A Work in Progress

A heartfelt, insightful, and humorous memoir from YouTube sensation Connor Franta, revealing his private struggles and life lessons learned so far.

Informationen zum Autor Connor Franta Klappentext In this intimate memoir of life beyond the camera, Connor Franta shares the lessons he has learned on his journey from small-town boy to Internet sensation-so far. Here, Connor offers a look at his Midwestern upbringing as one of four children in the home and one of five in the classroom; his struggles with identity, body image, and sexuality in his teen years; and his decision to finally pursue his creative and artistic passions in his early twenties, setting up his thrilling career as a YouTube personality, philanthropist, entrepreneur, and tastemaker. Leseprobe A Work in Progress 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 airand 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, semi-harassed 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 occasionbirthdays, Christmas morning, athletic competitions, and school playsis 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 Northridgeboth 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 spic...

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Connor Franta

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In this intimate memoir of life beyond the camera, Connor Franta shares the lessons he has learned on his journey from small-town boy to Internet sensation-so far. Here, Connor offers a look at his Midwestern upbringing as one of four children in the home and one of five in the classroom; his struggles with identity, body image, and sexuality in his teen years; and his decision to finally pursue his creative and artistic passions in his early twenties, setting up his thrilling career as a YouTube personality, philanthropist, entrepreneur, and tastemaker.

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A Work in Progress

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, semi-harassed 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-com…