Human Being, Inc.

Thoughts on Cottage Businesses and Passion Projects

Early this fall, I took the plunge from “sole proprietor” of the youth creative writing workshops I host in my home to bona fide small business owner. The Wonder Society became an LLC, and during my single sliver of childcare help, I found myself rebuilding my website, opening a business bank account, and polishing up perhaps the most dismal, smelly, awful part of this endeavor: the marketing.

It’s been such a joy to welcome new faces into these workshops, and to be stopped by parents telling me how they’ve stumbled upon their kids writing stories of their own—imagining new worlds, creating new characters.

Nourishing young writers in the midst of my own writing life is definitely challenging, but so worth it. The hardest part, though, is the internal pressure I feel to function like a corporation. Smooth, snazzy graphics. Strategic marketing. Never, ever changing the dates, times, or locations of my offerings—because that’s just unprofessional, right?

And yet, here I am, mid-marketing for my winter workshops, learning far later than I ever would have hoped that I won’t have childcare during the scheduled sessions. Cancel it? I mean… the numbers are low at this point, but there’s still time. Move it? Ugh. Those parents have so many options for after-school enrichment. I want them to be able to rely on me. Bend over backwards to find a new nanny I trust to shuttle my own kids to activities and feed them dinner on the nights when Dan is working? I mean—why do I do this to myself?

I’ve tried to ignore this deep desire to keep teaching for so long. The truth is, homeschooling my own kids doesn’t even begin to capture the overflow of creative zest I have for nurturing young writers. Short of bowling them over with my Miss Frizzle energy, it’s been nothing short of dreamy to encourage kids’ creativity through these workshops.

Which I sometimes have to cancel because of low enrollment. Or reschedule because of childcare. Or at the very least, question on a weekly basis.

But then there are moments like this student reading event after our Historical Fiction workshop.

And the Mystery writing workshop final celebration, where we all dressed up like our characters. (I’m not known for subtlety.)

This scene from my summer creative writing camp.

Where they built fantastical worlds with words and other materials.

Here’s a pop-up workshop I held at the local art museum for free.

Props to my publicity team, Adrienne & Co., who occasionally remembers to take pictures in the middle of the magic she’s helping them weave on the page.

In short, I’m here to say this. The ways I’ve been shaped by consumer culture circa 2025 have led me to expect that I not only offer my skills as a teacher, writer, and creative in a way only I can, but also woo the “customer” by making myself look like a big, branded company. So I pay $12 a month for Canva Pro. So I take a cut from Stripe, because accepting payment over Venmo makes me seem like a human and not a business. So I dream up the coolest, most dynamic workshops I can imagine… and then sit around waiting to see if anyone wants to come to my party. While also completely empathizing with parents who are overcommitted and kids who need after-school time for endeavors that do not require a pencil. I’m holding it. All of it.

Lest you feel weird or sorry for me because of this random intrusion of my angst into your day, I want to leave you with this.

When my time-travel fiction workshop wound down one Tuesday evening in October, I stood on my porch with Eleanor, listening as she told me why she felt so much compassion for a character in Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451—one I’m fairly certain the author himself despised, as did I when I read the book in freshman English in 2001.

It was Mildred. The sold-out, tech-doped, completely divorced-from-reality wife of the protagonist, Guy Montag.

“Because phone addiction is a real thing, you know?” Eleanor said. “I see it all around me, every day.”

Kids like Eleanor are worth it. And if amazing parents like hers can have grace for the cringy fact that I’m probably going to need to move the workshop to Monday—even though I printed actual flyers saying it’s on Tuesdays—then she and I can keep learning from one another.

Humans > Corporations.
Keep it real. Keep it messy. Keep going.