The Best Lies I’ve Told (4/5)

Holy crap, people! I did not realize I’d be posting this on April Fool’s Day! Is my timing finally good?!

No, probably not.

Also! My free short story To Move On? The one I entered in that contest for downloads that I’m doing this whole months and months of promotion for? It’s in tenth place! Meaning its on the first page of results on Freeditorial’s website! Thanks so much to everyone who’s downloaded already! Let’s keep it going with…

I Deny My Sister Three Times before I Lose Interest

One of my closest friends is a woman named Alex. I’m incredibly lucky to have her as a friend because she’s one of the sweetest people in the world and also the most gullible.

We met in 9th grade when we sat together in Earth Sciences. Earth Sciences was boring but Alex was amazing to mess with due to a wonderfully sheltered home life. One morning early in our relationship, she came up to me and said, “i saw your sister this morning,”

I gave her a look. “I don’t have a sister.”

I do have a sister. She’s two years older than me and was a prominent citizen at our high school. She shared many of my teachers and we both got involved in theatre and speech and debate.

“Really?” Alex said. “She looks just like you.”

“Weird,” I said. My sister does look a lot like me, especially before I cut my hair.


The next day, Alex thought she had me in a corner. “You do too have a sister. I saw her today!”

“I’ve never had a sister,” I said. I have had a sister for twenty four years.

“No, her name’s Anne.”

I shrugged. “Never met her. What does she look like?” She looked like a neater version of me with better clothes.

“She looks like you!” Alex said, exasperated.

I shrugged.


“That’s so weird that there’s a girl here who looks exactly like you,” Alex said off handedly during class.

“Yeah,” I said, “next time you see her, you should point her out to me.”

I saw her that night at dinner with our parents.

Some time later, I left my lunch in the car. My sister grabbed it for me and took it to my first class. “Thanks, Anne,” I said, putting the pizza slice in my backpack.

“You said you didn’t have a sister!” Alex accused.

I shrugged.

Woo! Tenth place! If you liked this lie and want to help me buy my sister a t-shirt for pretending she didn’t exist, please download my free story To Move On! Move me one step closer to sweet debt free living! Well, not debt free. Less than 20K debt living! Still good!

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The Best Lies I’ve Told (3/5)

Lies of Acceptance

The easiest type of lie is a lie of omission. Essentially, the liar leaves out a pieces of vital information that would affect the mark’s opinion of their statement. I pulled this a lot in high school. I’d tell the teacher I was going to the bathroom when I really wanted to buy a soda or just walk around the halls rather than listen to a lecture. If I said I was getting a soda or wandering because I was bored, they’d have made me sit in my chair. Bathrooms were an acceptable reason to leave. I always made sure to stop at a bathroom on my way back from whatever I actually wanted to do but it was never my final goal.

It wasn’t until I reached college that I was able to experience the most glorious lie of acceptance. A lie of acceptance isn’t really something you can control because it depends entirely on other people. A lie of acceptance is just letting someone be wrong.

My final year of college, I took a course on John Milton. I knew the professor but I started taking the class just as I started medication for my Depression and was still feeling the effects of the latest episode. One of these effects was a messed up sleep schedule. I recall this particular instance that I had slept in until noon, after I finally got to sleep around five in the morning. I was just making a grilled cheese for my breakfast lunch when I realized; “that class started about five minutes ago.”

Figuring that one class wouldn’t kill me, I finished my sandwich and watched TV on the internet.

I came into the next class ready to learn. I actually really enjoyed the Milton class, at least much more than the Shakespeare class I took the previous semester. I actually did the reading for the Milton class, which was primarily on Paradise Lost. I came in that Friday, ready to participate. After I raised my hand for attendance, (this guy was one of about five of my college professors who actually took attendance) the professor said, “you were here on wednesday, right?”

“Yeah.” I said, blinking.

“For some reason, I didn’t check you in,” he said.

“Weird,” I said, “I was here.”

“I’ll check you in.” He said.

You don’t always have to correct people when they’re wrong.

If you enjoy these lies, or simply want me to believe you do, please download my free original story To Move On. You’ve helped me move up to Eleventh place with 88 downloads so far! Let’s break into the top ten and help Kater pay off some student debt!

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The Best Lies I’ve Told (2/5)

Part Two: Girl Scout Scaring Girl Scouts.

People never believe me when I tell them I was a girl scout. I was, until about sixth grade when school and my general distaste for group activities caught up with me. I honestly wish I had left just after this story because nothing I did in that troop would ever or could ever top this.

The year was 1999. Spongebob Squarepants had just premiered, George W Bush had just announced his candidacy for United States President and a young Kate Canter was on a camping trip with her mom, her best friend and about thirteen girls she didn’t actually like. More importantly, to this story, The Blair Witch Project came out. For those who don’t know, The Blair Witch Project was a piece of marketing brilliance and a cinematic dog turd. I respect it because it cost almost nothing to make and it was marketed almost entirely through word of mouth. Its main pull was actually built on the lie that the film was all found footage of true events. I hate The Blair Witch Project because it helped popularize the shaky cam craze and now I can’t watch a horror movie from the last fifteen years without getting a headache.

On that particular camping trip The Blair Witch Project had captured my troops’ tiny imagination. I doubt any of us had actually seen the movie, since we were nine, but we had heard of it and knew, vaguely what it was about. We had found an old shed in a field near our camp site and immediately decided it was the home of The Blair Witch, herself. We circled it warily, daring each other to knock on the door or, worse, go inside. Eventually, I volunteered.

To this day, I’m not certain whether I believed there was a witch in the shed. In all likelihood, I probably knew there wasn’t anything supernatural waiting for me behind that gray brown, dust covered door. I do have a history of wanting things to be true. I waited for Hogwarts letter, tested bookcases for secret passages and spent hours trying to move things with my mind. Had The Blair Witch actually lurked in a maintenance shed, I would have died torn between terror and excitement because “holy crap! Witches are real!”

Alas, when I opened the door and stepped inside with my fellow scouts at a safe distance, all I saw was a length of hose and some shovels. No witch, no magic, just practical fire prevention gear.

“Kate?” someone called nervously. They couldn’t see what was inside.

I screamed at the top of my lungs. The door slammed behind me, because I pulled it shut. Outside I heard the shrieks of my fellow girl scouts as they ran away. I walked back laughing.

Obviously, I didn’t analyze this particular lie until years later. I think it was successful due to its subtly. The girls had already invented a witch living in the shed, all I had to do was confirm it. In retrospect, I didn’t even actually lie. I just went in and screamed in a shed. Their minds filled in the blanks and they told the lie to themselves. Lies work best if you just manipulate what another person already believes.

If you liked this lie and want to help me convince people of things that aren’t real in the future, please download my free story, To Move On. I’ve entered it in a contest where the most downloads wins. I am currently number 12 on that list! Thanks so much to everyone who has already downloaded and helped me get one step closer to paying off my student loans!

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The Best Lies I’ve Told (1/5)

I have an ongoing dream of publishing a self help book entitled: Lying For Pleasure and Profit. Lying is my chief source of entertainment and income and I am… really good at it.  I can lie to anyone, about anything and I can teach you how as well… or can I?

 

Yes, I can.

 

The following posts will concern my top five lies that I’ve ever told and how they worked.

 

Or will they?

 

Yes.

 

For those people who only tell the truth on principle, or whatever, consider this further instruction on how to tell when you are being lied to, assuming that’s something you want to recognize. For my part, I’d much prefer an entertaining lie to a dull truth any day.

 

  1. How My Dad Lost His Arm

When I was in high school, I was on the Speech and Debate team. For those of you who have never attended a Speech and Debate team, this is how it goes. First you wake up obscenely early on a saturday. Usually it was around 6 or 7 but one time it was 4:30. Then you get in a bus with your team: for me it was my sister and never more than five other students, and our coach who looked like Jesus if he spent the entire new testament flipping over the money lending tables. Then you ride all the way up to some godforsaken school in Cherry Creek which was actually much nicer than my high school was. Then you compete three times in the course of eight hours, or six times if you’re competing in two events. Then, if you aren’t eliminated, you compete in a finals round and then you wait another two hours for the judges to tabulate all the results and give you a trophy. A speech and debate meet will always last a minimum of eight hours but only if your team is terrible.

 

My team was not terrible.  At least one of us always made it to the Finals round and of course the rest of us had to stick around for team solidarity or because the bus wasn’t making two trips. This left us with a lot of down time. We were meant to use this time to go over arguments or practice our routines but usually it devolved into conversation, homework or my favorite hobby of lying.

 

The timing of a lie is very important. If being believed is important, don’t lie when your victim has all of their mental capabilities. Wait until they’re tired or frazzled or bored out of their mind at a Speech and Debate Meet. One particular evening, as we waited for them to figure out which nerd argued the best about Eminent Domain, two of my teammates asked how my Dad lost his right arm.

 

I was elated. The story of Dad’s hook hand/forearm/shoulder is one of my favorites as it so neatly ties together three generations of my family history. This time though, I would not immediately divulge the epicness, not until I milked it for all it was worth. If at all possible, don’t bring up the subject you want to lie about. People generally assume its hard to lie on the fly and that most people don’t just have lies in their back pocket ready to use for their own entertainment. If I’d come up to the marks and said “hey, wanna hear how my dad lost his arm?” they’d have known something was wrong.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, looking away.

 

The best way to gain belief in a lie  is to pretend its a secret you’re reluctant to share. Never run straight out the door with a lie like you’re proud of it, people will recognize it for what it said. “I don’t want to talk about it,” is a bit of a gamble since the mark might actually respect your wishes and let the subject drop. Respectful people are never quite to easy to lie to.

 

Luckily, these girls pressed me. So, summoning my courage, I said; you know the big library downtown?”

 

Another trick to lying is to include as many real world details as possible. This lie is good since my dad did indeed lose his arm and the proof can be seen at any point. Still, if I had set the story in my great uncles bavarian castle, there’d be no going forward. There is a big library in downtown Denver and lots of people know about it, just as many of the kids at school had seen my Dad and his hook pick me up at school. My oblivious victims nodded.

 

“I was five years old,” Put distance into a lie, everything happened at least a decade ago and you’ve been living with the consequences your entire life. “I was there with my Dad, you know for that big book sale they have every year.” Real world details. “We were up on the top floor, about to head down when I felt this really cold wind.”

 

If you’re telling a lie, especially one involving the supernatural, vagueness is your friend. You have to remember the scenario of your lie. If you’re a little kid and its a big dramatic event, you are not going to remember every detail. The more details you stick into the lie part of your lie, the more opportunity they have to question it. A cold wind is great because it could have been anything, a fan, an open window but the marks knew what it was. An inference is a lie’s best friend.

 

“It happened really fast, I don’t remember very well but the next thing I knew my Dad was falling down the stairs and when he got to the bottom, his arm was off entirely.”

 

It’s tempting to end a lie like a story, with some sort of lesson or coda, like an urban legend. Don’t do that. People don’t remember like that, unless they’re in a therapy session. Just let the lie grow cold and wait for those beautiful words.

 

“I believe her,” says one fool.


“Me too,” The other agrees and I laugh into the night.

 

If you like this lie, and want to help my lie professionally, download this story I wrote! The person with the most downloads by July wins money which I will use primarily on my student loans and a cat! Or Will I?

Probably. Download the story and we can find out together.

Thanks so much to everyone who already downloaded! You moved me from 19th to 12th place!

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Big Girl Bed

I bought a bed. It’s a big deal.

 

Let’s back track, I have never bought a piece of furniture in my life before this. My dining room set belonged to my grandmother for sixty years, the chair I watch TV (laptop) in is a hand me down from my sister and my mom bought the screens that separate my room from the living room. Everything else belongs to my room mate or came with the apartment.   I slept on my childhood bed for 23 years, interspersed with college where I slept on three separate dorm beds and a mattress on the floor. For the last six months, I’ve been sleeping on another mattress on the floor, which was a gift.

 

This bed was not purchased lightly. I saved for this bed. I got a second job for this bed. I researched this bed.

It’s an Ikea Bruseli because I got a second job as a dog walker, not a rich person. Rich people probably just by beds willy nilly, filling their mattresses with dollar bills and diamonds. When I was a kid, I had a fantasy of having a room of nothing put mattresses which I later realized would be a padded cell. As an adult I decided to buy a bed because I was tired of collapsing on the ground like an animal every night. On a bed, I am elevated from the carpet of trash dirty clothes and food articles I drop on the floor. I survey my living room like Cleopatra surveyed the nile, a decadent three feet above the ground.

 

My bed arrived yesterday. Ikea delivered to my apartment. If Ikea did not deliver, I would live like an animal. The second story might as well be Killimanjaro if I have to carry anything heavier than a gallon of milk.

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Oh my god, it looks so comfy. It’s like a Bed Fetus, not even fully formed yet. I had to leave the bed like this for about 5 hours while I went off and walked dogs. I didn’t get the dog walking job just to pay for the bed but after starting to walk dogs, I definitely need the bed.

 

When I came home, my roommate was off to work and I was famished. After a quick meal, I turned to the instructions.

 

Ikea is a marvelous company. They deliver, they pay their employees a living wage and they didn’t yell at me when I brought frozen yogurt into their show room.

 

They do not give written instructions but rather a series of wordless comics to explain how to put your furniture together. One of the first pictures is of two smiling, genderless people, one of whom is holding a hammer. Then there is a picture of a lone individual who also has a hammer but no facial features to speak of. The single person has a large X through their person to indicate that you should not attempt to put your Ikea furniture together by yourself.

 

There comes a point in every adult’s life when they must decide  if they’re going to let an Ikea instruction booklet control them. I am not. Screw you, Ikea, I am a strong, independant woman and I don’t need anyone to put together a bed! Maybe its a little more complicated but at least I don’t have anyone going “that doesn’t go there,” and “you’re turning it the wrong way” everytime I try to express myself with this bed frame. I am an adult, Ikea. I bought a bed.

 

Having asserted my dominance, I got the headboard together and the side pieces attached.

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Books are so useful, kids. Develop a love of reading as soon as you can. A good story will change your life for years to come.

 

The attachment of the foot board proved to be slightly more complex. I needed to fit it on to each side board at nearly exactly the same time,  At least enough that the footboard didn’t immediately slip off.  It wasn’t exactly on either. It wobbled. The Ikea instruction comics suggested that I use the allen wrench they provided. I did. Allen wrenches are liars.

 

I pushed the bed as close as I can and figured it was good enough. After all, my childhood bed had a loose head board and you shouldn’t go to sleep feeling completely safe. In Cave Man days, people who went to sleep feeling completely safe were eaten by tigers.

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Then I was supposed to attach two long metal pieces to the side boards.Then came four smaller metal pieces which I was meant to attach to those metal pieces in diagonal patterns so I could actually have a mattress on my bed. Such decadence.

 

According to the instruction comics, these were meant to attach with little tiny screws, probably less than half a centimeter. They did not. I spent a good half an hour trying to get them attached. I don’t know what kind of sick came Ikea is playing but it is unamusing. My bed is now held together primarily by gravity and duct tape, If someone writes a modern day version of Sisyphus, they should probably have him try to put together ikea furniture with screws that are too small for anything.

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Once these base pieces were “attached” and I put on the center bar, naught was left but to attach what appeared to be two very small rope ladders to hold my mattress. It took three tries to make them all stay on at once. These did not even have the appearance of being able to attach. They just were.

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Now the moment of truth; putting a mattress on my bed. My matress, also from ikea, is a big floppy memory foam thing that I had stored against the wall while I set up my bed. I now maneuvered it through the living room so that it stood parallel to the footboard. Like Jochebed laying Moses in the bullrushes, I carefully leaned my mattress onto the bed frame.

 

It did not collapse!

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Not collapsing is really all I want out of the bed.

If you like this and want stories of me putting together Ikea furniture, please download a free copy of my story To Move On! The story with the most downloads win! If I win, I’ll buy a couch and pay off half my student loans! So far my friends and followers have moved me from 24th place to 19th place! Thanks so much for your help!

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To Move On

A boy falls and hits his head. He won’t wake up for another ten years.

A boy falls in the pool and wakes up in another world, a world of magic, a world in turmoil.

His mother waits by his hospital bed. His father mourns a son who is not dead.

A boy grows up. He finds love. He fights evil. He makes a new family.

His mother looses herself in grief.

As both worlds shift side by side, an old enemy comes to take the boy’s happiness while his mother clings to hope that he will return.

***

This is a story I have been working on for the better part of two years, though I came up with the original concept many years before that. It’s portal fantasy that doesn’t forget about the world left behind or trauma created when reality shifts. I’ve entered it into the Freeditorial Long Short Story  Contest and I need your help to win! I’m assuming most of you follow this blog because you like my writing. Please, please click the link below and download a free copy of To Move On, the story of a person caught between worlds. The person with the most downloads stands a better chance to win. While the prize money would be amazingly helpful for paying of my student loans and quitting the job I hate, I really would like this confirmation that I haven’t been wasting my time with this whole writer thing.

Here’s the link again.

I’ll be plugging myself a lot on here, ’cause it’s my blog, but that’s actually a good thing! I’ll be adding new content on a DAILY basis now, so that I can keep telling you download To Move Onhopefully without annoying you. Get ready for a lot of weird stories and opinions that I’ve been saving up for just such an occasion!

And, if you like To Move On, please share it on Facebook or Twitter or Tumblr or where ever! The more people who know about it and download the better!

Thanks so much, everyone!

(here’s that link again)

Categories: Literature, philosophy, shameless self promotion, Story of The Week, Work, Writing | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Mr. Nimoy and Mr. Spock

Leonard Nimoy died today, at the age of 83,  of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. He’s best known as Mr. Spock from the original Star Trek TV series. Other people, his family, friends and co-workers, will doubtless write more important obituaries than I, but I will try to do him justice. Star Trek is one of my primary influences Leonard Nimoy is in large responsible for that amazing body of work that affected so many people.

Now, Leonard Nimoy is not defined by Spock. Before and after Star Trek, he was a writer, an actor, a photographer, a musician, a spiritual man active in the Jewish community, a friend, a husband and a father.  He’s so much more than one role. Yet Spock has influenced nearly every part of his story, to the point where he wrote two autobiographies surrounding his feelings on the character and how he affected Nimoy’s life. Spock is how I know Nimoy. When I see Nimoy making a cameo in other tv shows or movies, or recognize his voice in animated features, I think “That’s Spock! That’s Leonard Nimoy!”. Sometimes its reversed.

So, in thinking about Leonard Nimoy and his death, I can’t help but think of Spock and his death. In Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, Spock sacrifices himself to save the Enterprise by exposing himself to fatal levels of radiation to repair a damaged warp drive. After a space, viking funeral, where Spock’s body is launched into space, and a touching eulogy, Dr. McCoy comforts Kirk at the loss of their dearest friend saying; “He’s not really dead. As long as we remember him”.

I love that line, especially related to Mr. Spock. Because I am a nerd, and because this post was inspired by a paragon of american nerd culture, I’ll tell you why as I push up my glasses. First of all, the foreshadowing here is amazing. McCoy actually tried to to Spock from sacrificing himself in the radiation so Spock had incapacitated him with the vulcan nerve pinch. He performs and mind meld on McCoy, telling him to “Remember”. The mind meld transfers Spock “Katra”; the living spirit or essence of the Vulcan mind, into McCoy and is then transferred back to Spock’s body in Star Trek III: The Search For Spock, effectively resurrecting the vulcan. So, by remembering Spock, McCoy was literally able to bring him back to life! This, children, is how you pull off a resurrection story line. Foreshadowing!

Beyond my personal obsession with literary devices, the line is comforting in its own right. Leonard Nimoy is probably not coming back in a sequel but he will live on in our memory. He has left his Katra in our collective hearts and on our culture. He’ll be remembered, honored across the country, in screen and print. He lived a long and prosperous life, working up until the very last. I have no doubt that those who knew him personally and those of us who loved his work will remember him fondly. Leonard Nimoy’s legacy will outlive all of us. He will never be truly gone.

Categories: philosophy, serious | Tags: , , , | 2 Comments

For Valentine’s Day

A Valentine’s Day Romance

by Kate R Canter

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February 14th, 2015:

A Los Angeles debutant hears a knock on the door.

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“My god! It’s you!”

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“That’s right, Kate! I’m here because I love you!”

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“But Jack, you CAN’T be here! Not when I’m betrothed-”

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“to the Doctor!”

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“Damn the Doctor! Damn his beautiful eyes! I’m the one who loves you!”

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*kissing noises*

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“I say! What the devil is going on here!?”

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“Doctor!”

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“So! Making untoward advances to my fiance, eh, Daniels? You cad!”

“She doesn’t live you, Pepper! She never loved you!”

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“No, Jack, that’s isn’t true!”

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“What?!”

“I love you both, can’t you see!?!”

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“Then perhaps…”

“We can learn…”

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“To love”

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“Each other!”

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*Kissing Noises*

The End!

Categories: funny, Writing | Tags: , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Do What You Hate

Holy craping hell, my stomach hurts. My thighs hurt. My ankles hurt for some reason. My soul hurts.

 

I started weight training. For those who don’t know me, to fully understand the gravity of the situation, I have not willingly exercised since 2012. I took three weeks of a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu course and stopped because it made my feet hurt. I have stated on numerous occasions, often without prompting, that I do not run unless something is chasing me or there is a pie waiting. Or if I have to pee real bad. When I played soccer, as is required of all american children, I played goalie because it involved less running.

 

Now, with no one making me do it at all, I have started exercising at the age of twenty four. I’m doing  it for two reasons. First, when I hit someone, I want it to hurt. I don’t have a lot of occasion to hit people but when I do, I feel like it should have some more impact than a pool noodle. Maybe I think I’m going to be a superhero… the kind that hates leaving her apartment. Agoraphobia Girl.

 

Second, I have to embrace change. I am not an active person. My body is perfect, aside from the fact that everything hurts and I can’t do a pushup, but can it stay that way forever?

 

I’m pretty good at lying to myself so, yes, yes, it can.

 

But human beings aren’t meant to stay the same forever. We can only grow through change and change can only come if we choose to do the things that makes us uncomfortable. Do you think Michael Angelo was comfortable when he painted the Sistine Chapel? No, he spent three years painting naked people with his arms over his head while the Pope yelled at him. He didn’t even like painting but he did it and it was awesome. We too must choose to suffer if we wish be awesome.

 

Could I be happy, sitting in bed all day, inventing names for alcoholic beverages and eating my roommate’s nutella straight from the jar? Yes, but then I would be complacent and complacency is the enemy of growth, destroyer of new ideas. I need to grow, so I can infect more spaces with my magnificence! Because all of my ideas are good, I need to have as many as possible?

 

And so I need to do weight training. I need to move to weird cities and take jobs from weird people. I need to be uncomfortable so that I can be awesome.


And so I can punch people effectively.

Categories: bodily functions, funny | Tags: , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Do What You Love

 

Do what you love and the money will follow.

 

I’m not certain where I first heard that (there is a distinct possibility it was an episode of American Dad) but it seems to be a popular, false piece of advice for people my age and younger. As children, we were encouraged to follow our dreams with the belief that it would make us successful and that success would make us happy. When I was seven, I decided that what I loved was telling stories and that what would make me happy was being a published author.

 

Roughly seventeen years later, I started keeping track of the words I wrote starting on January First 2015. I don’t really have a goal, beyond a very vague wish to get 50,000 per month for as many months as I can. Why 50,000? Because that’s the goal you’re supposed to have for NaNoWriMo in November. I’m talked a fair about of smack about NaNoWriMo and how writers ought to be putting that much effort into production every month but I haven’t really done the math necessary to put my money where my mouth it. All six thousand of it.

 

As of today I’ve written 60,206 of words on my own projects and got paid for exactly none of them.

 

Since January First, I have earned over $700, mostly writing words for other people. Notes, research, essays, tutorials… all words that have some sort of intrinsic value over the x words I’ve written for myself this year. They weren’t any better than my 60,206 words, most were worse, but they fulfilled a need for my boss and so that translated into rent money, food money and everything else I need to survive in this capitalist economy…money.

 

The nature of my current job means that I can go days without working and then knock out an entire month’s paycheck over three days. On those days, it’s harder to get my own words in. I keep track of my word count on a Google Spreadsheet that goes from February fifth to February eighth because I didn’t have time for my own projects between working on my boss’s.

 

This is the inherent struggle of adulthood. Balancing the work that pays with the work that’s important to you. It’s not limited to creative people. Parents must choose between the work of raising their children and the work that allows them to feed their children. The money can’t always win but as every rap artist will tell you, work don’t mean shit unless you’re gettin’ paid.

 

The logic that has sustained me, since seven year old me decided she wanted to a writer to make bank in her pajamas, is that by writing, practicing and honing my craft, I will eventually be good enough to make money. My goals have been revised since 1997. I originally wanted to be richer than JK Rowling. Then I just wanted to avoid college loans. Now, I will be happy if I can afford to pay all my bills on time and maybe afford a cat.

 

Making a living, making any money, on what you love to do is a tall order. Work is hard, whether you love it or you don’t Most people are lucky to love what they do. There is a difference between loving what you do and doing what you love. Loving what you do is finding joy in your job, even if it’s working retail, food service or scrubbing toilets. I’ve worked two of those jobs and anyone doing menial labor has earned my instant respect. I respect anyone who works hard, who makes the money that they need to survive via any means necessary. Doing what you love is more than survival though, it’s self actualization. Doing what you love is making a living off of the stuff you would do if money were no object.


Money is the object though. Until I win the lottery I don’t play, or a long lost relative goes out of the woodwork just in time to die and leave me their vast fortune, I will never write just for the love of creating. Joy can be found. love and wisdom but LA isn’t cheap and neither are my goals. So i continue to write the things that other people value, however I might feel about them. The goal is, one day, the words I value and the words others value will line up someday.

Categories: serious, Work, Writing | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

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