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Brett Kelly
Writer, Programmer, Evernoter, Buffoon
Writer, Programmer, Evernoter, Buffoon


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No. Brainer.
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39 poems. 2 forewords (+Brian Clark  and +Loren Feldman). No charge. Get it ...
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I bought an iPad mini awhile back and returned. A couple days ago, I bought another one. Some folks asked for an explanation, so here goes.
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Here's my not-so-secret sauce for quickly creating (and appending to) Evernote notes from within Drafts for iOS (aka, one of the greatest apps ever). 
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I wrote this post for the Evernote tech blog. It details how I used some scripty business to migrate a bunch of stuff between +GitHub accounts. It was fun to write (both the code and the post). Anyway, yay programming.
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Tomorrow's in-flight reading as recommended by my pal +Robert Bruce. Also, this book is expensive.
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Just read this.
Originally shared by ****

The Ex-Writer

Depending on how the previous night had gone, he'd write between five hundred and five thousand words a day. Every day.

It was something he'd done since he was a kid.

It wasn't discipline, as much as a kind of joyful sickness. He loved how the words looked on the page and on the screen. He played with them, tossed them around like toys, and they just kept coming. It was pure, neat pleasure. 

The phone rang from somewhere in his studio apartment. He pushed aside stacks of books, and magazines, and papers, and clothes to get at it.

"Hey, come on out man, we're heading down to the Gaslight, and it's gonna be packed," his friend said.

"Uh, no thanks, I've got a lot to do, and I just need to stay in tonight."

"Whatever dude. Later," his friend hung up.

His friends and family had been complaining for several years about his "withdrawal from life". There had a been a few confrontations, a few angry words, and finally, more and more silence in recent months. Many had given up.

He had work to do, and nobody seemed to understand.

David moved back to the computer and his fingers started up again. This one was about a young pitching prodigy from Kansas that got his arm caught in the rollers at the newspaper plant one winter. Instead of starting for the Dodgers, he took up a seat at the local bar and drank himself to death in five years. A lost hero America would never cheer on the mound.

He'd write seven or eight stories a week and post them on his website. The last six months had seen an exponential rise in traffic to the site, things were happening.

With the traffic came attention, and he enjoyed it. Some nights he'd spend several hours responding to emails, but it didn't bother him. He was grateful anybody was reading his stuff.

David started doing video and email interviews for various websites. He'd talk about his work, where you could buy it online, what he liked to eat.

"How does your childhood affect your literary choices now Mr. Auteur?"

"My childhood has no effect on my writing, I just ... write," he said.

He didn't particularly enjoy doing these. It took a little time away from the keyboard, but it seemed to get the word out.

David was now writing two or three stories every week.

Then he discovered the social networking sites. He started posting little updates and replying to others that wrote in to him. The more he shook hands on Twitter and Facebook, the more traffic he'd see coming back to his own place. It was a miracle.

The comments on his stories were soaring. David felt that he'd finally figured it all out. He even started going out again, drinking with his buddies and living it up.

He only wrote one story every week now, but he was having such a great time, it didn't bother him at all. He told himself that he'd get back to it, eventually.

There was so much a modern, independent writer needed to do, after all.

Then the publishers started calling. An editor had found him through one of the interviews he'd done, and word had gotten out in New York about this genius online writer living in a hovel in Astoria, Oregon.

The bidding war was brutal. For the publishers.

David sat back with a six-pack and watched the carnage. He tweeted endlessly to his fans...

"You guys, it's up to $750,000."

"Nope, sorry, just broke a million."

"All thanks to you!"

David Auteur was a multi-millionaire fiction writer at twenty-nine years old. He spent six days writing thank you emails to various people that had helped him along the way.

He was packing up his earthly possessions on a Wednesday afternoon when Betty called. It wasn't one of her producers, it was the legendary television magnate herself. She wanted David on the show in Cleveland the following week.

He killed it.

He looked out into millions of living rooms from that famous Betty! set, and the nation devoured the unlikely story of a lowly internet writer who had conquered the literary world.

He talked about his childhood, his new mansion in Beverly Hills, the Hollywood star he was dating. He even cried, and his audience cried with him.

"Well, tell us what you're working on now," Betty asked, wrapping up the interview, "Everyone's dying to know, and I need a book for the club selection next month."

The audience belly-laughed. David turned in his seat, he couldn't get comfortable.

"Oh, uh... yeah. I, I'm working on that," he said.

"How much are you writing these days David?" she asked.

"Well uh, it's been a little crazy the past six months or so, and with the move to Beverly Hills, and this new relationship... you know, uh, not much," he said.

He was sweating now.

"Not much," Betty said, turning to her audience, "Well that doesn't sound encouraging."

"Yeah, yeah, I just need to even things out and uh," David was paralyzed. He reached for the glass of water on the table, but it was empty.

"Well David Auteur, I'm so glad you came by today, and we can't wait to see what you do next."

He sat in his dark hotel room that night, pale and sick. He opened the laptop - the same one that had gotten him all this way - and stared into the light.

Three thousand, three hundred and thirty-seven unanswered emails.

Five hundred and eighty-four friend requests.

Twelve complementary bottles of pinot on the bureau.

Fourteen voicemails from his publisher.

He went to his website and stared at the last story he'd published there.

David Auteur, world-famous multi-millionaire writer, hadn't written a single word in thirteen months.

His new agent texted him. He'd found David a small role in a new romantic comedy film about wealthy chimpanzees living in the suburbs. It would put half a million in his bank.

He stared at the text for moment, then back at his website on the screen.

David dialed his agent's number.
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You don't use Markdown? Well, you're in luck because you can learn it before dinner.
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So proud of my pal +Myke Hurley:
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Making a "Start Here" page for my site and totally cribbing off of +Chris Brogan.
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