You think you can.
I mean, in theory, if you can conceive of something it can be done and relatively easily enough at that.
Right? It’s simple.
The difficult concepts to grasp are rarely realized. They’re tanglier balls of yarn, requiring years of planning and brute talent to achieve.
The easy to perceive must be low-hanging fruit in the path to success. Therefore in one’s mind, if it can be imagined, then why even try? If, for example, in the creation of post-modern art, you just could do it if you really wanted to?
Jump right in, sacrifice a few Saturday nights for the cause. You’re a martyr; you’re serious.
Tell everyone. The rest will take care of itself.
Perhaps this is where the term “wantrepreneur” comes from, an adage sprung from the alleged slash generation (ex: Writer/DJ/Producer). We proclaim to do it all, even if the output is somewhat self-serving and to a degree lackluster.
Ambitious people usually harbor one (or all) of the following traits:
They perpetually want what they can’t have; they think they can have it all; or they’re too impatient to try all the angles.
Perhaps this is why post-modern art has lost its general sense of identity.
To do something great the only person motivating you is yourself — everyone else is too busy concerning themselves with their own survival. Therein lies the flaw and the Unfair of the whole system. How will you keep going? Because how the hell do you know if you’re any good?
Ambitious people also harbor a rich sense of delusion.
We’re so amazing yet our day job is draining and there won’t be time left in the day outside of binge-watching Scandal and drinking bottles of cheap wine while imagining a brighter future wherein we can finally do what we “really” want to do.
Paradoxically, the reality is that without that sense of delusion you’re reduced to being ambitious about being ambitious, and simply too conflicted to get it done or even try.
Technically, the most rewarding part should be the process itself.
Passion is not craving some allegorical gold star. It’s dedication — dirty, messy, nose-to-the-grindstone work. It’s coffee and late nights and getting really mad all the time over the little details (like for example using too many pronouns).
It’s not as sexy as some hand-lettered, calligraphic print of the word “hustle” but it is the timeless truth.
I stopped writing when I was 12 after a drunk uncle on my mom’s side told me that he wanted to read my stories. I picked it back up twenty years later, only because it was something I had to do in order to make sense of the world around me at the time.
Rumination is hard in LA. In New York it’s a fact of life.
And there’s a difference between accepting failure and not working hard enough to take a square shot at success in the first place.
I’m glad I hit pause on my radio show. It became the impetus that brought me to this page. Despite what some asshole says on Facebook, failure IS an option. It paves the way for bigger and better things.
My mixes are in the archives but the process lives on. I’ve learned that one significant hurdle of creating good work is the mental anguish that lies distinctly beyond any point of generational languor. It’s a physical and mental game so exhausting since in the end you’re solely relying on, and battling against, yourself.
I’d work it over in my mind countless times before even stepping foot inside the studio.
When I was there I’d bang my head against the wall. Not because I didn’t have an audience (or a key) but because it wasn’t good enough work yet — it wasn’t even in the neighborhood of being good.
I’d get so mad when I couldn’t get it right on the first take, or even the tenth. After the twentieth I’d have a demo in my hands soaked in blood and fervor. With cradled, shaking hands I’d proffer it to an established DJ, grateful for his kindness in mentoring my progress. As he listened I watched him pull a face — he cringed, because it wasn’t ready just yet.
Eventually the twentieth take dwindles to a tenth, then a fifth. I sounded more natural on the mic and the mixes became tighter. I felt more comfortable. And then, something miraculous happened — I stopped giving a shit what anyone thought about it. I started doing it for myself.
And oddly enough, that’s when the work got good.
Much has been said about the deluded self-confidence of entrepreneurs. I believe this applies to artists too – but it mostly arrives during the mastery of process.
The confidence is in the sweat. It’s in the passion.
You take what you’ve earned after all those takes and confidence quietly follows.
You build a support system designated for healthy maturity and growth. Even if you have no idea where it will lead, you meet people who can help you find a general direction.
Most of us need to be a spokesperson on behalf of our art. We perform double duty as an agent, provocateur, coach. Then we go home and pace nervously in the kitchen drinking more crap wine, because we know — despite the decent progress we’ve made — that the work isn’t ready yet. The wantrepreneur baby has no clothes.
And then.
You attend didactically-minded gatherings involving sweaty handshakes with strangers and copious amounts of free alcohol, otherwise known as networking. You get lost on the way, swearing to yourself in quick huffs of air.
You take a moment to pace nervously in front of the door, eventually summoning some semblance of self-composure that involves a smile that may or may not look more like a smirk order to appear casual as though you simply decided to stroll right in.
No big deal.
Smile and nod and try not to panic when someone asks you what you’re working on.
Simultaneously, deliberately kick out that annoying voice in your head — you know the one. The coach and cynic, the lawyer and defrauder, the demonic inner critic that wants to destroy you from the inside out anytime someone so much as raises an eyebrow when you describe what you’re passionate about doing in life.
You leave covered in sweat. Your armpits are wet and you’re tired of talking. Otherwise, you leave the same as you came in, perhaps with the addition of two business cards tucked safely in your back pocket.
After some time you get good, real good. Work the room, collect some cards, become your most effusive and exuberant self. After the twentieth event it becomes easier. You have a routine down. You go alone, leaving the demons at home.
Until, you move to a new city and decide to pursue a completely different craft.
In Los Angeles, one can get by through smiling and nodding a lot. Be social, ask questions, be sympathetic, have a cocktail. Act bemused, conspiratorial even. You will be sized up but generally accepted once someone “feels” that they “understand” you.
In New York it’s more important to be direct. They want to know who you are, what you do, and how you can help them.
That’s it. Tell them what you do, and ask for what you want.
Smile less. Speak less.
Throw in a prop, like a decent pair of glasses (they MUST be prescription, don’t even think about fronting there).
Do not wear fun shoes unless by fun we mean clever and in general their estimated pre-tax worth is greater than or equal to $300.
You learn quickly to sharpen up.
And, of course, you will be judged.
I have a tough time telling people that I like to write. My old show — now I could talk about that all day. It took years to get comfortable enough to do that, because I struggled to get the work to a place that didn’t suck. And while I never got great, I did learn what it takes to get there.
Whichever the craft, many of the same challenges still apply. Those self-confidence and mental barriers will always be there, clinging along for the ride.
When it comes down to it we all have a passion of some sort. And when you’re putting in that deep work that is so meaningful it doesn’t even matter if it sees the light of day — that’s where the good stuff begins. You’re the hero.
I’ll never know if I’m any good. But that’s what it means to be great.