“If you consider yourself a writer, you must write every day.” — often-shared writing advice

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Let me be frank: Real guillotine operators sever heads every day. Seven days a week. As a longtime guillotine operator, when I’m not severing heads, I’m thinking about severing heads. If you’re not severing heads every day, you’re probably not serious about your craft.

My number one piece of advice to emerging guillotine operators? Consistency. Severing heads is partially about skill, but it’s mostly about hard work. That’s why I practice Morning Heads. I get up, I make my coffee, and I sever at least five heads every single morning. It doesn’t even have to be a full decapitation – you can just saw through a little bit of gristle and leave the heads dangling.

If you’re dreading getting up in the morning to sever heads – or if you simply don’t have the energy to get up at 5 a.m. to slice carotid arteries because you’re busy caring for children or working a minimum-wage job – this occupation probably isn’t for you.

Severing heads should always come naturally. Amateur guillotine operators get something called “head block,” but that goes away as you get better at your craft. At this point in my career, I deliver swift, bloody death after swift, bloody death, and it never feels like a slog. Not even when it’s raining outside or the doomed man betwixt my blades is screaming for his life.

Cutting off the brain’s source of oxygenated blood is more than a job. It’s an art.

That being said, it’s important to avoid comparing yourself to other guillotine operators. It’s true what they say: Comparison is the thief of joy. Severing heads is also the thief of joy, but in a different way.

Another piece of advice: Sever heads immediately when inspiration strikes. That’s why I keep my favorite guillotine — very tall, very sharp — next to my bed at night. When I receive a visit from the Headless Muse, I’m able to sit up in bed, coax an unsuspecting lamplighter into my dwelling, and lop his head off good and proper. I also carry a pocket-sized guillotine so that I can chop stray bits — an ear here, a ringlet there – when I’m on the go. It’s all about consistency.

For me, severing heads isn’t about making money. It’s a divine calling. I would do this for free. Actually, when I was just starting out, I DID sever heads for free. I did it for the exposure. That’s how word got around about my signature guillotining method, which involves an initial half-chop — extremely painful — followed by a bout of menacing laughter and a final, deadly chop. Now, when someone needs a head severed in a way that’s efficient yet horrifying to behold, they know exactly who to call.

Once again, this isn’t work — it’s art. I mean, sure, you might be physically operating a guillotine, but for what? To serve the needs of the ruling class? You should be severing heads for yourself and yourself alone.

You’ve probably heard it before: “Find what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.” Well, that’s how I feel about the vibrant squirt of thick, milky blood that shoots from a freshly whacked neck.

You want to succeed in the head severing business? You gotta have heart. You gotta fall down seven times and get up eight. And most importantly, you gotta wipe the brain matter off of the guillotine after every single beheading. Do not skimp on this.

So, are you ready to jumpstart your career as a guillotine operator? For the next two weeks, I’m challenging myself to sever 500 heads a day. The streets will run red with blood and cerebral fluid, the town wives will wail with despair, and the blades of my death machine will dull as I slice through countless spinal cords. Join me, won’t you?

Still not feeling motivated? To be honest, you may want to look into a less demanding profession. Have you ever thought about writing?