Newsletter Subject

Smile, you're on camera.

From

honeycopy.com

Email Address

cole@honeycopy.com

Sent On

Fri, Jun 25, 2021 04:52 PM

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I don't know what it's like to be violated by a paparazzi but I imagine it feels something like this

I don't know what it's like to be violated by a paparazzi but I imagine it feels something like this... Cheese, mother fucker. I don't have the slightest fucking clue of what it's like to be violated by a paparazzi. But, if you walked into Kettner –– the coffee shop where I'm writing this piece here in Nashville –– and you jammed a 9 MM in my mouth and told me to write my best guess, it would go something like this... You step out of a black car at a hotel. Your girl is with you. Or, rather, you're with your girl. You're dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and cheetah print shorts because you just got off a plane and you like to be comfortable in the air and because you don't think you're going to be photographed. On the sidewalk outside of the hotel, you move your backpack from your left shoulder to your right shoulder so you can throw your arm around her and squeeze her because she's so very squeezable and at this moment, as your arms are an awkward spread eagle, a short, pot-bellied, gnome-ish-looking man scuttles in front of you like a startled crab and fires three shots in your face, their flashes leave lightning bugs swimming in your corneas. She's unfazed because unlike you, she's used to getting her photograph taken. But, you feel yourself go into fight or flight. There is a part of you that wants to get the fuck out of New York and there is another part of you that wants to shove the barrel of the camera down this mother fucker's throat. Instead, you walk inside the hotel. You check-in. You climb into the elevator. You go up to your room. She lays your head on her chest and you breathe. Eventually, the two of you leave because you're hungry and because sushi sounds as appetizing as a nose full of cocaine and, to your surprise, the madness continues. You walk outside the hotel, laughing and smiling and nuzzling, lost in conversation and then, suddenly, you spy several heads arise from behind bushes and tables and parked cars. The paparazzi are malevolent meerkats. The paparazzi are modern-day Vietcong running an urban operation, waging war on the unsuspecting with Sonys and Cannons and Nikons. Their guerilla attack begins. They bob and they weave, over and under one another, jockeying for position to get the perfect shot. They light the two of you up at a pace that would make a semi-automatic machine gun seem to drum at the frequency of a slingshot. You try to ignore them. You can't. Bang. Bang. Bang. They keep clipping you. The moment you walk past them, they break out in a dead sprint, a spectacle, considering most of these TMZ heroes are middle-aged men sporting skin-tight khaki shorts, who loathe their body hair, who sweat profusely, who tuck their shirts in despite their engorged stomachs, who run off energy drinks, cigarettes and fast food. Despite these qualities, they're surprisingly quick. They can sprint 100-feet faster than most middle-schoolers, where at the end of their sprint they'll get down on one knee and fumble through their camera bag, trading out their lens for something that will make their prey look even less flattering. They'll start gunning again. In the rare circumstance where they predict the wrong direction you're heading, they will jump into a black sedan that functions as a sort of humvee, where it will skirt around the block, rifle through traffic and flank you somewhere on the other side. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. You won't get used to it. Not once the entire weekend. You won't be scarred. But, as a writer who has created a life for yourself where your work is recognized by a few devoted readers around the world while your mug remains entirely unnoticed, you'll have some figuring out to do. On the last night of your trip, the two of you will be sharing an intimate evening at an oyster bar, where the host will conveniently (and suspiciously) seat you next to an open window. You won't be able to keep your eyes and your lips off of her and somewhere outside that window will be a money-hungry paparazzi capturing it all as he rubs a few out in a handkerchief. Your falling for this woman will be captured by him and he will share these moments of intimacy with the world so he can get paid. What a fickle game, huh? That your falling now becomes his paycheck; a paycheck he will surely use to buy more camera gear. But, it's worth it because she's worth it. She's so very worth it. And, not to mention, it's all your fault... you didn't have to lock eyes with this green-eyed Texan angel and you didn't have to keep gazing at her after this locking of eyes and you didn't have to make a move and you didn't have to ask her out to drinks and you didn't... I'm fucked. By [Cole Schafer](. [Read After Her. Or, don't.]( Put the money in the bag and the bag on the table. There is no such thing as a free lunch, which means there is not such thing as a free newsletter. Yes. It's free for you. But, someone is taking on those costs. And, I can promise you it's not some magical spirit in the sky. It's moiii. While this newsletter will forever remain free, it costs me a small fortune in time and money. So, if you ever read something that changes your life, do me a favor and share it or give me your money in exchange for one of the following... [Snow Cones]( my copywriting guide. [$100k]( my freelance guide. [One Minute, Please?]( my first book of poetry and prose. [Quarantine Dreams]( my second book of poetry and prose. [After Her]( my third and latest book of poetry and prose. [Chasing Hemingway]( my uber-bad-ass paid newsletter. [Moscow Mule]( (this is literally you buying me a drink). [YUM!]( Writer's write. I was born and raised in Southern Indiana, which means I was born and raised on basketball. For a better part of a decade, my existence was spent bounding up and down the maple hardwood floors of the state’s gyms –– gyms as diverse and as abundant as churches. Some of these gyms were stadiums-in-miniature, like the New Castle Fieldhouse where the legendary Indiana University Phenom, Steve Alford, played in front of 7,829 basketball fanatics. Others were much smaller, seating as little as 100 or so spectators. But, regardless of the terrain, the game was always the same: score more points than the other team. Because of this, players who had a real knack for putting the orange ball through the hoop always had a place on the court –– especially those that could do so from a distance and behind the arch where points were rewarded in 3’s versus 2’s. These players were what we called “shooters” and some of them were so deadly that your team winning (or losing) the game could come down to whether or not they were hitting or missing. Being that shooting a basketball is just as much a mental feat as it is a physical one, it’s easy for shooters to get [on tilt]( (or in their head) when they start missing. They miss once and then twice and then thrice and, all of a sudden, they’re so out of sorts that they couldn’t hit water if they fell out of a boat. There is a line that coaches often shout from the sidelines to “shooters” when they sense a waning in confidence. “Shooters shoot!” “Shooters shoot!” “Shooters shoot!” The idea is that if you’re a shooter, you keep shooting, regardless of whether or not you’re making your shots. Shooters get out of a “shooting slump” the only way they know how… by shooting their way out of it. In my life as a writer, I try and apply the same metaphor when I find myself in a writing slump. I don’t question it. I don’t hang my head. I don’t set down the pen. I write. [I write because writers write.]( If you wouldn't say it out loud, don't write it. We all have that one friend who suffers from the despicable habit of reaching for grandiose words in conversation (like despicable and grandiose) in order to signal to those listening just how intelligent and well-read he is. This occurrence has the same effect on a room as a pungent fart –– not a damn person can focus on what is being said because they’re too busy trying to decipher the awful stinking word the hipster Einstein in the beanie just uttered. In Stephen King’s book, On Writing, he gives the following advice on the topic of language (that friends like the one I mentioned at the beginning of this piece need to read)… “Make yourself a solemn promise right now that you’ll never use “emolument when you mean “tip” and you’ll never say John stopped long enough to perform an act of excretion when you mean John stopped long enough to take a shit.” To get tactical, something I try and practice when I find myself knee-deep in my smarty-pants, thumbing around in my pockets for a particularly fancy word is… Say it out loud. “Arduous” sounds ridiculous out loud. (So do “irregardless” and “aggrandize” and “commensurate” and “diaphanous”.) In fact, they sound so ridiculous that if I were to say them out loud at a dinner party –– not that I attend many dinner parties –– I would immediately run to the restroom in a hot awful sweat in search of soap to punish and cleanse my arrogant tongue. If you would feel silly saying the word “arduous” in an in-person conversation, why are you writing it? Because you’re an asshat. [That’s why.]( Did you hear about Honey Copy's Brand-Spanking-New Job Board..? My brother, [Conner Schafer]( helped me build out [a job board for Honey Copy]( to help connect talented creatives with brands doing cool shit. You can peruse the jobs at the button down below. If you're interested in posting a job, just respond to this newsletter! ["I want money. That's what I want."]( P.S. If this newsletter made you weak in the knees, you can share it with the world by selecting one of the four icons down below... [Send it.]( [Send it.]( [Tweet it.]( [Tweet it.]( [Share it.]( [Share it.]( [Post it.]( [Post it.]( Copyright © 2021 Honey Copy, All rights reserved. A while back you opted into a weekly email called "Sticky Notes". Remember? If not, you can always unsubscribe below... and risk breaking this writer's heart. Our mailing address is: Honey Copy 3116 N. Central Park Unit #1Chicago, IL 60618 [Add us to your address book]( Want to change how you receive these emails? You can [update your preferences]( or [unsubscribe from this list](.

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