20 Truths of (My) Creativity
There's this version of me I often think about, and he brings me back from the brink.
When life gets hard, when the kids aren't sleeping or they tantrum regularly, when my schedule gets blown to bits for whatever reason or the news finds a way into my eyeballs a bit too much ... when my work isn't "hitting" the way I hoped it would ... when I wake up to yet another 92-degree day in Boston and it throws me into existential terror about the earth and future generations and every tiny decision I make today. (Do I add one more scoop of coffee grounds to make this pot stronger, or is that terrible for the planet?) ... when life is life-ing hard...
I think about this version of me.
I'm in my late 20s, sitting in a tiny espresso bar in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The place is just a half of a block behind my apartment building. There I'd sit for an hour or two before taking the bus to my corporate job, frozen in place on a thin plank of wood they call a chair. It's the kind of seat that, now, requires an Old Man grunt just to get me vertical again -- and probably a couple stretches to feel right. But Young Jay isn't bothered. He's fit, though he barely tries to be. He's hopeful, though he has no clue what's to come -- the highs of being an entrepreneur, the lows of COVID-19, and the (let's say) "waitlist adjustment period" of The COVID 19.
Above all, Young Me was a total romantic about creativity. (I guess things haven't changed, unlike my pants size.)
There I sit at 7am, sipping a coffee that's too bitter at a price even harder to swallow. I'm there to write.
To no one.
And I'm overjoyed.
The cafe's name was Dwelltime. The universe was less than subtle on this one. ("Dwell time" being marketing jargon for the time website visitors spend on the page before leaving. Young Jay really wanted less bitter coffee and more of THAT kind of dwell time from Dwelltime, please and thanks.)
Sadly, Dwelltime is no more, but that version of me remains. He has to remain. Otherwise, I don't know how I'd persist, given the nature of this world and the work I'm doing in it.
That guy had an audience of zero. (Okay, fine, maybe three: my mom, my dad, and a friend of my mom's from work.) Even still, I'd roll out of bed super early, trudge into Dwelltime, and cash in my 401(k) for a coffee. (Seriously, why?) That's when the best bits would begin:
The feel of my claws on the keys. (Hat-tip to the great Ann Handley on my show for that reference.)
The hammering of my heart as I try to type fast enough to get out what's in my head before it evaporates like the steam around the baristas.
The unbelievable, irresistible, adjective-inducing feeling of hitting publish and cementing my ideas into the public record for ... who, exactly?
For me.
It was all for me.
That feeling that the best things are found when making things just to MAKE THINGS -- damn, do I need to keep that version of me alive today.
I'd ask you: What past version of YOUR creative self do you need to keep alive and well? Is there a Young You with a notebook, a brain full of ideas, a heart full of joy? Are you in that blissful beginner stage with that beautiful naiveté as you think about how to make things and what they could be or where they might take you? Are you less early bird and more night owl, the glow of a screen against a dark living room as you tinker?
Whoever they are for each of us, I think we need them often, and we need them now. In this moment where everything feels compressed into oversimplified rules or hacks, where tools and algorithms guarantee us the most scale with least soul, who brings us back from the brink? I don't think they're out there. I think they're back then. Remember why you started and who you were when you began. Maybe that's the reminder you need.
* * *
I'm fortunate to have a direct link back in time to that past version of myself. I've been working on a list which has now passed from Young Jay to, let's say, Not Actually That Old But Glad He Finally Booked a Personal Trainer and Found a Good Morning Stretching Routine Jay.
Yes, plenty of things remind me of my past self, but this is the most visceral. I'm immediately back in Dwelltime, remembering. For years, I've been building this list, first in my head, then on my phone. Last year, I finally named it.
I call it...
Immutable Truths of (My) Creativity
Nothing may be universally true of creativity for all people, but in all the things I've made and in all the years I've been making things, the following has always applied.
1. This work is trial and error.
2. Comparison kills creativity.
3. Normies experience amazing works and think, "I could never do that." Creatives experience amazing works and think, "I'm gonna make that."
4. Copy their structure, not their style.
5. There is only one project: your body of work.
6. Writer's block, imposter syndrome, perfectionism. These are luxuries. You're a professional, which means you have deadlines. You don't have the luxury to indulge these maker monster, and if they do appear, welp, grab a chain and wrap it around their legs. They're getting dragged to your finish line. Because you're a professional, and you're on deadline.
7. Being a professional doesn't mean you get paid. It means you keep the promises you made to others AND to yourself. It means you show up and deliver even when inspiration won't strike, which is good. Because most days, it won't.
8. Practice is more important than inspiration. (Have a practice. Ship regularly, on a deadline, just to hit Publish on your day.)
9. It's possible to play symphonies on spoons. (Tech doesn't matter. Use what's easy, cheap, in front of you. The tool doesn't make the master.)
10. Don't gather up all the answers you think you need to create. Create to find your answers. The best feeling in the world is to begin a creative endeavor convinced you have nothing left to say, only to find something through the act of creating. The well gets ever-deeper if you’re willing to keep exploring.
11. To make it more gripping, make it more specific.
12. Tension is the carbon element of story. No carbon, no life. No tension, no story.
13. Asking what they did will reveal much more than asking how to do it.
14. Ira Glass was right. The "gap" is real. (He says, for beginners, there's a gap between what you can imagine and what you can create.) True, but done right, you're always facing the gap, even decades into making stuff. Because you're creative. Meaning you're always pushing outside your comfort zone and trying new things. You're always a beginner. So there's always a gap.
15. Creating stuff is a mess for everyone. Lots of people want a process (or now, an AI tool) to help them skip (or produce) the messy parts, then they can step in to clean things up. This is a mistake. The mess isn't a problem. It's the process. It's the work. It's where all the good stuff is found. In the mess, you find your best. In the mess, you find YOURSELF. Don't seek to skip it. Your work will be far worse and your breakthroughs nonexistent.
16. Every so often, you need to dunk on a Fisher Price hoop. Trying to do something at a high level, professionally, is hard. Playing in the NBA means things always feel hard. Every so often, we need to remind ourselves, "Oh, right, I'm incredible at this." So find a way to pull off a 360-degree through-the-legs windmill dunk, then moonwalk away. Find a thing that others might find difficult which you find easy, go dominate the thing, then strut.
(My example: I was one of two Best Men for my best friend Kevin's wedding. It was me and his brother. When he asked who should go first when giving our Best Man speeches, I felt a little jolt to the chest. My ego started unlocking the cage where I keep it. It was time to Dunk on a Fisher Price Hoop. I thought about the years I spent giving speeches. I thought about how bad most wedding toasts are. "Your brother should go first," I chuckled. "That's the kind thing to do for him here.")
(I gave my speech. It was SO easy for me to deliver something SO much better than they'd ever heard at a wedding. And then I moonwalked away.)
(Which reminds me...)
17. Making things should be fun. We forget this all the time. We agonize over all the things we want out of this work, which removes the fun, which then in turn makes it harder to get all the things we want out of this work. Making. Things. Should. Be. FUN!
18. It starts with the intrinsic motivation to make. Everything else is downstream of that. Without the internal desire to create for the sake of it, without feeling like you couldn't NOT create, the rest won't be that helpful. All the techniques, tools, or tips in the world won't save you. You can get very far simply because you LOVE creating.
19. Make the things you wish existed. Make the things that give you a literal, physical sensation. You feel it in your body. Make what you wish existed, not "what works" or "what the market will bear." Then go find others who care.
20. Memento mori.