(I wrote this while freaking out the week of my wedding. I’d say this was a healthier choice than most options.)

Every time I read Robert Bruce’s post that includes how many steps he walks to his post office, I laugh at what a retard that guy must be.

“What a doofus,” I say to myself, every time I read it. While I have no explanation why I’ve read the post more than once, I have. I read it regularly. Not sure if it’s in my Google Reader favorites or Instapaper or Delicious or whatever, but I see it a lot.

Routine scares me. As does rules, most laws that aren’t toward the safety of other people, and frameworks. I don’t like being told what I can’t do, and instinctively rebel against it. As most creatives know, this is pretty stupid. Limits help creativity — by showing us what we can’t do and in a way supporting us, they give us the ability to concentrate on what IS there as opposed to what isn’t.

But for the past two-ish months, I’ve been experimenting with routines to see if my fear was misplaced. I wake every morning around 6:30am, head to the bathroom, then read my overnight emails and blog posts.

Most days, I’ll head to play tennis with Matthew or to the Tumbleweed Gym with Katie at 7am. I’m back by 8am. The coffee is then started.

Breakfast consists of me frying one pinch of hash browns in a sauce pan, covered just with non-stick spray. I turn the heat on 5, spray the spray in the pan, add the hash browns, and let it sit for six minutes, which I set on the microwave timer. Then I walk back to my office and continue reading posts or searching Twitter. The timer goes off, I flip the browns. Then I take the green cutting board out of the dishwasher and wash it in the sink. I take the biggest knife from the rack.

Six more minutes go by as I complete the turkey ham and spinach prep.

Turkey ham sounds like an abomination. An affront against nature. Smashing together dead muscle parts from two different animals? Sick. But it tastes good and is fairly low in things bad for me, so I chop up two slices. Next is turkey pastrami, but only one slice here. It’s often too salty, so adding only two ounces helps reduce it. The range is now on 3, but I often adjust it to make sure it’s still working.

The turkey ham is cooked for as long as I feel like it, then I add spinach and walk away.

I’m careful to spend 2-3 minutes away, as I want the spinach to wilt or cook or whatever, but not burn. Once the spinach starts to curl up, I stir it until everything looks wet, after which I take the hash browns that have been sitting on a plate in the microwave and add them back to the plan. I pour egg whites from a carton in next, adding just enough to cover it all.

After two minutes, I check it again. It’s never ready after two minutes, but I always check it anyway. Another minute passes, so I head back to the stuff and start to break up the cooked mixture on the bottom. The scramble, with faded pink, green and off-white flecks of color, is stirred and chunked and cut up with the end of my spatula and turned over and cooked and finally done.

I add the scramble to a plate I had earlier put the hash browns on to keep warm in the microwave, and I add a few spoonfuls of low-fat cottage cheese (not the Walmart crap, it’s terrible). My cup of coffee, always prepped in a tall glass because I like my coffee not to burn my face, is brought with me back to my desk.

I can’t tell if this routine works, but I know that it doesn’t NOT work. But just last week, the turkey ham didn’t taste salty, the eggs weren’t fluffy. Time to change things up.

Maybe a little chorizo.

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

I’m writing this from Gangplank while watching rehearsals for Extreme Pitch and listening to the steady tray shuffling of the copier. It’s Friday night at 8:07pm.

I’m married — my wife runs this place tonight and most days — and I’m nearly 33 years old.

The current presenter is telling us about a new graphic novel based on stories from The Bible, which I’m trying to sit through without rolling my eyes (blame that on religion).

I’ve given feedback twice, but I’m mostly here to give Katie someone to smile at while she guides the group through their practice.

My cynical nature is on overdrive, as it’s taking everything I have to not make fun of some of these ideas, some of the presentation styles and some of the software — one guy is using a RealPlayer converter!

But this is fun for me. Hell, this may be what Katie and I do for the rest of our lives. We could be seeing a movie, watching a movie at home or sitting in separate rooms while I watch baseball and she watches an old movie. But this is more fun.

Extreme Pitch, from what I understand, is a quarterly event where startups practice pitches in front of a panel of professionals and a live audience. There’s no money involved, but a good presentation at an event like this could open doors for the founders via the relationships they make with the panelists or even the audience.

Whoa, the presenter is doing great. His project, Book Of Kings, has spurred a room-wide discussion about cool stories from the Bible, and he revealed that Greek myths can be traced back to a Bible story, too (I’m not going to confirm that, but if that’s true, cool).

And just now an Extreme Pitch presenter on his way out the door asked me about a new project that Hamid Shojaee is heading up because his son just signed an internship with Axosoft.

Oh, and he asked about hiring me to write a sales letter.

I love this shit.

How do you spend your Friday nights?

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

Hugh MacLeod of Gaping Void released a book last week. Freedom Is Blogging in Your Underwear is part manifesto, part love letter and part, well, I haven’t figured that out yet.

In my own little corner of the internet, I’m king and servant; royalty and commoner.

The first read disappointed me. While Hugh’s first two books were great, this one was different. It felt like a complementary trinket to his art, rather than the completion of a book trilogy.

That was my fault. Hugh never advertised Freedom Is Blogging in Your Underwear as such. No promises, yet I had expectations.

In my own little corner of the internet, what I say goes. And I say anything goes.

I suppose I was looking for something similar to Jeff Goins’s recent You Are A Writer, a book about how to leap from an amateur to a professional while wasting as little time as possible. Jeff had a call to action, he had steps and he had a plan.

Hugh didn’t seem like he had a plan. He wrote a manifesto. He wrote a love letter. He wrote a thank you note in the only way he could: as a book.

In my own little corner of the internet, you see what I want you to see. Good thing I show a lot.

But since Freedom Is Blogging in Your Underwear arrived on my doorstep, I’ve written more for fun than I have in months. I feel better about my writing. I’m confident that the book I’m about to release has been worth my time.

Maybe that was Hugh’s plan. Maybe he wrote his latest book in hopes of inspiring others. Maybe he wrote it to inspire himself.

In my own little corner of the internet, I can be me.

Hugh thinks blogging is pretty important. But what he doesn’t say is what blogging represents: the freedom to express ourselves to whomever we can. It’s not that we all NEED a blog, but we all NEED a space that acts as a conduit for our ideas.

Digital makes that easy. Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t value my blog or URL more than I would a physical piece of land, a substantial amount of money, lives or relationships that are important to me. It’s just a bunch of ones and zeros.

In my own little corner of the internet, we can be equal or we can be better than the other. One of us will earn it.

And they aren’t even my ones or zeros. And that’s what I took away most from Freedom Is Blogging; it’s not my blog, my own little corner of the internet, that’s important. What’s important is that I have my own place at all.

Freedom is blogging on my own terms.

What’s yours?

(Hugh is hosting a video chat today at 3pm PT. It’s free!)

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

I’ve been a baseball fan all my life. I’ve attended countless Mariners games at the Kingdome, too few at Safeco, five-ish Spring Training games a year for nine years, and 30 or so Diamondbacks games. I’ve sat in the nosebleed seats, on the outfield seating grass, behind home plate and feet from the dugout. I’ve been in press boxes, clubhouses, and locker rooms.

I’ve come to games early (two hours!) and stayed late (19 innings, Seattle vs Boston, 8/1/2000). I brought my mitt to games when I was a kid.

I was a baseball player most of my childhood, and managed the WSU team for a semester.

I’ve seen a lot of baseball, but never, ever have I caught a batting practice, foul or home run ball as a fan. Not once. The closest I came was spring training 2011 when Ichiro fouled a pitch, just left of the home plate screen, that slammed into the wall I had been standing a second earlier. No, I didn’t even get a piece of it.

But on my first trip to Salt River Fields to see the AZ Diamondbacks in March 2012, my fortunes changed. While waiting for the game to start by watching the Rockies take batting practice, I chased down a ball that had rolled across the parking lot.

Yep, my first ball. While I didn’t catch it, it counted. Finally, FINALLY I had a baseball story. Finally, my journey as a fan was complete. Finally I had a memento to take home that didn’t cost me $30 at the team store.

Boy, was I stoked. I didn’t care that I hadn’t actually caught it, nor did I care that the sidewalk and parking lot had scuffed the crap out of it. I had a REAL MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL. My first visit to Salt River Fields had brought me my first baseball and the game hadn’t even started yet.

At 11am, the main gates opened and I walked to right field in hopes of watching the Diamondbacks batting practice. They had a few lefties up, but none of them were pulling the ball much, so I walked to fence hoping to see a player I knew. There, warming up in their right and center field positions, were Justin Upton and Chris Young. I watched Kirk Gibson sidle (how do bow-legged gunslingers walk?) from player to player, mumbling in baseball speak.

“Hey Justin! You know where you’re ranked in fantasy baseball this year?”
“Nope.”
“Top 5 man!”
He smiled, and then turned back to the field.

Then I turned to Chris Young.

“Chris, really love the way you play center.”
“Thank you.”

So yeah, you could say I’m on a first-name basis with professional ballplayers.

And then I saw it. High, arcing and about to come down right next to the outfield usher, a BP ball had made it over the fence. It landed with a thud on the grass and I scampered over to pick it up.

TWO BALLS! TWO BALLS! I HAD TWO BALLS!

32 years of never being close to anything and today I had TWO BALLS. Man, what I would have given to have caught them 25 years ago. My adult self was excited, but me as a kid would have been ecstatic. I imagined my brother, Dad and myself at the Kingdome decades earlier, me with my glove and mesh Mariners hat; my brother with his glove and dorky glasses. Oh man, what we would have done to even have a chance to catch a ball when we were kids. We would have never forgotten it.

But I’m 32. I have no use for two baseballs. The best part of the experience is the story , and I’m sure as hell never going to forget it, so why did I need two baseballs? I didn’t. But you know who did need a baseball? The little kid that arrived just as BP shut down. I saw him come in with his family, dressed in shorts, a DBacks tshirt and hat, with a glove almost as big as the TPS ones my dad told me would help me to catch EVERYTHING (TPS is a softball brand).

The kid, realizing he was too late, didn’t lose excitement. His parents called him back from the fence and I watched him bound up the hill. I was that age once. I had really, really wanted a ball. Hell, at that point I had never touched a REAL MLB baseball and I bet that kid hadn’t either.

I relaxed in the sun until I saw the boy leave with his dad toward the concessions. Although I don’t THINK I look creepy, I was a little hesitant to walk up to a blanket filled with kids and overprotective moms, so I figured waiting until the kid was without his siblings would be best.

I strolled over, tapped him on the shoulder.

“Have you ever caught a ball at a baseball game before?”
“No.”
“Okay, stick out your glove.”

He did, and I took three steps back. The kid, who, um, likely won’t be making a living as a baseball player, held his glove out as far as he could. I underhanded it toward his mitt, he took a step to his left and cradled it. I told him to have fun as he sprinted back to his blanket, smiles everywhere.

That felt good. Real good. Good enough for me to celebrate with Italian Ice and a beer (not a good combination) as I reclined again in the grass. I rubbed the last ball a few times, found a garbage can for the food, and again got up to search for a kid deserving of a ball.

I found one near the Diamondback offices in deep left-center field. They had just finished an autograph session (Brad Ziegler, I think) and a few kids had been turned away. Two of them whined a bit, but the third whirled around and pulled his dad back toward the field. He seemed like a good kid.

I walked toward him—nodding to his dad as I approached—and asked the kid if he’d ever caught a ball. He said no, so I told him to stick his glove out. He did, and I tossed the ball a bit above his head. The kid took a step back and closed his glove. His face lit up, as did mine. I turned to the dad, shook his hand and walked toward the main concourse, feeling great.

So far, I’d been at the stadium for 90 minutes and ‘caught’ my first two balls. I’d had a beer and an Italian Ice. I’d made not one, but TWO little kids’ eyes light up. All I needed now was to find a spot to sit and enjoy the game.

But it was not to be. I made it about a hundred feet and saw a flash of a white and red polo to my right. I turned to see a Diamondbacks employee, the SAME Diamondbacks employee that had booted me out at 10am (after I walked in a propped-open gate) and sent me to the Rockies practice field, catching up to me.

Shit. Twice in one day? What could I have possibly done?

“Did you give that kid your ball?”

Oh god. The kid probably fell on it or broke something with it or threw it at someone and I was in trouble. Crap. Crap. Oh, well, the worst they could do is kick me out, right? It’s not my crime if a kid does something with a ball that I gave him! We’re at a baseball game! Go talk to his dad!

“Yes,” I said, wishing I had sat back down.

The Diamondbacks employee introduced himself as Eric George and thanked me for being nice to the kid. He said that the team likes to reward good deeds like that, and that I should take his business card and let him know if there’s anything I’d like to team to do for me. Maybe some tickets, a hat or signed something. He didn’t promise anything, but made it clear he intended to reward me.

I promised to email him, thinking that all I’d probably get was a drink coupon or $1 off ticket discount. I left the game in the third inning, positive that my day wasn’t going to get any better. And I had work to do.

As soon as I got back to my office, I emailed Eric. I had thought of stuff I’d like the entire way home and had dismissed hats, bats, signed baseballs or coffee with a player. I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask for something big, so I took a shot.

I asked to throw out the first pitch. Yes, I was completely serious. No, I didn’t think he’d be able to make it happen. Yes, I was legitimately worried if I’d be able to throw a baseball without warming up. No, I didn’t think it was too much to ask, but just in case it was, I asked for tickets for a military veteran friend of mine, Debbie Walker. I told him that she was a disabled veteran that liked baseball and would very much like to attend a game that didn’t require tons of walking up stairs. Debbie’s asthma, while not usually life threatening, can certainly be a deterrent in enjoying cool things. I figured this was my chance to do something cool for her. I also asked if Eric had remembered kicking me out that day.

Eric replied the next day. Yes, he remembered booting me; no, he didn’t have the power to let me throw the first pitch; yes, he certainly could accommodate my requests for Debbie. But instead of giving us two tickets for Debbie and a guest, he insisted on me going and awarded us three.

Sweet.

I requested tickets to a day game against the Phillies and Eric responded by getting us seated in the handicap area in Section 115. We’d be close to the game and Debbie wouldn’t have to walk up any stairs, both of which are awesome. Cool story, right? Still not done.

Eric also mentioned us getting in early to watch batting practice. But because the teams don’t take batting practice for a day following a night game, we wouldn’t be able to see the players hit. We could walk on the dirt surrounding the grass and take some pictures in the dugout. I said yes.

We attended the April 25, 2012 game against the Philadelphia Phillies, on Katie’s 29th birthday. Debbie, Katie and I arrived when the gates opened, walked around on the field, took a bunch of pics, sat in the dugout and enjoyed the ease of the handicap section above Section 115. While Katie and I felt a little guilty sitting in the section the usher manning our area said that we weren’t displacing anyone, so the guilt passed quickly.

Not bad for giving a kid a ball.

TL;DR – I gave a kid a ball and the Arizona Diamondbacks gave me tickets and a tour.

Facebook photos from the game.

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

People like Jeff Goins piss me off. They say things* like:

• Choose yourself
• I started over and it was worth it!
• It takes more than talent, it takes hard work!
• I am fabulous and obviously better than you because I did this thing!
• Being helpful is more important than being clever.

It’s enough to make me want to hire a life coach so I can finally write that novel I’ve been planning to (Mostly True Tales, out May 2012). But Goins’s self assuredness mixed with an everyman voice has prevented me from ranting full bore against his typically helpful writings.

As Goins points out early in his new ebook You Are A Writer, I hate him because I’m envious of his success. I’ve been writing a blog for years now, I’ve been published in magazines both online and off and I have plenty to say—yet here I sit with enough time to review other writers’ work instead of producing my own. But I digress.

I wish I had read this book ten years ago. My time in college was wasted NOT writing, and I can’t help but think how much better I’d be had I taken my writing seriously earlier. Not that I regret transferring from journalism school, but I could have kept writing. Another 3-4 years under my belt would have been fantastic.

Sure, the lessons would have been different. The technology would have been relatively primitive. But the core message, that to be a writer you first need to act like one, stays the same. Writers write. They write when it’s hard and they write when they’re not getting paid. Not because they have to or because someone asks them to, but because it’s a part of who they are and who they want to be.

It’s our job to paint a picture without visual tools. Only by showing the world what it looks like though my eyes do I feel useful, and, if I can say this in the most non-self-aware way possible, complete.

Or I can continue fucking around on Twitter, asking questions on Facebook and discussing my workouts on Google+. Choice is up to me.

*I made up most of these. The ones I didn’t were modified.

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

What's next?

“Life is about finding your way home” – Michael Margolis

During last week’s Reinvention Summit 2, I was inundated with good ideas from successful people. The presenters shared the process behind the stories they told, showed us how to do this for ourselves, and inspired great many of the attendees to share their personal tales. I participated, I tweeted, I blogged, I listened, I spoke, I questioned, I emailed, I raised my hand, I shared out loud…and yet today I’m uninspired.

Inspiration is a funny thing. We all know that it’s nearly impossible to find outside ourselves, yet the first place we look for it is anywhere but within. I’ve read plenty of books on this subject, and right now am helping edit Jeff Goins new book “You Are A Writer”. The tools are at my disposable and the research has been done, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing with them.

Years ago when my writing was filled with rage and purpose, I felt righteous. What I wrote affected people. What I wrote affected me. I, writing for an audience of one (me), had managed to stand out from the crowd. For a guy who’s spent a lifetime never winning championships, awards, or even many trophies—the ones for participation don’t count—I finally felt as though what I thought mattered on a grander scale.

Looking back, I can’t say that’s true. There’s little there but frustration laced with a dry wit; an arrogance that never seemed to know how to turn off. (Did I just use that semicolon correctly? If not, screw it. I hate semicolons).

Today that same rage has been channeled into activities like running, weight lifting, and swimming. Any energy left over is clouded by indifference.

But this indifference isn’t because I don’t care, and don’t want to care. It’s that I no longer know what I’m supposed to care about. Perhaps things were simpler just a few short years ago. Perhaps we’ve all changed, mostly for the better.

Or maybe, and I really think this is it, none of that mattered in the first place. Whatever focus I had is gone with it, and now I’m left struggling to see what’s next.

The self aware part of me wants to apologize for this diary entry, the writer side of me doesn’t give a shit if anyone doesn’t like it.

Finding your way home is tough when you aren’t sure where your home is.

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

After attending Wordcamp Phoenix 2011, and hearing from multiple sources it was not only the best WordPress conference but best Phoenix-area conference they’d ever attended, I felt bad.

Not bad in that I didn’t have a good time, because it was great. I gave a short presentation, attended a bunch of sessions, met some cool people and left with a renewed interest in learning how to dive into the WP backend.

I felt bad because I figured no subsequent event would be able to come close to what they pulled off in 2011.

I’m happy to say that Wordcamp Phoenix 2012 didn’t disappoint. Tons of great people, even more relevant sessions and a whole lot of learning in just three days.

While I didn’t present this year, I was asked to moderate a session on how agencies work with WordPress, and I’m proud of how the four panelists did.

Good luck next year!

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

(Disclosure: all links to Reinvention Summit 2 are affiliate links, including that one.)

When my dad was laid off three years ago, I tried my damndest to help him get a better job. I told him to blog, to tweet, to use Facebook, to update his LinkedIn profile and to go to as many networking events as possible. My plan was for him to follow a similar route that I did, albeit with some modifications as he didn’t really want to be ME.

He ignored most of my suggestions. Blogging took too long, there wasn’t enough going on to tweet or Facebook about, his LinkedIn profile was complete and the networking events he attended were more support groups than learning opportunities. But every time I’d call or email him, and every time I asked my mom what it is he did all day, the answer was always the same: he was on a webinar.

Day after day, he was on a webinar. He watched marketing webinars and sales webinars. He watched free webinars and paid webinars. His love of them grew to the point where I bought him a ‘Webinarize Me’ tshirt and he wore it without a second thought.

Try as he might, he could never convince me that webinars were worth my time. I spend enough time at my computer as is, why in the hell would I want to spend more time listening to someone talk to me about stuff that I likely already knew? Because most webinars seem to be directed toward the barely tech literate, I ran away from every invite he or anyone else sent.

Then I saw that Michael Margolis, author of Believe Me, announced plans for conference at the end of April. Margolis, whose manifesto inspired Katie and my Storied Wedding, intrigues me. I’ve long believed in the power of storytelling, and am always eager to find a conference that can improve my skills. Sales, marketing, and networking conferences bore me; Margolis’s Reinvention Summit 2 looked like a great opportunity.

But…it was a webinar. Did I really want to spend 3-4 hours a day, five days in a row, listening to a bunch of people tell me how successful they are (calling me jaded is an understatement)? So I sent an email to Margolis asking exactly that. Seriously, my response to his April 9 email about Reinvention Summit 2 went like this:

“Am I going to like this? Will I learn something, or am I just going to listen to a bunch of people talking about how successful they are?”

I’m not sure what I expected him to say. I suppose I expected Margolis to give me the bios for the speakers, talk about the value of their time, and try to convince me that $297 and 20ish hours was worth it.

His response?

“Tyler, are you seriously asking me this?”

Sold!

Yes, it’s really that easy. If Margolis believes in his product so much that he answered my very direct and nearly insulting question THAT confidently, I needed to see what this Reinvention Summit 2 thing was all about. My cause was also helped by Loop Logic’s offer to pay for two conferences, to be attended over the next six months, that could help do better work for them. So I responded to Margolis:

“Of course! I wanted to see what you’d say. Your answer was perfect.”

And with that I clicked on the registration link and started the sign-up process.

My first webinar! And I’m paying for it! Go me!

Then I checked my email again. Margolis, who I almost signed on to work with (volunteer) a few months ago, offered me a comp pass in exchange for a bunch of live tweeting and blog recaps of some of the sessions. My response wasn’t something anyone with business smarts would say.

“Seriously? I’m on the sign-up page right now. Credit card in hand.”

A few seconds later, I wised up and responded, again, with:

“I mean, uh, I wasn’t gong to sign up because of the price, but since you offered…I’m really bad at negotiating.”

He told me that I made him laugh, and said it was awesome to have me contributing to the party. Sweet!

Now I’m signed up and ready to attend my FIRST webinar. I’ll learn better storytelling techniques, narrative secrets to corporate culture change, how to find your true believes and quite a bit more (program).

Want to know more? See the video content series for a message from Margolis, as well as access to his five-part video series AND a link to download Believe Me.

Webinarize me, baby!

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

Views expressed on this blog or in my speech are not necessarily those of my employer, colleagues, employees, friends, family or anyone that knows me. They are my own, and you should adopt them immediately. Dramatic pauses were brought to you by Brian LaPan and Matthew Fox.

The above was how my speech last night began. It was the highlight of the next 10+ minutes.

In my eyes, I sucked. In everyone else’s, my presentation was okay. Either way, I’m disappointed and softly chuckling at the irony that I’d fail to give a speech well about how I’ve failed so many times in my life. Or maybe that’s not ironic. But I think it is. Anyway, the story is far better on paper, and I hope my book will illustrate that (available May 1st!)

Inspiration for last night’s presentation include Aaron Goldfarb’s excellent How to Fail: The Self-Hurt Guide, my former, almost-nemesis Martin Cizmar’s Chubster: A Hipster’s Guide to Losing Weight While Staying Cool, and Austin Vickers’s People v The State Of Illusion, all excellent experiences for anyone looking to do things a little bit better.

Video of my presentation should be available in a few weeks.

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link

Volunteering for worthy causes is fantastic. It’s honest work, it usually involves some sort of physical labor (yay exercise), and it gives both the volunteer and those they’ve helped a good feeling.

But sometimes volunteering isn’t enough. Sometimes people need food or shelter, money or jobs. Sometimes we have to open our wallets a little bit to help those who are helping others.

Lemonade Detroit aims to do just that. Fresh off their powerful Super Bowl commercial, the corporations of Detroit look like they’re headed for a comeback. But what about the citizens? What about those still looking for work? What about those whose lives have been irreparably changed by the urban decay?

Erik Proulx and Lemonade Detroit aim to spotlight those who’ve found a different way. He and his mostly Detroit-based crew need $25k to film the next piece of his (soon-to-be) full-length documentary, and they’re not quite funded yet. Here’s my video telling the world why I became a supporter.

But I’m not the only one doing this. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of supporters from around the world have bought stickers, tshirts or frames. They’ve shared with their friends. They’ve talked it up. They’ve taken what little time they may have and used it to ask others to do the same.

Did I mention all of these people have contributed financially, too? Yep, we’re all producers now, though I have NO idea how Proulx is going to fit us all on IMDB.

Now it’s your turn. Buy a cool shirt. Buy a Gaping Void-designed sticker (I did). Buy one second of the movie for $1 a frame (I did). Share this post with everyone you know (Um…obviously).

Please help us out. Let us show the world what hard work, social capital, and a little bit of money from a lot of people can do.

If my word isn't enough, perhaps Roger Ebert's is.

Check out our StorytellersAZ podcast. iTunes link