An unintended consequence of writing everyday is reuniting with long-lost friends and their being entirely unimpressed to see you.
Them: You over that cold?
Them: Yeah, you know, and how was spending Valentine’s Day alone in your underpants?
Me: I haven’t seen you since 2005.
And so on.
My favorite, though, is when someone came up to me at the 5 Spot in Nashville recently, looked me squarely and unflinchingly in the eyes, and said “your name is Trevor Larkin, and you low-key hate yourself.”
When I start doing a thing, that people might actually follow along never really occurs to me. Yes, I’ve enjoyed some hard-earned lucky breaks, but mostly my career’s been defined by working to the brink of a nervous breakdown, with the resulting art being resoundingly ignored.
Which I’m ok with, by the way. This is a tough business, and I like that it weeds out the faint of heart. And I have, to be fair, been responsible for some wholly unremarkable art.
So it brings me great joy that people subscribe to a thing I started on a whim, with zero ambitions beyond it being fun.
I’ve written it many times, and will continue writing it until my fingers resemble the tree from Sleepy Hollow: