep people up at night.

The internet makes it super easy nowadays…

Old forums. Facebook groups. Reddit. Twitter, Quora, Medium, LinkedIn or Pinterest are good places to start.

Step two would be to use those same places to find out where solutions can be found as well.

Remember, people talk.

There will be books, products or even people providing services that solve those problems.

When I’ve found a few, I’d buy the products, especially if they are information products and go through them.

If they can be improved or paired with something else. I’d go and do that. This is the bit that would take a little time.

Once I’ve done that, now I’m ready.

I can create a variation of that solution, and possibly pair it up with someone who also provides a service.

We’d strike a deal and if I brought them a new customer, they’d give me a percentage of what they charge.

Now that I’ve got all of that in place. I can get to work.

I have a problem. I have a solution and now I just need to get the people to pick my solution over the others out there.

So I’d create a single-page website, similar to the one you clicked on to jump on my list. I’d talk about the problem and make it a little worse by pouring salt on the wound. I’d make them genuinely curious about fixing this problem and even offer a snippet of the solution if they give me their email address in turn.

This will partially scratch their itch.

Once I’ve got them on my email list. I’ll talk to them about the problem. Tell stories in various forms and if they really want to get rid of that problem, give them the opportunity to buy from me as well. I would write to them every day and continue to add other solutions to that problem. They get what they want. I get what I want and that’s all she wrote.

That’s it…

It sounds complicated but it’s not.

Find a problem

Find a solution

Find out where people hang out who need that solution

Use direct response principles to get them to have a look at your one-page website

Give them a taste

Grab their email

Email them daily and give them the opportunity to buy.

Done.

Once you get a few sales and make a few bucks, you now have the easiest little side business that you can scale up.

It’s fun, it genuinely helps people and this can all be done by not wearing any pants at all.

Stephen Walker

https://stphnwlkr.com/theleague

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom

And no. I’m talking about today when Mother Nature decided to give me the worst blow job of my life, and no, not THAT kind…

Get your minds out of the gutter (where, coincidentally, I nearly ended up.)

Let me paint you a picture of pure British meteorological insanity:

There I was, strutting out of my house like some discount-bin protagonist, thinking I was the main character in my own story.

(NARRATOR: He was not…)

He was, in fact, about to become the comic relief in Mother Nature’s slapstick morning special.

The wind.

Holy shit-whistles, THE WIND. It wasn’t just blowing, it was conducting a full-scale aerial assault on my dignity.

Picture a leaf blower operated by a caffeinated raccoon with a vendetta. That kind of wind.

And then it happened.

My body. All 187 pounds of sleep-deprived writer meat, got caught in what can only be described as Nature’s version of a mosh pit. I spun like a hamster wheel powered by pure panic and yesterday’s poor life choices.

My arms? Windmilling like a Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Man having an melt down.

The finale? My ass made sweet, passionate contact with the pavement.

But wait! There’s more! (Sorry Billy Mays)

My neighbour.

Let’s call her Margaret (because that’s her actual name and at this point, why protect the witnesses?) had front-row seats to this slip of shame. There she was, about to take her dog for a walk and probably out to fight her way to the freshest milk bottled at the local shop before 8 am, when she got the morning entertainment she never asked for.

The worst part? She didn’t even try to hide her laughter. Just stood there, dog roaring to go, cackling like a hyena who just discovered Netflix comedy specials.

And there’s a lesson in this here email…

1. Writers turn trauma into content (it’s literally in the job description)
2. Someone needs to warn you about the UK’s secret weapon of mass humiliation (Wind for the next few days…)
3. My dignity was already gone, might as well get some engagement out of it

Rating: 0/10 – Would not recommend getting physically dominated by British weather while your neighbour watches.

Stephen Walker

https://stphnwlkr.com/theleague

P.S: To all those who clicked thinking this was about something else, you’re part of the problem, and I respect that.

P.P.S: Margaret, if you’re reading this, I saw you record it. We need to talk about royalties.

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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom