I Have Five Boot Jacks for My Two Feet

Fair warning: this is a lame attempt at laughing at the comedy that is sometimes my life as a small shop owner. If you've ever made something you were convinced would sell and then watched it collect dust, this one's for you.

Every product I have ever made was going to be the one.

You know the feeling. You finish a piece, step back, look at it under the shop light at a flattering angle, and think: people are going to lose their minds over this. You list it on Etsy. You write the description. You pick a price that feels reasonable, maybe a little low because you're being humble about it. You post a photo. You wait.

You wait some more.

You check the stats. Three views. Two of them were you.

The Boot Jack Era

The USMC boot jack was going to be a phenomenon. I was sure of it. It's a solid, practical piece - a traditional boot jack design made for Marines who've spent years wrestling off boots that don't want to come off. It has a specific audience. It has a great story. I made several of them.

One person reached out. They asked questions. Good questions. Engaged questions. The kind of questions that end with a purchase. We went back and forth a few times and then, like a ghost, they were gone. No sale. No explanation. Just silence and five boot jacks sitting in my shop judging me.

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I started giving them away. A few went to people who I figured would appreciate them, maybe post about them, maybe tell someone. You let go of the idea that every piece needs to generate revenue. You accept that some of them are investments in the reputation of a shop that currently has only a few reviews, one of which is from a close friend.

At this point I had given away enough of them that I was down to none. Zero boot jacks. The listing was still live, but if anyone had actually bought one I would have had a problem. I figured that was a risk I could live with, because nobody was buying one.

The Part Where It All Goes Wrong

Then a funny thing happens.

Someone buys one. Then someone else buys one. Back to back. The shop that could not give boot jacks away is now a boot jack empire with a processing time clock that Etsy takes very personally and exactly zero boot jacks on hand to ship.

This is the part they don't put in the small business content. Not the "I scaled my side hustle" part. The part where you're in the garage at 10pm trying to remember exactly how you made them, building against a deadline you created for yourself, hoping the finish dries before the shipping window closes.

There is a specific kind of stress that comes from success arriving slightly faster than your ability to handle it. It's not a bad problem to have but it is absolutely still a problem.

The Cycle, Explained

For anyone thinking about selling handmade goods, here is an accurate description of the cycle as I have experienced it:

You make something. You’re certain it will sell. It does not sell. You question your abilities, your taste and your choice to do any of this at all. You give the things away. The things sell. You have none. You build more in a mild panic. Somebody asks if you do custom sizes. You say yes. You should not have said yes. You figure it out. The custom size ships. You get a nice message from the buyer. You feel great. You make something new. You are certain it will sell.

Repeat.

What I've Actually Learned

The honest version: I have no idea what's going to sell. I thought the boot jack was obvious. I thought the charcuterie board was obvious. I thought the planter was a long shot and it sold first. The market has opinions that don't always line up with mine, and the sooner I accept that, the better I’ll sleep.

What I do know is that the pieces I've put the most care into are the ones that eventually find the right person. Part of that is slowing down and paying attention because the wood seems to tell you what it wants to be. A piece with interesting grain, a natural edge, a color that surprises you when it hits the finish, those pieces have a direction. Follow it, put in the time, and they go. Maybe not the first week. Maybe not the third. But they go.

The boot jacks are gone now, for what it's worth. All but one. The ones I sold, the ones I gave away, and the ones I built in a panic at 10pm. Somewhere there are Marines pulling off their boots with something I made in a garage in Mountain View, and that's not a bad outcome for a project that once had a view count of three - two of them me.

I'm already sure the next one is going to be huge.