Monthly Archives: September 2016

Ex Libris

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author’s Program Note.

First there was the thunderclap, sharp, unyielding sound overawing all, pulling me anxious from my bed; to be swiftly followed by a cascade of erratic sound, my sundered rest punctured by noises that made the end of the world seem puny and insignificant by comparison. I was alone and soon to be unhappy, bereft, no comfort, my world altered forever.

This is the story of what happened just the other day. I know that sympathetic folk worldwide will join me in my lamentation… for this is a tale any one of us could have penned and which all of us might easily share and could as easily experience.

I call it Ex Libris, and it is a sad tale.

“84 Charing Cross Road”

If you’re a Bibliophile like I am, I don’t have to introduce you to this cinema classic released in 1987. It features an adamant, opinionated, chain-smoking, wise-cracking, irreverent New York writer (is there any other kind?) expertly played by Anne Bancroft (1931-2005), a lady in love with books, the more obscure and esoteric the better. Her correspondent is a soft-spoken London-based expert in finding out-of-print English books. (perfectly rendered by Sir Anthony Hopkins b. 1937).

He has at first no clue quite how to handle this rather alarming customer; then discovers that she is what all writers and lovers of  language require, a Kindred Spirit, puckish, golden hearted, honest to a fault, friend, jousting companion, lover of words, lover of those who shape these words, dram at the ready but never to excess; willing to let the rest of us into their enthralling lives, changing us forever, even the ones who bathe infrequently and are too vocal about their ill-considered (and frequently
changed) politics.

I had absolutely no trouble adhering to the rites and precise rituals of their arcane mysteries, not just in London either, but New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Oxford, Chicago. Chicago?

Purists may wrinkle their fastidious noses but, yes, Chicago where I sprawled for hours (age 12 or so, thank you very much) in the magic caverns tottering in unimaginably lofty formations on Clark Street. Yes, Chicago, “my kind of town, Chicago is” where I often heard my mother warn me that I could have all the books I could carry but not one more. Then hear my practised wheedling for more and still more, for my mother believed in the curative powers of disintegrating fine tooled leathers and the cats which could lead you if they would to wondrous editions not yet found by my tardy and less persistent competitors. Yes, Chicago, too, by all means, and proudly.

Where have these discriminating tabbies and their erudite successors gone? I feel guilty and ashamed that I don’t know, such is the undeniable pull of these establishments and their silky inhabitants down my ages. Forgive me!

“The Look”.

I know now what I could hardly even imagine then; that I was either born with or early acquired the unquestioned demeanor and certain stance and undoubted swagger of a Bibliophile. That is to say, I was a lad for whom doors were open wherever I went, wherever books in all their aspects and appurtenances were favored, as they were widely and worldwide.

Unfavored school mates and taunting cousins (self designated sans peur et sans reproche, especially if a grid iron and locker room were involved) might deride, but they would do so at their considerable risk and undoing. Bibliophiles, remember, have the benefits of deep memory and the certainty that revenge is a dish best tasted cold.

In those long-ago days I brought home a steady stream of prizes with resounding names, grandiose certificates, the letters patent of our realm, and even Yankee cash on the barrel head. Such unanticipated (to them), irritating developments, which caused my more brawny, athletic peers to rethink their positions, and (no matter how reluctantly) to treat me with the reverence and veneration I so richly deserved. Parents of such sad scoffers might be heard, and in public, too, intoning this righteous sentiment: “Why can’t you be a scholar like Jeffrey?,” words which no doubt enlivened and encouraged the sorry lot. Their roles in life have no doubt been the better for it.

Every click a diminishment, a certain loss, a looming tragedy.

I live in the middle of the greatest constellation of words in the Great Republic, Fair Harvard and dozens of institutions of higher and other learning, over 70 such institutions just minutes away, the whole one of the greatest achievements of our species and a light to people everywhere who appreciate and advocate humane values and a world of peace, serenity, fairness, and equality, the hallmarks of this special place and its abiding message to the ages.

Generations from now historians and other researchers into our past will call this the Golden Age, the final days of what we have worked so diligently for a thousand years to create, foster, and maintain, including language and the books which enshrine it forever.

The proven vandals, the assured barbarians are not just at the gate, they are placed within our glorious precincts by our very children, placed here by committed parental thrift and scrimping; each more adept than the one before in their proven ways to eradicate what we have so loved, supported and honored; imposing standards which are no standards at all.
Come to Cambridge, to Harvard. The future is breaking here like a brand new, unwelcome dawn. As if by wizard’s wand, institutions once boasting that they were citadels of progress and the liberal arts now are teetering on the knife edge of extinction; buildings gone, faculties dismissed, the very idea of liberal arts and progress derided and dismissed; the potent weapons click by click on the agile fingertips of the young and careless, are dooming not just multitudes, useless cargo on Spaceship Earth, but our very species. Truly Father forgive them for they know not…

I’m forced to join the revolution

I have for the last many years, harbored a guilty secret. I cannot bear to send my books to other homes and foreign shores. I hide them in places where even I forget, but better work of literature misplaced by sympathetic hands than gone forever, a sacrifice to the savages and their wanton ways.

The books that fell were a small part of the thousands of books which have found sanctuary here and over the course of my entire life. They were stacked and crammed and buried and pushed and shoe-horned into a space sustained by the thickest of woods, mahoganey. Now and again I would look at them and sigh, for like “Sophie’s Choice” (1979) by William Styron, I knew I would have to make a decision, and that the decision would be unwelcome, whatever I decided to do.

And so, God stepped in, impatient with my inability to decide, and said, as sure as he’d send a telegram, “Clear the shelves of these books!” And He did.

Thus, my precious books, though only a few hundred of the total inventory, were marked for extinction, coming in the shape of the Goodwill truck from Somerville. They have pestered me often for them, and now, at last, they shall have their way. Of course I feel terribly, which is silly, isn’t it? Because as my assistant, Kris McNamara said as he helped me pick up the fruit of generations, “Everything you want is on the internet anyway, what’s the big deal?” But then, he is only 33, and can scarcely remember anything the outrage that I have lived with for so long. And so we in our turn shall be forgotten, too.

The Goodwill truck will come, life will go on, though admittedly altered and lessened. As for me, I have hidden as many of them as I can, in places no one would ever look. You see, I shall not go down without a fight, all flags flying, every page intact, every word. For even if I become known as the last man of suitable standards and goals, I shall accept that title, that honor, with gladness and pride, the stearnest demeanor… for even then there will be hope.


Whether you have seen “84 Charing Cross Road” before (lucky), or, whether this is your first time seeing this magnificient film (lucky), this distinctly moving film, I advise you to go to any search engine and watch it. In the meantime, here is the film score to whet your appetite:

In some ways, technology is a blessing.

About the author

Dr. Jeffrey Lant, Harvard educated, started writing for publication at age 5. Since then, he has published over 1,000 articles and 57 books, and counting. For information about his oeuvre, go to:

Remember, even rich and successful authors derive acute satisfaction from letters of ebullient content and affection.

Get a FREE Copy of “Create An E-Book Today. Publish It On Profit From It for the Rest Of Your Life!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

“Autumn comes to New England, September, 2016. And we are glad of it.”

Proudly Presented from Book Series

Excerpt from “In My Own Voice – Reading from My Collected Works Vol. 5 – New England Tales” by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Book available at:

Chapter 1 “Autumn comes to New England, September, 2016. And we are glad of it.”

Special reading by Dr. Jeffrey Lant at:

Author’s program note. Our first travelers to Massachusetts arrived at Plymouth just in time for Winter, too late for Autumn, specifically  trodding on terra firma, December 26, 1620… and were they ever irritated, taking the opportunity to lambast the luckless captain who delivered them so late after a most disagreeable voyage, my dear, anxious for something new and exciting, but not (so they all later agreed) so new and exciting as the standard walloping, punishing New England Winter they came to know so well.

And so the mystique of Autumn, as something worth having and decidedly superior to what follows, was planted at once… and has never waned. And for good reason.

Autumn in New England is not merely a season. It is a mood, evocative, sacerdotal, an essential experience for the sensitive and anyone with the soul of a poet. It is a season that forces us to deal with transition, decay, transient beauty, and history scattered around and through the hamlets, towns, and occasional city. Indeed there is a feeling, never shared with outsiders and casual visitors, that each and every citizen of New England is merely history that hasn’t quite happened yet. History in New England is not merely vestiges of things past; it is present reality, no ghost, but events of long ago, our neighbors still, as fresh today as at inception. This view of ancestors puzzles casual travelers who have no ancestors. They come from places without History… and are, of course, of no consequence whatever. They naturally take umbrage and as many pictures of dying foliage as the traffic allows. We are glad to see the back of them.
States that more (or less) make up New England.

It is well known to even the least educated that New England is comprised of six states: Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Vermont, Maine, and Connecticut. The least educated, however, know nothing more than that and are not, therefore, in a position to inform you of sundry facts which if left untold to you will create problems for life and submerge your social standing. Here are the facts:

* Massachusetts is the largest New England state and offers a dizzying array of important events, people, ideas, institutions, etc. I don’t have either the time or inclination to share these significant details… for that you must visit any one of our dwindling number of bookstores and buy something. We need the money.

Autumn in Massachusetts is most about students arriving at pluperfect academies and institutions of higher learning graced by Corinthian columns and departments of humanities beset by troubles and the budget axe at every side. Such institutions attract the brightest students of the world. Sadly, even these are less educated than their parents, though they pay substantially more for what no one anymore considers a “good” education. Future students enrolled in such places in what is known as the Bay State will come for only a few weeks or even a few days, the prime objective being to say they “went” to (whatever institution they may claim) and to have their pictures taken in front of those venerable columns. Of course, it goes without saying that tuition and fees will not decline; rather the reverse. You will remember: we need the money.

Rhode Island, minute state, longest name.

Rhode Island, the littlest state, suffers from an indelible inferiority complex which has produced in once nick-named “Little Rhody” the insistent temerity of the “mouse that roared.” Rhode Islanders take no guff, and with that chip on the shoulder, defy you to knock it off. Even the boldest think twice before they try…

Rhode Island and Providence Plantations was founded by zealous brethen who grew appalled and aggravated with the sanctimonies and regulations of their former colleagues in Massachusetts and walked to a new destiny, one in which their truth was The Truth. So busy with the business of God, they had no time for the wistful vistas and God-delivered splendors of Autumn.

In due course, after their relationship with God was well and truly cemented and its manifestations — money — began to pour in… Rhode Islanders of means (and there were many) had no time for Autumn… they were busily spending their millions on sad copies of European culture and so nicking their fortunes and ensuring the sniggers of more enlightened, less respectful generations.

Later, in recent years, Rhode Islanders still had no time for Autumn. Gambling, lurid sex, and corrupt politics held sway… and to those who indulged the only season that mattered was the season in which their nocturnal activities waxed.

As a result of all these episodes Rhode Island came to know nothing at all of Autumn… something the more enlightened amongst them should regret, but probably do not.

New Hampshire.

There was no “Massachusetts” in the Old Country; there was no “Rhode Island.” But there was a peaceful place, a verdant place… called Hampshire. It is no wonder new citizens of the new land wished to memorialize it and pass a nostalgic hour reliving the place they would always remember as “home.” Such a place is a good place to see and to reflect upon the verities of Autumn, its beauty, its sadness that such beauty must be fleeting.

Go, then, to New Hampshire where their by-word is “Live free, or die.” It is a silly motto and would be better rendered “Live free, or fight,” something feisty, bold, gutsy, uplifting. But at least the folks in New Hampshire mean well, though that isn’t always enough. After all, at a time of fiscal austerity, they have wasted millions promoting that foolish motto of theirs.


Now we come to the Holy of Autumnal Holies, a place as sanctified and revered as Delphi. It’s everything that every Sunday travel supplement says it is… villages rendered and revered by Currier and Ives, places so quaint and tidy you are sure they are imaginary. I confess. I love Vermont in Autumn, and so that is when I scheduled my classes at the University of Vermont. One bows low before such a riot of glorious colors and swiftly dying verdure. Still, I have a pet concern… Vermont is not a name of Old England; rather it is a name of Ancien France, for Vermont (“Green mountain”) was an outpost of the Bourbons and reminds us they dreamed imperially, too, if less successfully than England. Perhaps locals kept the name which concerns me because it was tangible evidence that they had pulverized those Frenchies… even to the extent of annexing these words from their language for eternity… an insult to the people most conscious of the outrage of insult. En garde!

Maine… Connecticut.

As far as Autumn in New England is concerned, after the “in your face” exuberance of Vermont, the rest is dross. Maine, after all, was just a hunk of Massachusetts ripped off the Commonwealth in 1820 and established as a “free state,” to balance the “slave state” of Missouri then entering the Union. But we canny folk of Massachusetts are glad; Mainers are poor and exigent. They really need the money.

And as for Connecticut, the less said the better. Connecticut looks today as it has looked for eons south to New York and Pennsylvania. The folks in Hartford and environs condescend to the rest of New England. We hate them cordially and have made sure to sell them everything we can at inflated prices. You see, they have the money.
At the end…

Now you know about Autumn in New England. Book your tickets at once. Bring the family; the more the merrier. And, remember, bring all your credit cards and instruments of credit. Keep in mind at all times, we need the money.

Oh, and by the way, should you like a little light music to accompany this article, I recommend Edith Piaf singing “Autumn Leaves”, in both Johnny Mercer’s English and Jacques Prevert’s French. It is superbe. Do it now before the falling leaves have all drifted past your window…

Check out Dr. Jeffrey Lant’s Author Page at Author Central for all his latest books, events and blog posts.

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Ahh! Stop! 10 Copy Writing Errors That Are Blocking You From Making Sales

Write the only kind of copy that matters:

Copy that Sells your product or service.

10 Egregious mistakes to remove from your marketing documents.

  1.  Your Copy Focuses On Yourself, Not The Prospect. – talking about the seller and what your  offering. Every worthy thought about the seller, by the seller, for the advantage of the seller—is irrelevant. Success in selling more of your products and services is in direct correlation to the extent that the prospect feels you exist for him, that you can help him, that you care for nothing so much as for him.
  2. You Think Your Prospects Are As Interested In What You’re Selling As You Are. – Your prospects are not interested in your products or services. They are interested only in themselves, in their (all too often) petty aspirations, flawed desires, crack-brained anxieties and foolish fears. Thus it is to these — not the manifest wonders of your product or service — that you must appeal. No one will ever be as interested in what you are selling as you are, particularly if you are the inventor of said wonder. Expect no one to be as interested as you are.
  3. You’re Trying To Be Clever. – thinking you’ve produced the most clever piece of marketing ever conceived. Why? Because it’s different. Because it gets the attention of the reader. Because that reader laughs. Because that reader doesn’t simply pass by oblivious to the important creative statement at his fingertips. But does this marketing work? Do people take action — buy something — as a result of seeing it?If it is that rather than the creation of believable, client-centered benefits for his products and services, the “clever” creator of such marketing materials relies on his deep pockets to create familiarity. Such a person bets that familiarity is more important than real prospect benefits and an immediate incentive for action.Now hear this: the aim of your marketing materials is not to be clever. Is not to dazzle your prospects. Is not to convince them that you are the brightest little boy or girl on the block. Even if you are. All that — for marketing purposes — is irrelevant.Now hear this: the aim of your marketing materials is not to be clever. Is not to dazzle your prospects. Is not to convince them that you are the brightest little boy or girl on the block. Even if you are. All that — for marketing purposes — is irrelevant. The only purpose for marketing. The only purpose for your marketing materials. The only point at all of any kind of marketing — is SELLING YOUR PRODUCT OR SERVICE. Nothing else matters.
  4. You’re Trying To Educate Your Prospects.- trying to educate them so they understand their need for you. Marketers are not in the education business.They are in the selling business.Your objective in marketing is not to find a market and educate it to an understanding of what you can do for it. But to identify a market with screaming wants and needs — and the means to pay for satisfying them.What should you do to educate a market? “Don’t bother.”Educating has nothing to do with marketing. Be interested in meeting the wants and needs of your market and selling to your prospects.
  5. You Don’t Have A Major Client-Centered Message That You Hammer Home Again And Again. – if you think creativity and originality are infinitely more important than hard-hitting persuasiveness, think again. More it’s making the same point over and over and over again — from every conceivable angle — in a determined attempt to move your reader to do something. – a certain quite specific something that we inspire and command.By taking a besieged prospect, overwhelmed by other marketing messages, fearful of taking action, uninterested in taking action now and move them to take action NOW means:
    • hitting the prospect’s self-interest;
    • piling prospect benefit on prospect benefit to create a rich layer cake of desirabilities;
    • fostering a sense of urgency — of acute need — to take action NOW;
    • getting the prospect to feel not only what he’ll get by taking action but what he’ll lose by failing to do so.

    Leaving them with no choice but to act NOW. Or face unbearable regret and gnawing discontent that he failed to do so.

  6. You’re Trying To Be “Professional”. – feeling Professional Behavior as a means of getting ahead.What matters in marketing is relentlessly focusing on your prospect—in each and every way. Your own professional image should always be secondary to your ability to convince your prospect that you place his welfare first; that you can deliver benefit after benefit he’ll find meaningful and that persuade him to buy what you’re selling.Thus, nothing matters that is not directly related to your prospect. There can be no justification for writing marketing documents — however “professional” they appear to you, seemingly cogent in their dull pomposity — that fail to excite the prospect with what you can do for him and fail to tell him what he should do NOW to get the benefit you can deliver.
  7. You Haven’t Frightened Your Prospect. – In the marketing business, we have known for a good long while that fear is among our most potent prospect motivators. Particularly fear of loss.The fear you use must be:
    • specific
    • immediate
    • palpable
    • grounded in reality
    • sustained by credible specialists, and
    • reinforced, time and again.

    You must use every dark fear of every prospect as a lever to get that person to take action and connect with you—so that you can remove the cause for the fear and make that person’s life better.

  8. You Drone On About Product And Service Features, When All The Prospect Wants To Know About Is The Benefits He Gets By Using It.- Let’s start with definitions. A feature is a characteristic of a thing. Size, color, weight, speed, availability, special conditions of use — all these are features.And is why the consummate marketer is far more interested in prospect benefits —that is advantages or helpful results—than in product or service features. For it is benefits that sell, not features.LEAD WITH BENEFITS. FOLLOW WITH FEATURES.
  9. You Write in Jargon That Makes It Difficult For Your Prospect To Understand You. -Jargon means language understood by a select group. As such, by definition, jargon cannot be understood by everyone. Therefore, to write jargon is  foolish and self-defeating.If you want to write cash copy, copy that will sell your products and services, your objective should be to write the cleanest, clearest, crispest copy possible. Nothing — not even jargon that seems common in an industry — must stand between you and your prospects. Nothing.
  10. Your Copy Is Deadly Dull. – the best marketing copy should read like the most compelling of feature stories. Only with this difference. In such a story, you know you are reading about someone else. If you want to be in that story, you have to project yourself into it. But in marketing copy, you don’t have to project — it’s already about you. The best marketing copy is an exciting dialogue (even if it takes place on a single piece of paper) between two people — and only two people — you, the seller, and the single prospect/buyer who is reading what you have to say about him, his problem, and how you will solve it.

Find close to a dozen more of these erroneous copy-writing mistakes that are costing you dearly in

“CASH COPY: HowTo Offer Your Products And Services So Your Prospects Buy Them … NOW!” by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Packed with over 500 pages of all that you will need to Master Copy-writing.

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Never give anyone a piece of your mind again…Sell it to them for what your information is really worth! Read on…

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There are two key problems in the advising business:

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  • how to work with the client to do what’s good for him.

HOW TO MAKE AT LEAST $100,000 EVERY YEAR AS A SUCCESSFUL CONSULTANT IN YOUR OWN FIELD addresses both these issues in very practical detail. But it goes one step further than any other book on this subject.

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If you have high income expectations, and with only so many hours in the day, this unique information on how you can build a national advising practice by creating a series of problem solving products and services under the umbrella of what I call the Mobile Mini- Conglomerate, a 10-part wealth producing machine based on the information and problem solving processes you have at your disposal.

Free yourself, forever, from the time trap and make yourself recession proof as well.


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Just what your clients will need from you.


The first four chapters deal with your necessary preparation for succeeding as an advisor, for preparation is at the root of all success.

  • Chapter 1 deals with adopting the right mental attitude, some definitions of advising, what kinds of people succeed as advisors, and why people buy and use advisors.
  • Chapter 2 provides three sets of prerequisites you need to be successful in your advising career: the prerequisites you need to succeed as a sales person (a very necessary aspect of advising success), those you must have to be successful working with clients (which will be stressed again and expanded upon in a later chapter), and the ones you need to run a demanding small business.
  • Chapter 3 deals with positioning and marketing basics.
  • Chapter 4 provides information on the Problem Solving Process, the backbone of any advisor’s practice.

To understand and utilize low-cost, continuing marketing techniques Chapters 5, 6 and 7 contain critical marketing information of an often very advanced kind.

  • Chapter 5 sets forth crucial information about necessary and inexpensive marketing documents including the Precis, the Success Letter and several others.
  • Chapter 6 includes detailed information on networking, telemarketing, and workshops and seminars as client recruitment, profit and publicity centers.
  • Chapter 7 provides information on bringing your advising practice to the attention of client prospects through the free media.

Chapter 8 begins with a section on working with clients. This chapter specifically deals with the precontract stage of your relationship.

Chapter 9 deals with contractual matters.

Chapter 10 tells you precisely what to do with your client on the job, providing you with very necessary information on how to manage the change process to your and your client’s advantage.

Chapter 11 provides absolutely essential information on how you can benefit from what you know when you are not physically present. This chapter provides information on the Mobile Mini-Conglomerate, which will lift you beyond the constraints of the time trap and provide you with a continuing income from what you know through a variety of information-based products such as books, eBooks, audio recordings or podcasts, and catalog deals.

IChapter 12 is on how to run your demanding small business. Here you will find information on establishing your Mandarin Network, running a home-based business and such critical matters as disability insurance and financial planning, both essential to your peace of mind and ultimate autonomy.

Chapter 13 takes up the (to many) vexing question of computers and your advising practice.

Chapter 14, the final chapter, I take up the question of “The Life Of The Advisor,” providing you with useful information on stress and time management and smart traveling. Even how to how to avoid energy drain! Too many advisors bum out with the fast-paced, demanding lifestyle. Now you don’t have to be a casualty of your own success.

Learn how to do things more creatively, more intelligently, more profitably all the time.

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  • A means of helping others
  • A way to control your own life, and
  • A process for producing very, very substantial profit for yourself.

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[Video] Must See For All Writers – Ray Bradbury on The Joy of Writing

I was totally blown away from this video of Ray Bradbury giving important tips of the joy and wonder of writing. You can see he had a total love of writing and is very inspiring to bringing out that love of writing in others, perhaps you too. Check it out and please let me know what you think in the comment box below. Wonderful advice from a truly amazing and gifted writer. Feel the love…


For more writing tips from another very gifted writer, Dr. Jeffrey Lant

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  • Volume One in his “Writers Secrets” series – “Writing About Famous People You Know”
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Summer Ends, Fall Begins, Back To School In The Heartland, Over 60 Years Ago.

Proudly presented from Article Series

Author’s Program Note

All of a sudden things are radically different. A week ago, even just a day or so, the implacable summer sun reigned supreme, turning even the most energetic and equitable into sweat soaked complainers, facing even the least demanding task as if it were a firing squad.

Then, on a morning like this one, you know, you sense, you feel that that sun, with all his dictating of every particular, has passed into long-gone history. You remember him without regret, though his leaving brings the incorrigible winter into plain sight. Thrifty housewives catch themselves while sweeping the porch, “My, my Christmas will be here before you know it. How time does fly.” And she shakes her broom with a vigor that no one in the whole town had just the day before.

She shakes again to be sure things will be just so, ship shape. She didn’t feel this way a single moment of the summer. But she feels that way now. She catches herself, “Oh Come All Yea Faithful” her favorite Christmas song; she must check the attic. That’s where she’ll find the seasonal necessities. Then she smiles. It really is good to look early… she can’t help herself. The summer is gone, that’s for sure. And another line of “her” hymn slides out. She’ll check the attic today… just to be sure. It will never do to be unprepared… and she never is. That summer which ordered all just hours ago is gone. Dancing reindeer must follow.

One sure way you can tell the season has changed is the sound. You look quizzical, “Sound”? Yes, summer is full of Apollo’s happy music, the unbridled laughter of the young who pined for the summer, that May a million months ago, and  long ago tired of it; though they must be coaxed to admit to this dark heresy.


Summer comes with whoops and shouts and slammed aluminium doors. Summer is boisterous and capable of rebuffing any amount of “Jeffrey, come in NOW!” But in summer no one means it, for everyone wants to linger in the last twilights of sun and nowhere to go. Fall is a very different thing. And so the sound is a very different thing, too.

Summer is pagan, sprawling, pocket full of secret treasures from tree limbs and swamps where the cattails are always just a few inches too far and ingenious methods are required to avoid the mud that laughs at your inadequacies. Fall is disciplined, organized, clean clothes and a new lunch box without a single scratch and extra supplies for trading.

Summer is full of sound and laughter. Fall is muted, quiet, a time of sacred spaces and promises; some of which will haunt you for a lifetime, too precious to disregard, too painful to remember, except alone, head bowed.

Summer slows, autumn speeds.

The summer sounds say “bide a while” and even if we cannot, we know we should. In autumn we are too focused on arranging the remainder of the year now swiftly ending. It is always going somewhere, and never takes us along. This is the definition of sadness, and it is the leitmotif of the season we cannot stop for even a moment of “Once upon a time.”

Autumn returns the people, our friends and neighbors, who slipped away one summer day wearing sun glasses and the battered heirloom that is a grampa’s straw hat with its unexpectly bright riband in a fanciful color called cerulean.

The children who shouted their boisterous adieux as they left the security of drive way for the great imperial highways which take them anywhere; these children are full to the brim with stories of acknowledgement and high adventure, including first love with a broken heart and blurred photos you must promise never to reveal, cross your heart…

Summer may accept no destination as acceptable. Autumn is nothing but destinations, all important, even the least of them. Summer dawdles and saunters. Autumn has a date, a time, a purpose. It is for those who want to move up, move fast, and never tarry.

In summer, we slow down to smell the flowers; in autumn we grab the few remaining flowers as we race by, never stopping to sniff; grabbing because we need to give our hostess a bouquet, thereby enhancing our reputation, even if we rip the blooms from her very own garden, unthinkable in autumn.

Back to School

I’ll become a septuagenarian my next birthday and yet I caught myself just yesterday telling a guest to go to bed at once, after all tomorrow was a “school day”, a day for improvement, dreams dreamed, defined, refined, improved, achieved and new ones launched to continue the process for life.

To so aspire I was taught soundly and well. For this my teachers of yore deserve an encomium they will not get unless from me, for when I was in the schoolyard God was in His heaven, and all was right with the world. And I have always ladled out ample pomp and circumstance to those treasured beings who made it so.

I waited for them impatiently through the days of high summer. Then one day in the dwindling days of summer, all these beings, all women, all graduates of Illinois teaching colleges came back, like so many macaws in flashes of color and insistent chatter. Now their serious endeavors could begin. I, for one, needed no encouragement.

Summer has no standards. Autumn reveals new standards with daunting regularity. My fellow students decry the new destinations, some so they will not be seen as “teacher’s pet”; some because they know these new standards push them down and under, another obstacle to their ever less certain advance. Summer, for these, was better. Then they had only to regale us with new formulations of mischief and frolic, traits in limited demand for the rest of their three score and ten, unmissed by everyone else.

The smells of summer are clean, fresh, the honest scents of the good earth, crucial, good for a thousand years. They are strong, uncompromising, too real for the fastidious whose well being rests on the smells they seek to avoid at any cost. These waft down corridors enveloped in manly whiffs of Old Spice and Right Guard or, for the ladies, perfume like Chanel, No. 5 my mother’s scent.

One day when alone at my grandmother’s, I tried her Coty and understood its power at once. A single drop was enough to envelope you in a crowd of violets, wanton and beautiful, my favorite flower. I never tried this experiment again. I could not trust myself. I have seen the results when it is used without wisdom or restraint. It is where seduction ends and cruelty begins and never leaves.


Without any effort whatsoever I can close my eyes and smell the workaday smell of mopped floors in the cafeteria where sticky linoleum did not preclude our dance class; boys awkward, girls already proficient at entrapment, perfecting skills they will use for a lifetime. If they married “well”, their parents could congratulate themselves — and the school.

A different smell permeated the floor of the new gymnasiusm, the pride of the parents who bought it and entirely believed that those who engaged in manly sports upon its lacquered surface would never do anything squalid or dishonorable, on the floor or off. We were shocked to the core when we found off differently.

I only remember one such game on that supremely polished floor. It was a basket ball encounter, and I was coerced to be there. The star in that pipsqueak league was Bobby Lucas, who at 13 or so already knew the full power of the word “suave”. Indeed the word and all its moves might have been invented for him.

As usual he dazzled with irresistible footwork, a junior Globe Trotter for sure. And then one of those thrusts calibrated by God himself brought the crowd to its feet, even me.

To celebrate, I threw my head back and hit Bobby’s dad squarely in the face. A trickle of blood ensued, enough to remind me these almost 60 years later of the astonished look I generated when I was young and careless, when everything worked and painful limps and uncertain organs were not my portion. I’d bump old man Lucas again and again if I could bring grace and agililty back, even for an hour. I’d even go to  basketball games and holler.

The trees in summer beguile and snooze under the humidity that slows all, then slows all again. Summer is happy to stay home. Fall can hardly wait for all the tickets it receives to gad about. Summer says “Come by whenever you like.” Fall makes it clear the event begins at 8 p.m. and don’t be late.


The last days of summer now demand our full attention, demand but don’t get. All eyes are on the rising sun, where every colored leaf arrests the eye. We cannot remember summer when God’s arbor wafts such allure to our attention. And so the children pile all this windswept moribundity with rakes bigger than they are and jump in, youth and beauty in every jump; their laughter infectious.

Dappled with sunshine, bedecked in only the choisest leaves, life’s acolytes walk to the shrine, from Woodward Avenue, where Mom waves and waves again. “How fast they grow up”, the mantra on her lips and every other mother’s.

From Woodward they move to Prairie, cross Belmont Road to Puffer School, which my grandfather helped to build, brickwork his specialty and where Principal Hefty had been my mother’s teacher and lived across the street from my grandparents. Many a day I ate the mulberries that fell on her sidewalk. Delicious though they were, I was the only one who partook of their richness. Now I’ve always wondered why.

“… And to the Republic for which it stands…”

At last we were all assembled, rooms of Baby Boomers, the pride of the nation, our hope for years to come. “I pledge allegiance to the Flag…” and amongst us some did so with a fervor impossible to disguise.

These were the children and grandchildren of Europe’s internecine destruction, grateful every day to thank God for the Great Republic, “liberty and justice for all.” They more than anyone knew it wasn’t so everywhere. And soon, to our chagrin and peril, it wasn’t true here either. “O, say can you see…?”

Program note

The music for today’s program is the theme song for “Ding Dong School”, which ran on NBC from 1952 to 1956. You will remember Miss Frances (Horwich), the host. She was very low key and talked exceedingly slowly, perfect for small ears and hands and irritating to anyone over 6.

Her approach made her a star. For at the height of her popularity, she had 3 million rapt viewers, one of whom was me. I can remember so very clearly carrying Miss Frances’s messages to my mother, and leaving the television set when she said she had a private message for mom.

This approach was media magic, and led on to Mr. Rogers and his neighborhood, and “Sesame Street”, all gold mines. Now here is a link that will take you back to where it all started.

Tune in for a special reading by the author.


About the author

Harvard educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant has been a “schoolboy” his entire life, his life ruled by the rhythms of the classroom. Using the knowledge gained and abiding by the commitment that produces results, Dr. Lant has written over 1,000 published articles, and over 55 books of merit and achievment. If you aim for success for yourself or your family, he is the man to connect with. Start with his autobiography “A Connoisseur’s Journey: Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.”School,change of seasons,

Get a FREE Copy of “Create An E-Book Today. Publish It On Profit From It for the Rest Of Your Life!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

Your Blocked, Experiencing a Creative Slowdown? Easy Ways to Get Past Writer’s Block

writers block picThis term “Writer’s Block” gets kicked around quite a bit.

Have you experienced it?

Maybe it’s time to take a closer look at what may be stopping your creative juices from flowing.

Here’s 3 things from Goinswriter, to look at for the cause of your block

  • Timing: It’s simply not the right time to write. Your ideas may need to stew a little longer before writing them down.
  • Fear: Many writers struggle with being afraid, with putting their ideas (and themselves) out there for everyone to see and critique. Fear is a major reason some writers never become writers.
  • Perfectionism: You want everything to be just right before you ever put pen to paper or touch a keyboard. You try to get it perfect in your head and never do, so you never begin

See the complete article with their solution for clearing the block at the source Goinswriter

That being said I think “writer’s block” is just a term and really easy to get past if you remain energetic and ready for whenever the block lifts.

Here’s some ideas for outsmarting your writer’s block from Dr. Jeffrey Lant, a man who’s written more words than Shakespeare!

Author’s program note. Sooner or later EVERY writer will face the ordeal of the blank page and come up with — nothing! At such a moment, you may well fall victim to malaise, running the spectrum from anxious to suicidal. The longer the seizure lasts, the worst these reactions will be, until one completely miserable day you reckon you can never write another word again… and this can bring on not only sadness but a kind of death from which, like the real thing, there is no escape.

To help you through this situation when it inevitably occurs, I am going to pack this article with one practical suggestion after another. You may not need them now; may not need them for a decade. But keep this article readily at hand for when you do.

First suggestion. Use a special song to raise your mood and get you moving.

Have a song easily available that makes you want to surge. I have a list of favorites, all selected for their proven ability to lift my spirits and put me in the mood to give something to humanity, something like the project I’m currently writing. “Maniac” from the 2001 film “Flashdance” featuring Michael Sembello always works. I indulge myself, acting kid crazy as everything conduces to get you…. your brain…. and your prose flowing again. You’ll find this song in any search engine… turn it on, let yourself go, until you feel the unstoppable energy that this kind of insistent music delivers.

Second suggestion. The minute you get nervous, frustrated, flustered, hot under the collar, STOP and STOP at once.

The worst thing you can do is force yourself to write. Not only will the quality of what you’re writing be tainted, but you’ll hurt yourself and begin to think the writing game is not worth the candle, the worst possible conclusion.

This particular advice can be very difficult to follow. After all, you’ve been productive before and aim to be productive again just as soon as possible. Surely, if you force yourself to write you can push the blockage to one side and flow, right? Instead, sit down at your writing desk, write as much as you can that flows naturally. Stop when the flow ceases…

… even if you’ve only managed to write a single word. Pushing yourself during a block never works positively and can easily affect your self-esteem and self-confidence when the push doesn’t work.

Third Suggestion. Keep your regular writing hours, even if you cannot write your name on the page just now.

Good habits are the key to good, constant, always flowing writing. Thus, it is important during draught days to do the precise things you did during the fat days. What you produce may not be substantial — yet. But even if you find yourself in the position of Oscar Wilde (“in the morning I put in a comma; in the afternoon I took it out again.”) that won’t matter. Why? Because the most productive writers are like Pavlov’s dogs… trained to write whilst in your sanctified writer’s place.

Fourth Suggestion. Still stalled? Do this!

First of all, notice I use the word “stalled” to describe your current unproductive situation. It is a word that implies you were moving and the problem being solved you will regain your accustomed outcome… and peace of mind.

Thus, when stalled do this… Take a walk around the park (if you’re lucky enough like me to have one right out the front door, so much the better). Find yourself a shaded bench where the view is congenial. Take out the pad and paper every writer must always carry; select an object and — describe it, fully, completely, without leaving anything out of your description… writing not only factually but with as much lyric beauty as you can draw from the “dry” well at the moment.

The simple task of describing the flower bed at your feet starts the productive juices flowing… even if you’re able, just now, to write only a single word (tree) with just one adjective (green). The thousand mile journey starts with the single step; yours starts with a single word… and any word will do.

Fifth Suggestion. Copy a page of another’s prose… to get you moving.

Nothing happening so far to get your stalled skills working productively again? No worries! Take a passage from a favorite book or article, open a file and enter this text. As you do, engaging brain and nimble fingers, you’re performing a function all prose writers regularly do, in my case almost daily, that is entering reference material.

When you’ve finished so entering a block of text, go on and comment on what you’ve entered. What was good about the passage entered, what was bad, what inspired, what underwhelmed? In just a minute or two, you’re writing… perhaps not yet up to your usual level. But what of that? Your creative faculties are working; your imagination is working, your fingers are working… and soon the flow of new ideas, new insights, new observations and new perceptions will be working, perhaps even better than before.

Sixth Suggestion. Read from your own prose.

Far too many writers fail to read their prose aloud. This is bad for several reasons, including to make sure all sentences are balanced, harmonious, with every word the right word. Merely reading your prose cannot deliver the optimum result; reading aloud can.

Thus, pick up the first page of anything you’ve written, not necessarily lately either. When you’ve finished reciting this page, sit down at your computer and write a second page to accompany what you’ve already written and read. Again, by positively positioning yourself and doing your usual tasks, you ease back into your stride and the production and presentation of the right words in the right order.

And if none of this works?

Seventh Suggestion. Close, relax, start again tomorrow.

With the best will in the world and the diligent adherence to these recommendations, your block may not end in a day, a week or even a month. Thus must you continue to implement these suggestions even when they may not be immediately helpful.

Therefore, begin each writing day as you always have, at your usual time, and with your usual matutinal rites. Do not skip a single one. Similarly eat at the usual times; run your usual errands in the usual way. And above all, close your shop at the usual time with the usual activities, such as preparing reference materials for next day usage. Never stay up late forcing yourself every step of the way; that may well have been a contributing factor to the blockage in the first place.

Guaranteed results.

Follow these steps, and I guarantee your days of obstacles, impediments, blocks and absolutely no progress will be history soon enough. Moreover, because you have experienced what is often a terrifying situation, you are better prepared to see it coming and take immediate action to overcome it. Once you do, dance the “Maniac” gyrations for yourself. They’ll put you in just the right frame of mind to produce that Niagara of high energy language, the kind your readers are thrilled you never stop writing and always produce so predictably and so well.

About the Author

Dr. Jeffrey Lant is known worldwide. He started in the media business when he was 5 years old, a Kindergartner in Downers Grove, Illinois, publishing his first newspaper article. Since then Dr. Lant has earned four university degrees, including the PhD from Harvard. He has taught at over 40 colleges and universities and is quite possibly the first to offer satellite courses. He has written over 50 books, thousands of articles and been a welcome guest on hundreds of radio and television programs. He has founded several successful corporations and businesses including his latest at …

His memoirs “A Connoisseur’s Journey” has garnered nine literary prizes that ensure its classic status. Its subtitle is “Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.” A good read by this man of so many letters. Such a man can offer you thousands of insights into the business of becoming a successful writer. Be sure to sign up now at

More can be found on Dr. Lant on his author page at:

Get a FREE Copy of “How to Be a Writer Who Makes Money, Flies High and Dazzles the Folks Back Home. Oh Yeah!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

How a muscle-bound, sweat-soaked gym rat helped me make my first million dollars.

Proudly presented from Article Series

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

So you, like everybody else in the world, wants a million bucks or more? Well, don’t you? You certainly give a good impression, going around the neighborhood bragging because in your mind, to say you want a million dollars is the same thing as having a million dollars. But that is nonsense.

You say you want that million, so I ask you one simple question: what are you actually doing to get it? And here, this becomes a long, sad saga of “I coulda been a contendah”, Marlon Brando’s famous line from “On the Waterfront” (1954). Just as Terry Malloy had no greater chance of being a contender than the man in the moon, you’ve never done squat to make one thousand dollars, much less a million. And that’s why I’m writing this article.

Through my entire career in business, now going back 40 years or more, I have been observing the habits of those who purport to want the money, and nothing but the money, so help me God. The results are notable, staggering, and really downright pathetic. That’s where Jim Bocci, gym rat, is so pertinent to your life, as it was pertinent to mine when I started my publishing company in the 1980’s.

“Help me, doctah!”

In the days long ago, when I used to go out for lunch, I became a regular at one of Cambridge’s long gone bistros. There, I soon came to know all the staff members, and even some of the regulars who came in less for the pastrami than the chance to socialize (this was of course in the days before Facebook, which is showing all of us that none of us ever needs to socialize in person – what a dumb idea).

Jim and I struck up a conversation, the kind of conversation that distinguishes lunch wagons. “Hi, howaya?” It was friendly, and expected in those dim distant days, when real people mattered.

Meet Jim Bocci

Jim was the kind of person who was often to be found in college towns like Cambridge. He was young, over developed physically, and constantly baffled and confused intellectually. He went to the gym everyday, and soon had more muscles than you could shake a stick at, muscles… but nowhere to put them.

So everytime I came in, he asked me the same question: “Doctah! Have you got a job for me? I know yous is a very important person.” Of course, it was never established what kind of a job I could theoretically get him, but apparently, any port in a storm. He wanted out, he would take whatever there was, at least in theory.

About this time I wrote a book called “The Consultant’s Kit: Establishing  and Operating Your Successful Consulting Business”. I wrote it to accompany my courses on consulting at the Boston Center for Adult Education. The courses were always packed, and the complaint was constant. “Dr. Lant you talk too fast and I cannot keep up!”

Now changing my galloping style of presentation wasn’t in the cards. I talked fast because I had a lot to say. Writing a book was the alternative. So I sat down at my trusty Olivetti typewriter and set to work. The result was predictable: typos, letters that flew off the page… in short, a real home-grown effort. But what to do? Give it away with the course? Or sell it independently?

As a bold, brash, young entrepreneur, I chose packing it between two blue construction paper covers, and selling it for $35, a fortune.

My wise friends all said “You’ll never sell that for $35… You probably won’t be able to give it away.”, which is all the encouragement I ever got. You see, like most people, the so called experts around me didn’t know tutti from frutti, and thought that mouthing off was the end of the deal, and of my dream. But here they were wrong, so wrong.

I took the typescript over to a copy shop in Harvard Square and printed up 40 copies, which was an act of pure madness given the fact I had no publishing experience, had never written a business book, and was operating by the seat of my pants, destination unclear, means of getting there unknown. Well… I was on my way, whatever that meant under the circumstances.

When the copy shop brought out the books, I saw the next obstacle: my name was spelled wrong on the cover. In big black letters, it said “Dr. Jerry Lant.” First, I was aghast, then I wanted to break down and cry… after all the program started in an hour or so. The proprietor, when he looked in his order book, acknowledged that it was his error and would be glad to change those covers. The problem was that it all had to be done in 60 minutes or so.

The proprietor went to work right away and fixed the error, but left the covers wet with black ink. And so, 35 copies or so of this bold adventure were stacked up in the corner of the room waiting for a miracle.

I stood at the front of the room, and with gusto and brass, held up a copy of the book and said “This is the consulting Bible.” And, as if by magic, people started to shove $35 at me. Within 10 minutes, I’d made over a thousand bucks. And folks, this was 1980’s money, which is worth over $100 a piece in today’s money. And you’ll hardly believe this statement and think I made it up, but the God’s honest truth was I didn’t have a single book left!

Now my momma didn’t raise no dum-dums. I knew I saw the glint of gold, and as a yankee doodle dandy, I was duty bound to pursue it. Enter Jim Bocci… muscles gleaming, hair Brilliantined, teeth bright and shiny. That’sa my boy! “Jim,” I said, “I think I may have something for you. Stay tuned.”

Are you an idiot?

Along the way, I had made the acquaintance of a book agent, at least he thought he was. This guy looked like the Cat in the Hat. Mischief was his name, outsmarting everyone his game. He smelled money in “The Consultant’s Kit”, and demanded the opportunity to represent it to major publishers for some quick and easy money.

A quick trip to New York was scheduled, and mega publisher McGraw-Hill headed the list of targets.

“We love you, boy!”

My first and only trip to McGraw-Hill was a love fest… at least it started out that way. The editor was all sweetness and light; cotton candy and chocolate bars all wrapped into one. He lavished praise on me that would make my mother blush, and the Cat just purred and agreed with everything. After all, he was getting at least 15% of the gross. Dollars were flagrantly used as bait… and then the coup de grace. McGraw-Hill’s best whipped out a check for $10,000 already made with my name on it. It smelled like Chanel No. 5. This was the jour de ma vie.

And here’s where it all changed, and the kisses stopped.

I thanked McGraw’s representative, and my representative for their interest, and then said to their offer and that hefty check “No way, Jose!” Whereupon the room grew glacial fast.

Now, I was the stupidest boy they’d ever seen. The boy who knew nothing about anything, probably fraudulently admitted to Harvard with a criminal record to boot. It was all so very different from the moment before. The pressure was palpable, and their arguments, while exaggerated, were not unreasonable. I didn’t know anything about publishing or distribution or anything else. Except that I was that yankee doodle dandy with a taste for fast learning.

Just before we finished the Cat took me to the hall for some major league ass-kicking. “You friggin’ moron!” was about the least obscene of his remarks. And so I headed back to LaGuardia without a friend in the publishing world… except for Jim Bocci.

My first stop when I got back to Cambridge was the restaurant where Jim worked as a waiter. I saw him right away. He used his usual wave and flex number. But this time, I paid attention. I thought to myself, “Why not? Why couldn’t he sell books? He’s got the gift of gab, and wants to improve himself. And God knows my books improve everything.”

So I crossed the floor and for the first time, paid attention. “Jim,” I said, “How would you like to be a publishers representative.” I’d seen more questioning eyes in my whole life. “What does that mean, doctah?” “It means Jim, that you’ll have the important task of representing me before the world.” “No prob!”

The missing link.

Genius takes many forms. Sometimes it’s just dumb luck. Sometimes right place right time. Some, kismet. In this case, it was a yellow t-shirt with killer content. Side one: “This book is better than sex”; Side two: a picture of the book.

The t-shirts were ready in 24 hous, by which time I figured out what Jim should be doing, namely which book stores he should be going to and what he should say when he got there. Nothing could be left to chance. The piece de resistance were those sweat-soaked muscles. When you added the book, the body, and the brawn, you had, voila, a sale!

Now maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but I want you to do well so I’ll tell you the full extent of my ingenuity. I had Jim flex and wink at every dateless boy and girl in Harvard Square, and that was a lot. Imagine if you will, the entry of publishing’s newest representative. Swaggers in, flexes left, flexes right, and the big finale, bounces pecs. And then, the order.

It was sheer genius because, in a matter of 60-90 minutes, my second batch of books was gone. I mean, presto, gone! The representative of Harvard Business School, the citadel of business writing for the entire world, called me up that afternoon and with complete bafflement, said, “I went off to lunch and we had 10 copies of this. I come back an hour later (she actually took a longer lunch than that, but who’s counting?) and they’re all gone! What’s that all about?”

Oh lordy I wish I had someone to dance with at that moment. I would have done a jig around Harvard Square. One business school professor stopped me and said, “I haven’t sold 35 copies of my book in these stores period. How did you do it?” And he didn’t ask the question in friendship. He, too, was baffled. “How did I do it? Sex, man. Sex sells.”

Do what you have to do.

Frankly, I was ecstatic after I was handed the solid evidence that this book would be a big winner. And so it has been from that day to this. But more than that, it proved to me that if you want to make a sale, you act like a salesperson and do the trick. Don’t give in, don’t give up, and don’t over promise.

Well, I’m an old guy now, almost 70, but I have the chutzpah of an out-of-control 18 year old. “How do ya do ma’am? How do ya do sir? How about getting this book?”

In due course.

Over the years, this magic book has netted me over $1,000,000. As for Jim, I hope he reads this article. I’d like to thank you in person, for using your body and your God given talents to help me out and make me rich.

And if you’re one of those people who is yappin’ about making millions, ask yourself one question: would you flex and wear a t-shirt to make the sale? Or would you just sit around and talk about the money you’ll make when you’re doing nothing to make it?

I’ve got to go now. But before I leave, let me tell you one important thing. If you’re one of those yappers, don’t yap in my neighborhood. Do something. And the something that makes the most sense, is for you to get a copy of “The Consultant’s Kit: Establishing and Operating Your Successful Consulting Business”, and the sequel to it, “How To Make At Least $100,000 Every Year As A Successful Consultant In Your Own Field: The Complete Guide To Succeeding In The Advice Business”. You can get them at:

Now I’ve got to give you my considered opinion. You’ll probably never do this. But if you don’t, you’re trapped where you are. Just don’t blame anyone but yourself for doing nothing and getting nothing. And isn’t that a chipper thought for the rest of your life.

Musical note

It’s all there in this terrific motivating song. I am a yankee doodle dandy, are you?

About the author

You know Dr. Jeffrey Lant. He’s Harvard educated, has written over 55 books and thousands of articles, and tells it like it is. For further information about his produces, go to

A FREE Gift from Dr. Lant  “Create An E-Book Today. Publish It On Profit From It for the Rest Of Your Life!” by Dr.Jeffrey Lant Get Your FREE Copy CLICK HERE

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Outlook 2003 & Later

Right-click on the message in your inbox.
Select “Junk E-mail” from the menu.
Click “Add Sender to Safe Senders List.”



Thank you to Digital Marketer for supplying these instructions.