The Great Social Media Hustle

Social media has been very good to me - in particular Twitter.

I’ve met business partners, friends, vendors, investors, and much more - through a commitment to writing consistently in public. (I wrote more of my thoughts here)

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On the whole, business folks writing about what they are up to, in public, is a net positive, no doubt.

A recent case in point is Chris Hoffman (@STLChrisH).

This guy has grown his residential service business from $10,000,000 —> $100,000,000 and there is absolutely no doubt as to why.

This guy is sharing so much freaking value - go check him out.

Here is a great example where he details the monthly reporting package he gets from his company.

The level of thought and experience is incredible!

Absolute gold, and it’s FREE.

However, there is one type of content that I think is rough - and is, in fact, a siren song.

Specifically - “How to Make Money” Instagrammers/Influencers/Youtubers - or whatever they call themselves today.

The modern social media environment gives us figures that can be at once sages, jesters, and terrifyingly commonly…swindlers.

Each has a tale, each has a secret to success, a mantra to happiness, and some long-forgotten (or brand NEW!) ticket to wealth.

High production value, high volume content is an intoxicating opiate for the inexperienced masses, mindlessly scrolling - all hoping to “get rich quick”.

As I’ve explored deeper, the words of René Girard echoed in my mind.

Girard (1923-2015) was a French historian, literary critic, and philosopher of social science.

He’s most known for the idea of mimetic desire.

It's a simple idea.

Mainly, that we make many of our choices according to the desires of others.

Consider the influencer, lounging in an exotic locale or revealing some some puffed up mastermind they are promoting.

(Editor’s note: I assure you, unless your webinar cures cancer it isn’t a BIG DEAL).

Is it the particular service they are hocking that we truly desire?

Or is it the aura the influencer tries to emanate, the promise of a life beyond the ordinary, a dance above the mundane?

This is the siren song of mimetic desire, a tune as ancient as humanity itself.

We find ourselves ensnared, not by the genuine allure of experiences, but by the tantalizing promise of how they appear when filtered through another's lens.

Are we participants in a genuine quest for meaning, or mere actors in a play scripted by another's desires?

Yet, as familiar as these faces become to their audience (which they endlessly cultivate with a seemingly endless stream of vapid, narcissistic & banal content) — as they share their morning routines, their tips and tricks, their musings — there remains a chasm.

A paradox - sitting at the heart of their hustle.

"Forge your path," they say, with a gleam in their eyes and an info product in their hearts.

"Chart your destiny, leave your 9 to 5."

Yet, in the very breath that extols uniqueness and individuality, they dangle a roadmap — their roadmap.

A course, a mastermind, a playbook for success.

Isn't there a biting irony here?

They preach the song of freedom but hand out scripts & playbooks for the choir.

In navigating this digital spectacle, there's a wisdom in pausing, in discerning.

To be inspired, yes, but to also stay rooted.

The allure of instant success, peddled by 21st century carnival barkers, can lead us astray.

Remember, real growth and meaningful success aren't born from courses and masterminds but from genuine introspection and authentic effort.

As we navigate the enticing corridors of social media, let's commit to seeking substance over surface and authenticity over artifice.

Yallah Habibi,

Jon

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Passage of the Week:

July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington

My very dear Sarah:

The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days — perhaps tomorrow.

Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more …

I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution.

And I am willing — perfectly willing — to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt …

Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long.

And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us.

I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me — perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name.

Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness …

But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights … always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again …

The author (Sullivan Ballou) was killed a week later at the First Battle of Bull Run, July 21, 1861.

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