Hope you’re grinning to yourself as you open this up.
My giggles are gone—it’s late in the afternoon, and I haven’t had time to truly sit down and write for myself just yet—but the amusement behind this idea is not. So, it stays, and thankfully, so are you.
It’s 3:30 PM and I’m itching for my second coffee of the day, about a half an hour before a call I’m very much looking forward to. Maybe someday I’ll talk about this call and the aftermath, if all goes well…
Anyway.
This idea came to me in the shower, and so you have to suffer with me.
Or, laugh. Which is preferable.
The original concept behind this was to write a literal, bland as hell 20-step “guide” to show you how to be as boring as possible, packed with all the “advice” you see posted on every social media wall, on every LinkedIn article, and on every entrepreneurship-buzzing X feed. People like to fight me on what they consider actual useless advice, but if this helps clear any confusion, I consider any and all trends to be absolutely pointless.
I liked the idea, sure, but as soon as I opened up my laptop and finished writing the headline, something struck me.
Struck me not in the, say, lighting in a bottle sense, but more like a delicate little spark. A nip on the heel courtesy of a sentient cotton ball pretending to be a poodle. A perturbed sliver under the skin that you can’t quite pluck.
I stopped myself from pursuing the admittedly superficial and many-times-done idea, because I realized I was almost entering a pattern I have consciously tried to peel off my brain ever since I pivoted this newsletter for the thousandth time.
(If rebranding were a sport, I’d be a fucking Olympian).
And that pattern was accidentally falling into the exact habits I’m trying to break. By creating something silly and parodying, in a way, the marketing and sales storytelling behind masterclasses, and courses, and other pieces of purchasable things thrown at you on a daily basis, I was contributing an equal amount of shallowness.
I don’t even believe that these things I just listed off are inherently distasteful. Quite the contrary; I’ve invested many times into books, mentorships, and courses that have significantly changed my life, career, and self-awareness as a creative human—including Ogilvy on Advertising, which, to this day, serves as one of my personal bibles.
Now, why does this matter? In some ways, it doesn’t. I could’ve still gone through with what I was thinking about doing. It probably would’ve gotten at least a curious response. Maybe a few chuckles. Maybe a few swipes and disinterested shrugs. Maybe. But instead, what I would like to do is walk you through why this is important on a grander scale, because most people who are so quick to jump on trends and abandon their identity could use a solid, bare-bones kick in the teeth.
Writing daily personal essays is a commitment.
It’s a commitment that forces me to think about my ideas without falling into the temptation of going with what’s easiest, and what’s fastest. Especially right now, as I face an interesting career transition, living in a new apartment with my life partner, embarking on side quests that light the fire in my blood and a delicious current of lightning in my brain. Especially during this awkward time where I’m unleashing everything that comes to this dome, and practicing curation in terms of the Soul, and not of the usual parameters I would use to guard, systemize and deploy my taste.
I don’t think I’m a boring person.
SIDE NOTE. It’s 9:38 PM now. Been a few hours since I started this article. Been a few hours since I thought about the beginning of this. My eyes are glazing over, dry and tired and bloodshot. I think my thoughts have been stirring with the might of a whirlpool Odysseus would give the wide berth, because I’d completely forgotten I was writing this. It’s interesting to skim over this—because I’ve made a pact with myself to not cut anything glaring or sequential to these articles, as this is part of the entire point of writing CUT YOUR TEETH this way, as crippling, uncomfortable honesty is one of the most important ingredients to this messy, beautiful place. Now, as I’ve read, I’m leading myself to places I didn’t really think about before. This is the magic of writing that can’t really happen without the working of the brain in the background as you leave and commit yourself to other projects. Even when you’re not sure what to write about, let the ideas unfold as you go. Feel them flow from fingers to keyboard. Or pen and paper. If you have those, you’re a better person than me. I get carpal tunnel when I try to write with just pen and paper, sadly. I’m almost jealous.
But, I almost gave into a trope, rather than a proper idea.
A trope that would automatically chain me to the Kingdom of Bore—might write that down; there could be a short story idea lingering in-between those syllables—and I would have no one but myself to blame.
You might think this is silly.
Who cares? Who gives a shit, Taylor? Why would anyone give a flying fuck about whatever you’re trying out? Why does it matter if you post something thoughtless and silly and contrived? The rest of us do it. Why should we even pay attention to the flywheel you’re throwing at me right now? Goddamn.
Those are all potential, validated questions that could pop up as a response. I unconsciously anticipate them even when I don’t want to. I simply write, and think as I write, and publish. For this newsletter, I no longer put myself through the painstaking editing process, only because this is a test of the Self to push through the boundaries of limitations and see what’s possible when I allow the mind to unbind itself from the
I almost gave into the temptation of going with the funny joke of an idea that didn’t really align with who I am as a person, instead of writing out the answer to the question that was sitting in the back of my mind: “Why am I even considering the easy way out? I have so much I would rather say.”
I’m never going to discover my true, Undiscovered Strengths as a writer—and neither will you, by the way—if I (or you, once again—heh, aren’t I cool and meta) allow my distractions to guide me from dopamine-induced excitement to the addictive, syrupy-sweet promises teased to me through these half-baked, unexciting, shallow ideas?
So instead of giving you the parody of a 20-step guide, or course, or whatever—and honestly, if I’m chronically allergic to anything in the digital universe, it would be the abhorrent how-to guides that most freelance writers were stuck learning how to dish out for tech companies in 2018 to pay their bills—I think it’s more appropriate to give you the honest advice 99.9% of these gurus wish they knew how to give you in a fraction of their snake oil time projections. For free.
How to be so boring no one could possibly give a fuck about you even if you gave them all the sex, drugs, and money in the world.
The secret isn’t really a secret.
It’s simple, and it’s a trap even the most intelligent people fall for.
The “secret” is to constantly show up as someone else, and never as yourself. It’s to train your mind, soul, and heart to be that of a Consumer, and never the Creator. It’s to be so wrapped up in the opinions, stories, and time-limited narratives of others that you forget what it feels like to hear your own thoughts. It’s to be so paralyzed by the idea of unpopularity that you don’t even dare take the chance to fall flat on your face, even if that one mistake could lead to a life-changing win. It’s to be a person who steals, cuts, trims, screenshots, and copies, but never takes their scrambled vision to the canvas. It’s to be so embroiled in what’s happening now that you completely lose sight of history’s greatest stories that transcended tragedy, beauty, and curvatures of humanity. It’s to be the person that’s never curious, and never comfortable with their own thoughts, and never interested in creating anything of value for themselves.
To be boring is to sacrifice everything you are for everyone else.
And, yes, this is what most people are telling you to do.
Yes, you could go viral. You could make money. You could get attention.
That’s great, in its own way. I applaud earned success.
But then what? What will you have to show for it once the vibes end, you shed your old skin, and what you became known for doesn’t reflect you at the place you are right now? What will you do when everything you ignored makes sense, and nothing you actually did makes sense any longer? What will you do when the templates become obsolete, your writing folds within itself because you have’t shared an original thought in years, and everyone else has moved onto something sparklier, shinier, and prettier? What will you do when you dissolve into ashes? When you become insignificant?
Not sure how you’re feeling, but I’m not grinning anymore.
Goodnight, good morning, and good luck.
— Taylor Barnes.