
Lawrence Tarpey's "Pinocchio"
An old boyfriend once told me that I was the worst liar he ever knew. He told me he could hear that distinct quiver in my voice and see the slight shift in my eyes every time I told a lie. What he sadly never learned in our short-lived relationship was that these were calculated moments concocted to conceal my true dishonest self. I had lulled him into believing I was a terrible liar in order to conceal the fact that I was actually great at it.
Before you go analyzing the verity of every past conversation you have ever had with me, please know that I’m given more crap for being too honest than lying too often. I am that person in your life that tells you your latest script bored me to death and that your new girlfriend’s voice is the source of my migraines. Though I choose not to engage it in often, lying is a necessary part of life. Imagine if I had been completely honest with my old boyfriend? Or if he had been completely honest with me? The upside is that we probably would have wasted less time together but we also would have left the relationship with less of our dignity intact. But forget all that – Lit Drift isn’t a dating column (at least not until Cosmo starts linking our articles) – I’m here today to hopefully find the correlation between great liars and great writers. Read more »













