Wendyl Nissen: The joys of inspiration

The last time I wrote the phrase "it seemed like a good idea at the time" was about this time last year.

It was in a column detailing my purchase of 1.2 tonnes of remaindered books I had written which ended up dumped on pallets outside our house, target="_blank">much to my humiliation. The good news is that it was a successful idea of sorts, as I've managed to shift quite a few of them on Trade Me and at various little talks around the country.

Once a year, during spring, I seem to have one big idea. This pattern has been noted by my family who next year may find diversion or incarceration a useful tool to save them from further shame and mortification. Personally, I think a woman with one big idea a year is fascinating. Combine the idea with a penchant for spontaneity and a determination to make it happen, and there is always something happening with lots to chat about late into the night.

My problem was that most nights I ended up chatting to myself while everyone escaped to bed with pillows over their heads. I was beginning to think they weren't behind it. I wasn't feeling the love.

"Don't get me wrong," my husband started in the defensive mode he uses when he's about to disagree with me. "I get the whole Aunt Daisy thing. I understand your need to live like a Nana, the cleaning recipes, the baking soda, the vinegar the whole back to basics, retro, bloody old world deal," he said, pausing for breath. "But boring a whole bunch of women with a newsletter about it all is just taking it too far. Too far."

I had decided I would use the internet as a marketing tool. I'd recently thumbed through a copy of Email Marketing: A Guide to the internet's Most Effective Marketing Tool at the library and found myself convinced.

I discovered a template and sat down to write my first Wendyl's Green Goddess News #1, which is a dangerous thing to do for a former magazine editor.

"It's just like creating your own little magazine," I gushed as I blatantly stole other people's images off the net and vigorously typed up some recipes.

"How do you know these people even want it?" he tried again.

"They can always let me know if they don't."

In the end, late at night, hunched over my computer I realised that no one was going to get my newsletter via email. The chapter I had skipped over in the book about email and marketing was the one which warned you about becoming a spammer.

Somehow, by raiding my contacts list and several scraps of paper on which I had encouraged people to write their email addresses at the Home Show, I had amassed more than 1000 recipients. Granted, some of these were inquiry addresses for the rental of Paris apartments and herbal tonics for the dog, but I figured you just never knew who might want to share my joy.

Everything bounced back. Even when I sent them out in chunks of 100 they bounced back. And then Google blocked my email address and told me off. Sternly.

"Thank God for that," said the husband.

"Did you not think to check that sort of thing out before you started?" inquired the ever practical and logical 11-year-old daughter.

"Unsolicited bulk email is a huge worldwide problem for internet users. And you are now part of that problem," she finished and stalked off to bury her nose in Teen Vogue.

"Can I help it if I'm impulsive?" I whined to the only person left in the room, my husband. "It's no use sitting on an idea."

"No one's asking you to hatch a bloody egg, but it wouldn't hurt if you sat on your idea a bit longer than three seconds."

And then he found me a man who would send out my newsletter for me. Legally, safely and for a fee.

"Better sell a few more of those books in the basement," was his suggestion as he closed down my computer and put me to bed.

If you'd like to be bored silly by my newsletter please email me at greengoddessnz@gmail.com and prove my husband wrong.