Between My Sheets—Episode 9: The Unruffling

The Frenchman remains. The bath . . . well. The word-web disrupted.

What if (re)building a writing life means slowing the hell down—
on purpose?

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New here? You may want to start at the beginning . . .

Because it turns out I’m writing a book disguised as a literary business model, disguised as a memoir unfolding in real time.

Sink into this Friday moment—roughly a 10-minute read.

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Welcome, you.

Sunday was a quiet, delicious day spent with The Frenchman simply being present. Connecting, chatting, laughing.

In the late afternoon, as he read something historical or political, I turned my fingers to the keys and found myself writing.

Of course—because that’s what I do.

Mid-sentence my phone dinged with a message.

Is this Jill? Do you still foster?

I do.
I always do.
I probably always will.

That morning a baby lamb—born and rejected by her mama—needed a home.

A wooly bundle of pure JOY with no one to claim her.

The Frenchman—who arrived from Paris all proper, posh, and put together—found himself driving us up to The Level in shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt to pick up a new baby rescue.

Because of course he did. Because this is my life. Our life—when he’s here.

Which makes me melt more than the savory-sweet French tarts he brings me or any gold he could buy me.

Somewhere between the flock of rescue goats, the rescue cats, and two pups—a bathtub on the front porch, and a word-web I’m building one delightful thread at a time . . .

A lamb arrived.

On Easter morning.

Unexpected.
Unplanned.

And she’s got me all but undone with her sassy cuteness.

Her name came on Wednesday—one word uttered by The Frenchman that triggered a memory.

I’ve probably never shared this, but perhaps it’ll be like an “oh yeah” moment for you—based on my nickname for The Frenchman.

I give most people in my life a (nick)name.

It’s funny because in one of my front door offers, I write about this very thing—the names I give people.

And one of those individuals was the girlfriend of my father for nearly twenty years.

My father didn't have many girlfriends and I knew her for about twenty years—from my late teens into my thirties.

I dubbed her—”She Who Chomps A Lot.”

Not nice perhaps, but I was young and she actually did—chomp—a lot and loudly.

But that’s not why I bring it up. Just as I give people nicknames, I think I inadvertently picked up the habit from my Dad.

He was forever giving me a nickname depending on something that happened, something I did, or even how I looked.

As The Frenchman and I walked with the little lamb, he commented on her “wooly, white coat” and the memory of one such nickname flooded back.

In my twenties my hair, when a certain length, naturally hung in ringlets. No product, nothing needed to hold the curl, it just was.

My Dad loved all the curls. He used to ruffle my head—me as an adult, mind you, not a child—and watch them bounce right back.

Now normally touching a woman’s curls might lead to frizz or a melt down, but for me, I loved it. I knew just a splash of water and my curls would reform if he managed to give me static electricity.

But more than the action of ruffling my hair—even into my thirties—was what he called me each time he did . . .

“My Wooly Lamb.”

This little rescued baby . . .

The one I’ve been bottle feeding every few hours.

Doing laundry like a new mama.

Sleeping less than I’d like—also like a new mama—and still managing to work in between—finally found her name.

Wooly Lamb.

Somehow, even though this week went off the rails—
unplanned—
it’s been oddly perfect.

Time with The Frenchman.
Time with this new addition.
Time on my word-web business—when able.

Everything is unfolding in the best possible way.

Slowly—as it should.

. . .

Now. The honest part.

The front door is still not open.

I told you my goal in Episode 8: The French Kiss. And mid-week came and went.

But here’s the golden thread—I’m not beating myself up about it.

Here’s what happened instead.

Sixty products found.

Sixty.

By going slow and being more systematic than I’ve ever been, I have found a word-treasure long buried in digital chaos masked as a filing system.

Sixty (plus probably) offers, ideas, products—most of them three-quarters finished, none of these just an idea.

Created. All but finished. Lovingly made—then locked away—cough, filed away—unshared.

Which reminds me of something else.

Iron.

Stay with me a beat.

I’ve forever been low in iron—the stored kind in the body—known as ferritin.

A good or normal number should be above 50ng/mL and more toward 100ng/mL for a female my age.

Mine, at times, was zero—in my thirties.

As in no storage. Let that sink in a moment . . .

No iron, a heavy metal the body needs to survive, could lead to stroke, sudden death—basically bad shit—and required an IV of synthetic iron twice a year to keep me stable.

Alive.

Today my iron is at 24ng/mL.
No IVs in several years.
Just self care.

For my doctor, that’s too low.
For me, that’s a miracle.

But why do I bring this up?

Well, the question of why I don’t have iron or can’t seem to store it has been up for much debate.

Like the old adage—which came first, the chicken or the egg?

When I get an IV or iron, it goes through the bloodstream, and my organs take-take-greedily-take what they need.

And what’s left over, if any, gets stored for later.
Ferritin.

When you eat iron rich foods, the same thing happens. The iron is absorbed where needed. The rest is stored.

Hopefully, if all works as it should.

But what if the distribution channel is broken?
Non-existent?

I once imagined little trucks moving iron through my system and dropping it off like Amazon packages delivered by hunky drivers.

So do I not have trucks to deliver my iron?

Or is there no hunk-a-hunk-a-burning-love there to drive those iron-filled trucks?

But looking at my endless digital files—sitting there—I see that I have a major distribution issue.

A challenge to be solved.

Real, most nearly-finished, created-with-care offers sitting unseen. Unshared. Gathering a lifetime of digital dust.

I know most coaches would say “launch fast”—get it out there, get data, feedback, then find the path.

And yeah, no, not this time.

I’ve moved fast before.

Slapped up an ugly Google Doc sales page—beautifully written . . .

I’ve created products, checkout pages—learning the tech as I went.

I’ve run ads—huge learning there with money being spent.

I’ve “won” at ads, not even understanding what was working, and sold thousands of book copies.

And one thing forever happened that drove me mad.

Something would break.

Links. Sequences. Tags that tangled into knots the moment someone walked through the door.

I won’t do that again.

So this week I did something slower.
Harder.

I opened every file. I looked at every product.

I saw how selfish I’ve been not to focus on a distribution system for these treasure filled treats.

Because it is selfish to hide my offers, my words, my talent, my light.

What I write matters.

That’s not an arrogant statement. That’s fact.

One I am told by readers over and over again.

So I slowed down, took inventory, and returned to the front door of my word-web.

This might sound crazy, nuts, to read.

In this day and age of AI, when a product—like a book—can be created in 90 seconds, ads for it in another two, and all the checkout done, setup and ready to sell in twenty.

And that’s okay—I’d rather be off my rocker than sound like everyone else.

Because with AI comes the need for vulnerability, for realness—for stories, offers, words that make a person feel.

Which is what I so naturally do with my writing.

In fact, I found this book of prompts I wrote—eleven magnetic writing prompts that do just that—make you feel.

So, while I could sell high-ticket . . .

While I could consult again at $1K an hour . . .

Or build one thing . . .

Or return to ghostwriting contracts for an easy $150K . . .
even in this time of AI . . .

Or return to that AI Partnering idea I wrote about in Episode 2: Partnering . . .

Just no.

I am following my calling, creating my way.

And step-by-step organizing myself by creating a distribution channel that won’t carry iron or have hot Amazon-like delivery drivers . . .

But it will be reliable.

It will be built to work.

It will be welcoming . . .
like climbing between the silky sheets
of a fresh, well-made bed—
each and every night.

. . .

Speaking of well-made beds.

The bathtub is hooked up.

It’s there. Working. Wednesday, mid-day.

The silky, almost-hot water is real.

But.

The Above-Me Neighbors—who have been to their place exactly once in the past year—chose the night of my bathtub hookup to arrive.

I haven’t met them yet.

Is that strange?

Maybe.

But since my tub faces their house—just barely, through the trees—I’m not risking it.

Two more weeks.
Then they go.

Or that’s the rumor I heard . . .

So I wait.
Again.

The bath is patient.
So am I.

(Mostly.)

Yes, that’s my size-seven foot tap-tap-tapping.

. . .

Here’s what I know right now.

I’ve got the first nineteen products nearly organized and starting to connect, work, and create this beautiful, interconnected word-web.

Within these are my Front Door.

They are yet to be tested . . . but close.

So this weekend, that’s my plan. Finish these and test, between baby bottles and laundry.

Between French kisses and figuring out the housing plan for Wooly Lamb, who currently has a dog crate in the house as her down-time, napping space.

And oh, did I mention there’s a donkey on the island who needs a better home?

Donkey Donkey, my uncreative name for him. He’s been forever tied, with no shelter and—sigh—alone.

Which, like my many offers, if I was able to rescue him, would—of course—need to add another donkey to the mix to be his friend.

Because donkeys are social creatures—so not meant to be alone.

But do I even have room?

That’s a question for another day . . .

So even with all this structured-chaos and lack of sleep.

I feel . . . solid.

Not frantic. Not behind. Solid.

Because for the first time, I’m building this the way my brain actually works.

The way I want to.

One offer.
One folder.
One documentation—this—of the beautiful, messy in-between that is my life.

And a clear target: on or before May 1st.

Not a deadline.
A promise.

By May 1st—or sooner—this word-web will be woven enough to open the front door.

Structure created with so much JOY.
So much ease.
So much care.

Because energy matters.

And whenever someone enters that front door, I want them to feel that creative flow, to absorb some of it, and accept it as their own.

I’m calling this month what it is.

The Unruffling.

Not a launch. Not a sprint. The careful, deliberate smoothing of sheets that have been tangled far too long.

Sixty products found say I know how to create.
May 1st says I know how to finish.

. . .

I wonder if you have files like mine.

A folder called “ideas” or “one day” or just named with a date you no longer remember.

Finished things.
Half-finished things.
Things that only need one more hour to be ready.

Sitting. Waiting. A half written story perhaps.

Not because you couldn’t—but because you kept moving before the last thing was done.

I see you. I am you.

And I’m telling you what I’m telling myself this month.

Open the file.
Finish the thing.
Let it be seen.

. . .

So here’s where we are.

The Frenchman arrived—and is now tending the goat flock while I love on Wooly Lamb.

The bathtub is hooked up.
The neighbors are not going anywhere.
The front door is not yet open.

But the web is being woven with love, intention, and maybe a little lamb milk on my sleeve.

I’ve already been crapped on enough . . .

Just saying—motherhood is no joke. Can’t even imagine it with a real kid.

When The Frenchman leaves and I’m left to
tend the goats,
make the baby bottles,
feed the Wooly Lamb,
and all the others . . .

Plus, write 2,500 words before first light . . .

Yikes.

I still have a few more weeks.

So I’m making the most of this time with him—the one who sits just a few feet away from me and reads, a kitten on his lap—again.

Nosey loves him.

I love him.

So between the real sheets and the word-sheets—there is an unruffling.

And it’s delicious.

Because I’ve learned something about this word-business of mine.

Listening to external voices isn’t for me.

Rushing is what breaks things.

The slowing down—the real, intentional, sometimes-maddening snail’s-pace—that is what builds something worth entering and word-playing in.

That’s the life. That’s the work. That’s the web.

Here’s to 33 then 333 then 3,333 then 33,000 creative souls finding this door when it opens.

Will you walk through it with me?

Just Jill “new mama, bath-less, between French kisses” Stevens

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P.S. The front door isn’t live quite yet. I’ll add the link here the moment it opens.

P.P.S. The Balance Sheet is coming. When the web is woven, the front door wide open, and the numbers ready to be laid bare.

Properly. On a well-made sheet.

And will include things like this in breakdown form:

I sent two emails this week, in between bottle feedings, and invited a group of people to test three offers. More than 51% said yes—which brought in $5,756.

Not too shabby.

Imagine having access to those emails . . . and all the details on each product that sold . . .

If that floats your boat, you’ll love The Balance Sheet.

P.P.P.S. Wooly Lamb has an added—horribly funny—side-dish name.

Wooly Lamb Chop.

I snort laugh every time I say it.

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Just so you know: This is my slice of the web where hot flashes meet cold wine, neck waddles are real, and birthdays feel more like breakdowns. Step into my word-world as I (re)build my writing life in real time.