“When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.”
― Kurt Vonnegut
I’m a fierce advocate for practice—the daily, unyielding, pursuit of action over outcomes. But even I’ll admit, some days come easier than others. Writing, or any creative pursuit, can be painful.
But as Haruki Murakami writes, “Pain is mandatory, suffering is optional.” He was talking about running. He was talking about writing. And he was talking about life.
Creatives—artists, writers, builders—share this pain. It’s inevitable. And because of that inevitability, we’ll try to outsmart it, work around it, and avoid it altogether.
But avoidance creates something worse than pain. It creates suffering instead.
You drag your feet, procrastinate, and delay the work because digging around in the recesses of your mind is a scary proposition. You never know what else you’ll uncover while you excavate.
But the more you delay, the more you’ll suffer. So it’s better to place that crayon firmly between pursed lips and start the project, lest you become saddled with a different type of pain—the pain of not knowing.
Instead of pushing the work off, instead of telling yourself and others you’re a hack or an amateur, professionals do something different. They lower the bar.
Professionals don’t chase good ideas. That’s not for them to judge. They just create. Seth Godin says, “Once you get enough bad ideas, then some good ones have to show up.”
Professionals know what they don’t know. They understand that differentiating between a good idea and bad idea is nearly impossible in the moment of creation.
Don’t believe me?
The Childs Mind: Dav Pilkey and Dog Man
Dav Pilkey, the mastermind behind Captain Underpants, is also the evil genius behind Dog Man, a graphic novel series about a superhero policeman with a dog’s head. Crazy, right? A cop and a police dog get injured in an explosion, and the nurse goes full Frankenstein, stitching the two together for life.
Thirteen books later, Pilkey is a hero to kids around the world, my son included.
I’d bet anything that at one point Pilkey doubted the idea. I’d bet Dog Man, in some shape or form, was crumpled up and tossed in the wastebasket.
How can I be so sure? Because Pilkey dreamed up Dog Man and Captain Underpants in second grade. He got in trouble, was sent to the hallway, and started piecing together a new kind of comic—one he could really relate to. Decades later, in 2016, he launched the first book in the Dog Man series. Pilkey was fifty years old.
I’m just a big steaming pile of Dog Man jealousy. Not my finest trait, but sometimes jealousy and envy can teach you something.
My inner critic would never let me put something like Dog Man out into the world. I’m not jealous of the books or envious of their success. Seriously, I’m not. When I look at what Pilkey has done, what I really desire is the patent-leather gag ball he’s strapped onto his inner critic.
Quieting that voice in his head has been a gift to himself, that’s created a gift for the world. Because these ideas can make a real impact, but only if you ship the work.
Truth be told, I thought Dog Man was ridiculous. So bad it made my brain hurt. Until I heard my son’s giggles. He was flipping pages and laughing so hard he could hardly speak those most beautiful of childhood phrases, “I might pee my pants!”
Pilkey is teaching a generation that reading is fun and worthwhile, and what goes into a book can come in all shapes and sizes.
I have no clue what has been left crumpled up on Pilkey’s floor over the years, but thousands of wannabe authors would kill to rummage through that trash. And if they did, I’m sure they’d find something worth chasing that even Pilkey couldn’t see.
The Power of Perspective: Stephen King and Carrie
Stephen King’s literary career nearly ended in a trash can too. Like Pilkey, he had an idea tumbling around in the recesses of his mind, but self-doubt crept in and froze him in his tracks.
In 1973, while teaching high school English and living in a double-wide trailer with his wife, Tabitha, King struggled through an initial draft of Carrie. At 26, he couldn’t find an authentic voice for the lead, a teenage girl. The manuscript felt bloated and sluggish, far too long for the magazine market he was targeting.
Frustrated, King crumpled the pages and tossed them in the trash. But in the Kings’ cramped quarters, nothing went unnoticed. Tabitha discovered the manuscript buried beneath cigarette ashes, rescued the crumpled pages, and smoothed them out. She read through them with fresh eyes, and urged Stephen to continue, offering insights into the female perspective. Her encouragement and insights gave him the confidence to continue. Nine months later, Carrie was completed.
Thirty publishers rejected the manuscript before Doubleday saw its potential, offering King a $2,500 advance. Then came the breakthrough. Signet Books purchased the paperback rights for $400,000—with half going to King. This windfall allowed him to pursue writing full-time. King has frequently acknowledged that without Tabitha’s grounding influence and honest feedback, he might have succumbed to his addictions in his thirties.
Show Me Your Bad Writing
Seth Godin would tell you, the blocked artist, to show him your receipts. He’d ask you to show him your bad writing.
Most can’t. Because they refuse to write down a bad idea, record a mediocre song, or sell an early painting. Unwilling to chase an idea from second grade, or rewrite the manuscript they’ve trashed. They raise the bar to unreasonable heights. It’s painful.
Instead, they steam an extra-hot, extra-dry cappuccino, put on a happy face, and suffer.
That suffering is optional though; it’s mostly self-judgment. Artist after artist has provided you with proof that your self-judgment, your inner critic, is wildly off the mark. But you haven’t listened. You’re different, you have taste.
Maybe.
But your taste is biased. It’s been bribed. And your inner critic is as cruel as Cruella de Vil. To make great work you’ll need to “kill your darlings,” but not all of your darlings.
Lower the bar. Create. The good stuff sneaks in when you least expect it.
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