Articles on Success, Significance and the Evolving Role of Work

After 20 years of writing in literary, culture and trade arenas, I still struggle with writing from my vulnerabilities rather than my strengths.

It’s so easy to do what comes naturally—write what interests me—when my job is to write in ways that will connect deeply with another human being.

Here are five areas of failure I’ve discovered over the years.

1. The work is safe. It’s also-ran. It lacks daring and depth. It tries to be perfect. It doesn’t see the familiar in unfamiliar ways.

2. The work is ideological. It serves an agenda rather than an idea. It seeks to lead, rather than discover. It plows toward a predetermined destination, rather than stay available for interesting alternatives.

3. The work is disconnected. It’s self-centered, pandering, simplistic or uninformed. It contemplates its navel. It neglects the human condition.

4. The work merely informs. It doesn’t inspire. Or enable. Or enlighten. Or entertain. Or even enrage. It presents, when it should perform. It says, when it should show. It’s smart, but lacks heart.

5. The work can’t stand on its own. It needs something outside itself to complete it. It feels unfinished. Or it’s way too polished.

So here is how I’m challenging myself as I enter 2013. These will guide my choices.

• The work must risk criticism. And failure. And being misunderstood.
• The work must find narrative structures that free ideas rather than force them into tried-and-true formulas.
• The work must embrace the complexities and tensions inherent in the intersections of art, faith, family and career.
• The work must create tension in both culture and the church.
• The work must connect the disconnected.
• The work must be the best I can offer with the resources, talent and time I have available at the time I do the work. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I’ll tell you why I’m accepting these challenges.

Because artists are first known by their art. It’s not the other way around.

The first time someone experienced a Picasso painting, they didn’t say, “Cool Picasso.” They said, “Who did this?”

We hear a great song and want to know the band.

We use great products and want to learn about the company behind them.

We read a great book and want to read more by the author.

Paintings make painters.

Songs make bands.

Products make brands.

Books make authors.

It’s easy to get tricked into thinking we—the artists—make the work.

It’s our work that makes us (in the public’s eye).

And, for me, it must be daring and deep. It must serve ideas. It must connect. It must inspire. And it must stand on its own.

Which means it will take a lot of practice and do-overs to get to something with lasting value.

I’m up for the challenge! Are you?

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on December 27, 2012.

In the early 1990s, as I was beginning my life as an adult, I held many beliefs about what it takes to be successful and happy in life.

I saw my life as a path. And I believed God had some calling pre-destined for me and my job was to crack the code as soon as possible, then run like hell toward that Promised Land.

Yet years passed and nothing happened.

No lightbulb moment. No angelic appearances. No burning bushes.

Nada.

Until one day, it dawned on me that God steers, rather than points. That faith is action in the absence of knowing, kind of like courage is action in the presence of fear.

I began to accept the reality that my life isn’t a single path. It is a collection of paths.

Since that time, I’ve emerged as a contrarian thinker. I believe for every “truth” there’s an opposite truth. For example, if life can be a linear path, it can also be a nonlinear portfolio.

There is a myth running rampant in schools and self-help books. It tells us to “follow our passion”.

If we follow our passion, the thinking goes, then we can achieve success and happiness in our careers and lives.

Except it doesn’t work out for most people.

Why?

I’ve recently stumbled on the work of Cal Newport, a young academic and prolific author who explores this question. And he offers an alternative to “following your passion.”

If you are struggling to find your calling, please invest time in hearing Newport speak on this topic. I think it will breathe new life into your life and work, as a Creative.

And drop me a note by replying to this email. Tell me what you think. Or, better, tell me what you’re struggling with as a Creative. I’d love to try to help you in some way.

Stream the video here. And don’t wait for a better time later today. It won’t come. The best time is right now.

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on November 16, 2012.

Jack Kerouac’s novel, The Dharma Bums, is about a guy trying to practice minimalist living in a quest to find truth, freedom and enlightenment in a materialistic society.

Sofia Coppola’s film, Somewhere, is about the disconnect that “celebrity” brings to actors’ real lives.

John Mellencamp’s song is a little ditty about Jack and Diane.

Every creative work is about something. Yet certain creative works seem to transcend what they’re about, while most seem mired in mediocrity. Or at the very least, they are consumed and forgotten.

Why is this? And what is it that lifts a creative work to that transcendent level?

I have no clue why. But I have a theory about what distinguishes one work over another.

Everything is about something. But not everything stands on its own, apart from what it’s about.

Every book is about an experience. But a few books are the experience.

Every painting is about a subject. But a few paintings become the subject.

Every song is about emotion. But a few songs embody the emotion.

I call this the tension of “being vs. being about”.

I have no hope whatsoever that this little essay will transcend anything. It is what it is—an essay about a tension that exists in art. I expect you to consume, then discard it.

But there are essays (and poems and books) that I am crafting in which I’m trying to enable them to lift off and, hopefully, fly. I want each to be an experience, rather than merely be about experiences.

Each time I read Kerouac’s novel, it is an experience.

Each time I watch Somewhere, I enter the story with Johnny Marco and completely lose myself in the film.

I don’t like the song Jack & Diane, so it doesn’t move me (except to turn it off).

For you, it’s probably the opposite. I’m betting you would hate Kerouac and Coppola and that you crank up the sound when Mellencamp’s ditty starts to play.

Transcendent experiences aren’t universal. They are very personal.

So I offer this: Each time you begin a new creative project, work hard to make the subject so compelling, it transcends what it’s about and becomes its own experience.

If only for yourself.

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on October 26, 2012.

The word “spirit” has it.

So does “respite”.

Inspiration. Aspiration. Perspiration. Expiration. They have it.

Even the word “conspire” has it.

The root word in each of these words is “spir”. It means, “to breathe”.

That’s what we do, as Creatives. We aspire and perspire in order to inspire and offer respite for the spirits of others. We even conspire with other artists in these pursuits.

But it doesn’t stop there.

In order to breathe out in creative ways, we must breathe in the creative that surrounds us.

Block and burnout are two key challenges we face, as artists. We all encounter periods when we lack ideas or the energy to do something with the ideas we have.

It’s as if we run out of breath.

Next time you feel blocked or burnt out, remember that the creative life thrives on breath.

So move outside yourself and start breathing in any beauty you find around you.

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on October 18, 2012.

Sure, craft matters.

Knowledge matters, too.

Experience matters.

Technique matters.

A grounding in the history of your craft will serve you well.

But there is one thing every Creative needs. And many (most?) don’t have it.

It’s community.

Every one of us needs to belong to a community of Creatives who care about, understand, motivate, inspire and challenge us.

Do you have this? Do you belong to a writers’ community? Or an artists’ community? I’m not talking about online. And I’m not talking about a paid class or seminar either.

I’m talking about a group of friends and colleagues. In your city. Where you talk eye-to-eye.

How I Discovered Community

From a fairly early age, I was drawn to the written word. I kept journals and sketch books. I wrote stories and songs.

I went to college to major in business, but felt like I was selling my soul to Satan. So on the day I had declare my major, I chose Literature. And it literally changed my life. I found my spiritutal and intellectual home among other writers, poets and book geeks.

In the years following college, as I moved around for jobs, I invested huge blocks of time honing the craft and submitting work to publications. In time, though, I drifted away from my creative life, as the demands of work grew and, eventually, took over.

And then I bottomed out.

It was during this empty season that I started writing again. Then I started meeting and hanging out with other writers. Which led to paid writing gigs. And more hanging out with more creative types.

That period from 1997-1998 remains one of the most fruitful and fulfilling periods of my creative life.

These days, my life is incredibly demanding. I head corporate communications for a national healthcare company (in which I do a lot of writing). I own a small, private media company (in which I do a lot of writing).  At night, when everyone’s in bed, I write for healthcare, literary and lifestyle publications.

Last year, I started sensing that something was missing in my creative life (besides time and energy). And after some reflection, I came to the realization that I was working in a bubble. With more than a decade spent living and working in separate cities, I lacked a creative community. I was disconnected.

So I started reaching out to writers. Experienced writers. Aspiring writers. Poets. Teachers. Bloggers. And I started meeting with them to listen, share ideas and shoot the breeze.

I’m enjoying one of the most productive writing periods I’ve had in years. And I don’t doubt for a minute the energy these friendships are injecting into my head and heart as I sit down to write.

In the coming year, I plan to host a writer’s retreat for this little group of Creatives—I want to get everyone in a room, away from life’s distractions, and invite serendipity to join us. I’m also considering starting and leading small groups for aspiring writers in my office and church.

Do You Belong to a Community of Creatives?

If you do your homework, you’ll discover that every major and minor artist in history emerged out of a small, local community of artists to which they belonged. Some of these communities have names like Transcendentalists, Beats and Inklings.

My hope is that you belong to a community of Creatives. And if you don’t, I hope you create one. It will change you. And it will feed you. Trust me.

Every song and every chord is built on a root note. The root note is the foundation around which everything else aligns.

It’s time to add the note of community to the chord of your creative life.

From May 2012 to July 2013, I wrote a weekly series of intimate essays for writers and artists seeking a deeper connection with their identity and place as modern creatives. I called this series Root Notes. This was an essay in that series. It was originally published on October 12, 2012.