HOW TO FAKE NORMAL

TRUTH HURTS

I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop like it owed me money. I’d written dozens of candle reviews, each more poetic than the last. But now I wanted to write something real. Something that didn’t smell like bergamot and emotional repression.

So I did the unthinkable: I applied for a writing job. A real one. No fake resume. No embellished cover letter. Just me, my words, and a sample that started with:

“I once read that 73% of people lie during job interviews. I didn’t fact-check it, but it felt true enough to quote while I was lying through mine.”

I hit send and immediately regretted everything. I considered throwing my laptop out the window, but remembered I couldn’t afford a new one. So I settled for pacing my apartment like a caffeinated ghost.

Three days later, my phone rang. Unknown number. I answered like I was being drafted.

“Hi,” said a voice. “This is Maya from Ink & Grit Publishing. Is now a good time?”

I cleared my throat. “It’s either now or never.”

She chuckled. “We read your sample. It was…unusual.”

“Unusual good or unusual bad?”

“Unusual honest.”

I waited. My heartbeat sounded like a drum solo in my ears.

“We liked it,” she said. “It made us laugh. It made us cringe. It made us feel something. That’s rare.”

I blinked. “So…?”

“We’d like to offer you a freelance column. Humor, slice-of-life, your voice. You’d write under your real name, if that’s okay.”

I swallowed. “That’s more than okay.”

After we hung up, I sat in stunned silence. Then I called Jules.

“I did it,” I said.

She screamed. “You’re a legend!”

“I’m a freelancer.”

“Same thing.”

I told her everything—how Maya liked my honesty, how the sample made her snort coffee out of her nose, how I was finally getting paid to be myself.

Jules was already planning a celebration. “We’ll get cake. Real cake. Not the kind from office parties that tastes like regret.”

I laughed. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing it up.”

She paused. “You will mess it up. That’s part of it. But you’ll also make magic.”

I stared at my laptop. It didn’t feel like a trap anymore. It felt like a portal.

I opened a new document. Title: How to Fake Normal.

I typed the first line:

This is a story about pretending, surviving, and occasionally thriving in spite of yourself.

It felt right.

I wasn’t fixed. I wasn’t fearless. But I was finally writing something that mattered.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a fraud.