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  Contents

  IN RETROSPECT

  “SO, WHAT DO YOU DO?”

  MEET THE FAMILY

  THE GOOD OL’ DAYS

  LETTERS FROM MY PARENTS

  WHEN I WAS . . .

  LEVELS OF FRIENDSHIP

  MOON GAZING

  MISSING OUT

  HIGH SCHOOL IS WEIRD

  AN ANXIOUS BOY AND HIS PLASTIC CROWN

  THE VOICE WITHIN

  VINTAGE

  WORTH IT

  MY ARM

  CREATIVITY

  THE CHAIR

  THE FAULT IN OUR SCARS

  IF I HAD AN ART INSTALLATION

  FLAWFUL

  NUMB TO THE NUMBERS

  SAY NO

  WAIT, I JUST NEED TO CHECK SOMETHING . . .

  COFFEE

  THE PROBLEM WITH LABELS

  A PERSON WORTH IGNORING YOUR PHONE FOR

  LIVE NOW, WORRY LATER

  RESPECT FOR MY ELDERS

  THE LONG ROAD TO ME

  IT GETS BETTER. REALLY.

  WHERE I FIND HAPPINESS

  THE DECISION THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

  LEAP OF FAITH

  GETTING TO KNOW MYSELF

  THE MYTH OF “FAME”

  CHARITY

  LIFE DOESN’T WAIT

  Acknowledgments

  About Connor Franta

  For the deep thinkers, big dreamers, and innovative creators of the world who inspire me.

  In Retrospect

  I’M SIX YEARS OLD. IT’S a chilly autumn day, with dew still clinging to the grass, a slight breeze in the air—and a lot of people screaming wildly behind me. The street where I stand is buzzing with athletes of all shapes and sizes, dashing for the finish line, cheered on, and, let’s face it, semiharassed by spectators (though some of the five hundred runners are, to be fair, out of breath and nearly on all fours).

  In our family, this day in late September is as eagerly anticipated as Christmas. That’s because my parents, Cheryl and Peter, are the proud organizers of the annual Applefest Scenic 5K Run/Walk, a popular event on the social calendar of La Crescent, Minnesota, up there with the County Fair, Autumn Parade, and many other shamelessly festive small-town events. It’s “scenic” because of the hilly course and golden leaves; it’s an “applefest” because my home city is regarded as the state’s apple capital. Yes, our apples are the shit, and we carry that prestigious title with the utmost pride.

  But the point of this story is not apples. The point is that I’m bored and couldn’t care less about all of these sweaty humans speed-walking toward an achievement that most of them will brag about to friends while eating a third doughnut. I prefer to create my own distractions and diversions, which is why my curiosity latches onto the video camera my dad has set up near the finish line to record every second of the madness unfolding on race day. Dad seems forever interested in documenting the things going on in our life. “Home movies,” he calls them. Every occasion—birthdays, Christmas morning, athletic competitions, and school plays—is captured for posterity, as if he doesn’t want to miss a thing. Maybe this explains why I’m mesmerized by this magical box with a blinking red light at the front. You know, like father like son, right?

  Usually the camera is glued to his hand, with the strap wrapped around his knuckles. Or sometimes, like today, he’ll leave this bulky piece of technology on a tripod, letting it run until the tape is out. When I say “bulky,” I mean BULKY. This thing looks like a freaking toaster with a telescope attached. But it’s the latest and greatest gadget with matchbox-sized tapes and 2-pixel quality to boot. Wow, what a time to be alive!

  I know that I shouldn’t interfere with his filming, but the urge is too great. I take a shifty look around: a pack of runners is bolting down the slope of Northridge—both the race’s biggest hill and final stretch; nearby, Mom is in the midst of a crowd, wearing a permanent smile on her face that hides the stress of organizing such an event, and Dad, unable to stand still for more than two seconds, flits from one runner to the next, issuing hearty congratulations, sarcastic humor, and the occasional medical advice. (He’s a doctor.) Yup, these two pillars of the community are more than preoccupied.

  I stand on my tiptoes to peek at what is being recorded, and let me tell you, it wasn’t anything anyone was going to enjoy watching any time soon, though it could potentially be used as a good sleep aid (or a near-coma slumber). So with me being a little attention seeker, I decide to spice things up a little by putting on a spontaneous show for the future audience at home. By “audience,” I mean my family. And by “show,” I mean me talking about nothing for an extended period of time under the assumption that I am funny.

  Nothing has changed since then.

  I step in front of the camera and begin talking, making it up as I go along. I chat away as if the lens is a person, knowing that it will eventually become a person—an expectant person in my living room, gathered around to see whoever finishes the road race in record time. Instead, when the footage is transferred to the TV—via three different-colored wires connected to the recording device—they will see me goofing off and making some truly brilliant, off-the-cuff, meandering commentary on the snooze-fest unfolding behind me.

  I convince myself that I am the far more entertaining option and that everyone will thank me for such an impromptu performance. But that’s the annoying thing about childhood—and actually the rest of life: reality rarely lives up to high expectations.

  I can’t say my parents were overly impressed by my unedited act of spontaneity. Nor did I receive thanks for showing initiative.

  Not an accurate portrayal of Minnesota nice, Mom and Dad!

  But that, my friends, is where it all began. At the age of six. Standing near a finish line when left to my own devices. Talking into a camera.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  SIXTEEN YEARS LATER, here I am, writing a book, the happy consequence of talking into a camera. Thanks, Dad!

  “Writing a book”—I’m saying that out loud as the words hit the page.

  Man, that sounds difficult—and a little daunting, especially when I’m only a few sentences into the experience. But, regardless, here we go.

  I’m twenty-two years old, and the fact that I’m writing a book feels nothing short of insane to me. Insane, but consistent with the way my life has been panning out of late.

  In short, I’m a small-town kid from the Midwest who lived a relatively average life for a majority of my years. Until that day in August 2010 when I stumbled across a little website called YouTube and posted my first video, when no one was looking and no one was interested. Then life got a little weird. Hell, who am I kidding? It got really weird, really quickly.

  Four years later, having transitioned from boy to man and from obscurity to something I’m still trying to define, I sit here with millions of subscribers who are, for some reason, captivated by what I’m interested in, what I’m doing, and ultimately what I have to say. One minute I’m talking to myself; the next, I’m talking to more than 4 million people . . . and that number is growing by the thousands every single day. *gets nervous at the thought and internally freaks out*

  Out of nowhere, I have an audience that my dad’s home videos would envy—an audience equal to well over half the population of Minnesota, and bigger than North and South Dakota combined, then doubled.
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  Like I said, life has gotten weird.

  I am what the mainstream media refer to as a “YouTuber.” I view myself more vaguely as a content creator using an exciting new platform. People like me beam ourselves into the homes of a younger generation in the same way TV stars did in the 1950s. Back then, I’m sure the older generation—so used to the intimacy, format, and familiarity of radio—was equally baffled at seeing people on a fuzzy black-and-white screen—in just the way that I’m sure there’s a generation of adults out there perplexed by this whole YouTube phenomenon.

  It represents the democracy of new media, where people like me can devise, launch, and maintain their own channels—and audiences—via the Internet. Look at them as mini–television shows that fit in your pocket.

  What I love about the community I have built is the fact that I can connect with each and every one of them whenever I want, and then interact with them via Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, or Tumblr. We’re in one big social media room together.

  This channel is mine. Don’t touch it.

  But really, why does anyone write a blog or upload a vlog? Because they want to share, offer an opinion, vent, provoke thought or, if they’re like me in 2010, simply bored and have nothing better to do.

  But the first four reasons are my motivation for sitting down—or pacing around my apartment like a crazy person—to write this book: to expand on the page what I have touched on in many vlogs over the years. To share the challenges I’ve faced in my twenty-two years on earth—some universal, some intensely personal—and hope that they can comfort you, guide you, or just make you feel less alone with your own challenges.

  I think I’ve lived quite the unorthodox life so far, but you probably feel that way about yourself too. So much goes untold in our lives. And although I seemingly live mine on the Internet, there’s a lot that people don’t know. I mean, why would you?

  Let’s visit the subject of math for a moment—adored by some, hated by me. The window on my world has so far been limited to 5 minutes every Monday. That’s 5 minutes out of the 10,080 minutes available in any week; that means I’ve shared a little under 18 hours, give or take, talking with my subscribers between 2010 and 2014. In other words, I have only scratched the surface of what I want to share with you. And even then, the information has been posted in a well-edited, polished video. I can make a mistake, rewind, and start all over—and I can do that a ridiculously large number of times until I’m happy with how my words are delivered.

  Real life isn’t like that. It’s one take, unedited, imperfect, and littered with mistakes that we must repeat until we get it right—a truth for teenagers and adults alike.

  A computer screen mimics a TV in that it creates the appearance of a perfect life—or, should I say, “the illusion.” Not unlike a selfie on Instagram or a well-crafted tweet, the computer screen projects the image I choose to portray. We all do it. My life—the glimpse obtained through YouTube—is no more perfect than yours. I’m no different. I’ve struggled with things as monumental as depression and my sexuality and as common as friendship, change, and body image. Some call it growing up. I call it life, and in my experience, it doesn’t necessarily get easier over the years. But the eternal struggle is beautiful, and I’m happy to persevere.

  In the following pages, I go beyond those 5 minutes a week that I normally share in a video. I’m going to invite you in a little further the way you do with a friend or with people you know will understand. I hope you’ll be entertained, enlightened, inspired, and/or stirred. I hope I’ll provoke laughter, tears, and everything in between. You’ll hear some funny stories from my past, read a few words of advice regarding difficult times, and see many of the photographs I took along the way.

  So here’s to writing something deeper and richer than 140 characters. Here’s to writing this book. Here’s to us.

  “So, what do you do?”

  LIFE AS A YOUTUBER CAN be difficult to explain in a world still trying to grasp that, yes, content creators such as myself are carving out a living, and, no, YouTube isn’t solely a place for kids with cameras to play karaoke or pranks; nor is it only a medium for adults to post clips of cute babies and cats in hopes they’ll go viral.

  Socially, the whole explaining-what-I-do conversation can be fun, slightly maddening, or just plain awkward. And it tends to go something like this:

  PICTURE THE SCENE: I’m at a party in a crowded room in Los Angeles (which it usually is these days). I’m happily mingling and networking when I introduce myself to some well-intentioned stranger who has no idea who I am.

  STRANGER:

  So, Connor, what do you do?

  This is, without doubt, the first question everyone asks in LA, to determine what brought you to this star-studded madness, how successful you might be, and, in some cases, if you are worth knowing for longer than the next two minutes. My fixed smile doesn’t let on that the voice inside my head has started to scream because I know where this is ultimately headed: the dreaded YouTube Conversation. Nevertheless, I make a valiant attempt to completely avoid bringing it up whatsoever.

  ME:

  You know, this and that. I’m a blogger/videographer.

  I tend to change the description of what I do every single time; it’s all part of the ongoing search to find a response that will deter further curiosity, finding the one catchall label that describes what I do.

  STRANGER:

  Really? What do you blog about?

  ME:

  Oh, anything and everything. Lifestyle stuff.

  STRANGER:

  Interesting. Who for?

  There’s no avoiding it now. In my experience with conversations like this, my career is the main thing people have trouble comprehending.

  ME:

  YouTube. I’m a, uh, YouTuber.

  I can almost see the confusion behind the puzzled frown that greets this reply—the thought that probably goes like this: “YouTube? Like the video website? What do you do there exactly??”

  ME:

  I’m a vlogger, which means a blogger in video form.

  STRANGER:

  So you . . . you basically speak into a camera . . . in your spare time?

  ME:

  No, I actually do this for a living.

  STRANGER:

  It’s your JOB??!

  ME:

  Yeah, I make YouTube videos. They’re usually five-minute comedy skits or simple commentaries about my life in general.

  STRANGER:

  Really?

  ME:

  Yup.

  What the person is bursting to say, but usually doesn’t, is, “You’re messing with me, right? That can’t actually be a thing.” But instead, the incredulity grows into hungry curiosity.

  STRANGER:

  And you make money off of this?

  ME:

  I do.

  Feeling more and more uncomfortable now.

  ME:

  Well, how much do you make?

  This is something people feel free to ask me all the time. Etiquette tends to go out of the window with incomprehension; the world of YouTube is so far left field that most people over thirty want to try to make sense of it all, even down to the income factor.

  ME:

  I make a healthy living.

  STRANGER:

  But . . . how??

  ME:

  Ad revenue. Sponsorship. The same way television networks earn money.

  STRANGER:

  Can I do it? You know, upload videos and make money?

  The penny drops, and the stranger finally makes explicit what has only been implied up to this point: that it must be easy, that being a YouTuber can’t require much effort. Right? I mean, how hard can it beeeee?!

  ME:

  Well, anyone can go on YouTube. There are about three hundred hours of video uploaded to the site every minute. But it’s taken me four years, four hundred videos, and a lot of hard work and perseverance to get here. It’s not quite automatic
success, but . . .

  STRANGER:

  Oh. (Disappointment on his face.) Well, good talking to you, Connor.

  END SCENE

  Usually the stranger cuts our chat short, doubtless to go home and ask his or her teenage son or daughter for a crash course on what the “YouTube generation” is all about.

  So, yes, for the uninitiated, this is who I am and what I do.

  But how I got here is a whole other story.

  Meet the Family

  IF YOU OWN AN ACRE of land in Minnesota, chances are that you have inherited or grown an apple tree. Just so we’re clear, this is not an apple tree on the opposite page. It’s a family tree. I grew it—sorry, drew it—for this book, if for no other reason than to illustrate the old saying that the apple does not fall far from the tree.

  The Good Ol’ Days

  THE STORY OF MY LIFE starts not in Minnesota but the Kingdom of Tonga.

  I’m willing to bet an arm and a leg that I’ve grabbed your attention now.

  Yes, Tonga—that little-known chain of 176 islands spanning a 500-mile swath of the South Pacific, somewhere between New Zealand and Hawaii. Population: around 105,000. Climate: tropical. Government: constitutional monarchy. Think rugged, lush green landscapes; deep, mysterious caves; and white, sandy beaches along a shoreline dotted with harbors, yachts, and fishing boats lolling in the water. Get the picture? Google paints it real pretty, right?

  Only around 40 of the 176 islands are inhabited. I know this not only because of glorious Google but because my parents lived on two of them, separately. They have somewhat of a fairy-tale love story—very unconventional, to say the least. I like to think destiny had a sense of humor when she brought Cheryl, from Montana, and Peter, from Minnesota, together in the middle of nowhere as volunteers for the Peace Corps between 1983 and 1984.

  After being stuck on an island for so long—going on runs together, exploring the caves, killing freakishly large insects, and, well, taking in everything the Tongan culture had to offer—they fell in love, and the rest is history. At one point, they were sent to different islands, meaning they had to write love letters to each other. Like, long, handwritten love letters. Sent by mail. Which meant waiting around forty-eight hours to receive a simple reply. TRAGGGIC! How did they stand it? Can you even imagine doing that with a text nowadays? Ew, no. I could never. Oh, the agony.