Stop Cultivating Pipe Dreams— Your Greenlight to Write
I got my first freelance gig at 18, when most kids my age were yet in school, and still a long way from anything resembling a real job. Over the next six years, I worked with anything from politicians to house designers on some of the craziest, whackiest projects of my life. It has been a blast.
I also wrote a book, which is slated to come out in September, and travelled Europe extensively (as much as Covid-19 would allow).
Here’s what I learned.
#1. Get off your as$.
Whenever I tell someone what I do, they go “Oh, I’d love to write”. They mean it. I’ve met loads of people who nurture this deep down impression that they may, someday, make good writers.
…Sure. If they weren’t afraid.
See, I’ve no doubt some of these people would make killer writers. The trouble is, a killer writer needs vim. The editor of the NY Times isn’t gonna knock on your door randomly and offer you a position. From where you are right now, the editor of the NY Times can’t see you.
Act on that hunch that you might be good, because you really might. But you’ve got to step out into the world, and show it what you’ve got kicking around your gray matter. ’Cause the world’s not gonna come asking of its own accord.
#2. Stop worrying what everyone will think.
What stops a lot of budding writers in their tracks, I think, is fear.
Fear they won’t be as good as they hope. Duh.
But more so, fear of what the people around them might think, if they do strike out. Publish that blog. Apply for that job. Aim for the stars. You know what?
…They really don’t care.And if you wanna get bogged down by someone’s judgment, make it someone who matters. Like your future kids. What are they gonna think of you, knowing you never dared to take that risk?
What’s that gonna teach them?
#3. Put yourself out there relentlessly.
Writing is a tough business. Especially now, with so many content creators clamouring for attention. So your best shot isn’t just being good at your craft. It’s being active.
Be everywhere. Force them to take notice of you. They may hate your f-ing guts, but they’ll at least know your name, you know?
And that’s a start.
Remember that the old adage stands true. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and if you quit and go home after that one really great article you put out didn’t win you the Pulitzer, then you’re never gonna make a good writer.
#4. Stop honouring the old rules.
A lot of young people are still sheepishly following the old “success recipe”. Go to school. Go to uni. Do a master’s. Then, you’re a writer.
What? By magic? In a puff of smoke, and everything?
Uh-huh.
While you’re doing that, there’s kids like me, already six years into the game. There’s your mate from college who took that small-time online magazine job you looked down your nose at, and now he’s doing pieces for three national papers.
The truth is, no amount of degrees will make you a writer. Writing makes you a writer. Getting paid for your work makes you a writer. Creating engaging content makes you a writer.
The academic BS above may have been true once. But now, you’ve got AI doing the job you went to uni for, and heaven knows what else down the pipeline. They didn’t have that when your granddaddy went to school, and that should be proof enough of the old rule’s redundancy. Roll with the punches, ’cause the old recipe book is broken.
#5. Hone your craft.
You know that voice in your head that says “I might be a writer”? That delightful, thrilling, wonderful voice? It’s guilty of a misnomer. In actuality, it’s telling you you may have potential. Talent. The bare adequate plumbing.
There’s a long way between having talent and being a good writer. And along that way, you gotta amass experience. Make mistakes. Write crap. Hone your craft.
So take a small position with a sh!t mag, because you’re at the beginning You might be sh!t, too.
…but you can grow. You can get better (if you want it bad enough to work for it).
Secret Bonus (just for you): Be aware of the mind’s tendency to cultivate pipe dreams.
There’s a point in everyone’s life when the small voice at the back of their head, the one that begins its sentences with “I could…” transitions into a pipe dream.
It happens to everyone. And there’s good enough reason for it to deter you from trying to change it.
Pipe dreams work because they’re cushy. They let me quietly gloat on what I could’ve been without facing the reality of rejection, of being told my work is crap, of not being good enough.
Late playwright Eugene O’Neill wrote a play about pipe dreams called The Iceman Cometh. It’s a collection of losers, essentially, sitting in a dusty, darkened, sad old bar, nursing their pipe dreams. The landlord, for instance, dreams of going outside. Has, for decades. But when they finally convince him into walking out that door, the world outside has become alien to him, frightening, forcing him to retreat to the lukewarm safety of the darkened bar.
Don’t let that happen to you.
Thank you for reading.
Guess what. I am actually publishing my first novel this fall. Wild, I know. Meanwhile, I’m gonna be documenting my process/journey/slow descent into madness on here, while also dropping the occasional opinion piece.
So if you’re someone who enjoys that kinda writing, well, why not subscribe? It’s free. And I’m desperate. So there, honesty.
