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Scripting your creative adventure.

Feel the Fear. But Do the Work You Need to Do Anyway.

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Do the work that's important. Not busy work! // ARMOURELLE.COM

I am afraid.

I am afraid to write.

I am afraid to write what I should write, so I write other works instead.

I am afraid to do my real work.

I am afraid that if I write my real work, you won’t like it.

I am afraid that if I write my real work, it will end up hidden in a folder on my hard drive, untouched. Or if I get the guts to print it, the manuscript will get layered under a stack of notebooks filled with words that don’t matter as much as the ones I let get buried.

Since I am afraid, I keep myself busy with other things: Writing proposals. Writing ‘fun’ articles. Writing product descriptions. Writing press releases. Writing email pitches. Writing everything else besides what I should write.

I’m doing everyone else’s work but not my own.

So does this make me a fraud?

If I am all about choosing your own adventure and I refuse to choose my own, am I a false prophet?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Over the last month, I kept getting this message: DO THE WORK. I heard it in conversation. In a panel discussion. In a Periscope broadcast. In a Twitter chat.

I argued with myself and with God that I didn’t know what “my work” is or should be. “What is THE WORK!?” I asked (of course as I said this, I tilted my head to the sky for maximum display of agony).

Friday, I had a conversation about “the work” with my new friend. She explained so clearly what our work is. She even ended her definition with, “and that is the work we have to do.”

Then I saw a post on Instagram that, again, clearly defined “the work.” Another message. I listened to a podcast that just so happened to define “the work” while describing other tasks.

I know a few things–not a lot–but what I DO know is that I received the message. I need to get started before I miss the window of opportunity. I shouldn’t say window, because I’m not sure if it’s a window or a doggie door. Either way, I need to do the work so I can shimmy through it when I notice it’s cracked open.

Maybe the window crack is now, and it’s just a sliver of an opening, but enough to get my fingers underneath the sill.

Maybe not.

Again, I know a few things–not a lot–but what I DO know is that I need to get to WORK.

On Feeling Like a Creative Fraud

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YOU ARE A STUPID,
BIG, FAT PHONY.

And so am I. But we know in our hearts it’s not true.

Feeling like a creative fraud is a mother. And, as an artist, you go through periods of where you feel like a big, fat phony.

It’s times your fingers hover, paralyzed over the keyboard. Times you stare at the blank void while creative mojo seeps from your fingertips and on to every place but its pre-determined target. Times when ‘love is a battlefield,’ and you’re on the ground, wounded. Times you’re physically unable to create because you know, for a fact, that you’re a creative fraud. A hack, even. You don’t believe you’re a real artist. Who would believe that?! You most certainly don’t believe it. You just ain’t 2 Legit 2 Quit.

Don’t believe the thought, though.
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