Hey Reader, Those Atomicon attendees are action takers. They’re already sharing results from the tips I gave in my (ahem) opening keynote. How cool is that? They’re grateful, and I’m grateful. Grateful that I made it there at all. There was a moment a few days before, in the back of an Uber, when I thought I might not. See, I don't like travel stress. When I'm traveling, especially for work, I will pay what it takes to make things easy. That means shelling out for an Uber when any sensible traveler would take the train. I'm all about door-to-door action. No schlepping bags through a station, hunting for a track, or second-guessing which stop is mine. That goes double when I'm already stressing over speaking on stage.* I shouldn't sweat it at this point, I've been doing it for years and it always goes great. (I guess I'm good at it.) But Adele says she pukes before every concert, so maybe nerves are just the cost of being great. Steven and I landed in Edinburgh. He peeled off for a Highlands buddy trip, and I headed up a long ramp to the taxi stand — where I learned a cab to town would be 440 pounds. When I’d checked earlier, it was 165. I ordered a 203-pound Uber and went back down the ramp to wait. It sat at “2 minutes away” for 15 minutes, so when the car finally pulled up, I was relieved. "Laura?" he said. "You ordered UberX?" "Yes," I said, grateful and ready to collapse in the backseat. "I'm Uber Comfort," he told me. "Costs a bit more, but worth it." I frowned. "I ordered UberX." "Yes, but I don’t accept those rides.” "But you did. That’s why you’re here." He said it didn’t pay for him to accept an UberX fee, and that I should cancel and rebook with him under Comfort. “It’s a long drive,” he explained. “X cars are very small. My car is much nicer. More space. Very comfortable. Only 250.” I said we’d both already agreed to 203. He said I should just order another car, then. I couldn’t find the cancel button. I was too tired to think straight. I didn’t want to wait for another phantom Uber. "Let’s just go," I said. I’d pay the extra fifty in cash. "So you want the ride?" “Yes. Let’s go.” He loaded my bags. I slid in, clocked the grimy faux-fur seat cover with jagged holes for the buckles, and muttered, "It's not that great." "It's very Comfort," he said. Five minutes later, on the highway: "You pay cash?" "What? No. I’m paying Uber. I’ll give you the extra fifty in cash." "Uber only lets us charge fifty pounds. The rest has to be cash." "That’s not true. I agreed to 203 on the app. And I don’t have that kind of cash on me." "No problem," he said. "I’ll stop at an ATM." I eyed the doors. Wondered if they were locked. Pictured myself tracing HELP in the window dust. "Take me back to the airport." He sighed like I was being unreasonable and indecisive. Looped back and tried to drop me at a hotel. "Nope. Airport, please." He finally did. Shrugged when I called the whole thing shady. I got charged 18 pounds for that useless loop, which I disputed while waiting for my next Uber — a straightforward, toothless Scot with a no-less “Comfort” car who got me safely to Newcastle. And for the rest of the week at Atomicon, when people asked how the trip was, I told the Uber story. Over and over, especially after my keynote on writing story-based emails that sell, I kept hearing the same thing: “I can’t wait to read your email about this.” That’s the beauty of having a newsletter. Anything that happens to you is a story… as long as you live to tell it. xo Click here so I know you’re interested. Advantage: You’ll have a front row seat. No nosebleed section on Zoom. You’ll be scribbling as many notes as these lucky folks:
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"Yours are the only emails I actually open and read" - a regular reply in my inbox since 2009...and I'll bet in yours, too, once you subscribe and learn by pure, lazy osmosis to become the most compelling writer around. That said, no promises on improving your moral character.
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