I’ve been collecting little inspirational moments over the past few months. From the times I’ve been treading water and thinking about quitting. The times I’ve been stuck and stumbling over how to write, and the little glimmers of inspiration that have kept me sane along the way.

These are the nuggets of gold I was hoping to publish at the end of the year in my “It’s hard, but I did it” article, once I had a completed first draft in my hands (oh, the dream!). But, much like the chocolate bars from my emergency earthquake preparedness kit, I needed them now, so here they are.

Maybe they’ll help you too…

Art is hard. Period.

I was at a convention recently (one of the perks of living in The Big CityTM), listening to Jim Zub talk about the reality of being a comic writer. And Jim said something I found incredibly helpful. Something that felt like one of those lightbulb moments. One of those— Stop the presses! Say that again! Why is no one filming this so I can play it back later— kind of moments.

He said that there’s a misconception in the art world that creating your art should be easy. You’re an artist, right? You claim to love what you do? So the act of creating it should be easy. It should be effortless. It should feel like flying every time you do it. And if it doesn’t, if it’s hard… then maybe you’re not a real artist.

If you’re struggling to create the thing you want to create, if you don’t come to your work every day inspired and loving it, then you’re pretending, you’re faking, you’re failing at this thing you claim to be. Art is a passion. A calling. It’s the thing we would do every day if given the chance. So if it’s hard, if it hurts, then you’re not a real artist.

And you know what Jim said.

Fuck that!

Making art is hard. Writing is hard. And it doesn’t make you any less of a writer if you sit down every day and it’s still fucking hard. Some people might find it easy, and that’s great for them, but something being hard does not mean that you’re not meant to do it. It doesn’t make you a fraud or a failure, not cut out for the big leagues.

All it means is that you’re doing it. Period.

After all, the only difference between a published writer and someone who once had a cool idea for a book is that one of those people sat down and got it done.

Being a writer, being an artist, is not some innate gift you either have or you don’t. It’s a skill, just like any other, that you work on, practice, hone and improve. And, just like any skill, you’re going to have days when it’s hard. Just because a skill is a passion doesn’t mean it’s always be sunshine and roses. Passion doesn’t negate the tough days. Or failing over and over again to learn how to do it better, like some dude who made a lightbulb once said.

No one bats an eyelid when an athlete says their workout routine is hard. Waking up at 3am, running 20k before breakfast, bench pressing 200lbs at the gym. “Yeah, good on you. That shit’s supposed to be hard. You’re pushing your body to the limit. You go, Glen Coco!”

But when an artist says it— says they spent the entire day staring at their canvass and every time they tried to paint, it felt like pulling teeth with rusty pliers— they’re met with judgement and a condescending little smile. “Oh, that thing you claim to love is hard for you? Maybe you’re not cut out for this. Maybe you’ve been kidding yourself. Maybe you should stop pretending and leave the real art to the professionals, kid.”

And you know what! To misquote Jim but capture the general gist of his creative genious: Fuck that!

Loving something doesn’t stop it being hard.

Finding something hard doesn’t mean you don’t love it.

And struggling to create art doesn’t mean you’re not an artist.

This shit is hard. And that’s ok. Some days will be beautiful; Gold flowing from your fingertips. And some will be dog shit. And even if most of the days are dog shit, hell, even if all of them are dog shit, that’s ok. You’re doing it. You’re doing it because it’s what you love, even if the physical act of doing it feels like a punch in the gut right now.

Having a hard time starting, having a hard time ending, having a hard time throughout the entire process doesn’t negate the fact that you are doing it. Doesn’t mean you can’t do it. Doesn’t mean you won’t do it. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it.

All it means is that you are doing it. And that you’ll continue doing it until it’s done.

Because that’s the next little pearl of wisdom Jim had to share. That when it comes to writing, when it comes to creating art of any kind, done is always better than good.

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Done is better than good

We all want to write the next New York Times bestseller. The next Game of Thrones, the next Name of the Wind. And some of us inevitably will. But finishing a thing will always be more important than making it perfect.

Sure, we can all picture this epic thing we want to create. How incredible it will be, how game-changing, all the things it will make us think and feel. But even the most incredible story idea isn’t worth shit. Why? Because it doesn’t exist. And the reason it’s incredible and perfect is because it doesn’t exist.

The botched, messy, stitched-together monster you will eventually create will always be better than the lofty idea you started with for one simple fact. It exists. Guaranteed, it could have been better. There will be things you wanted it to be that it’s not. Stuff you wanted it to say that it won’t. But it will exist. That is the victory.

Done is better than good.

So many artists finish their work and worry that it doesn’t live up to the idea they had when they started it. The spark that made them want to create it in the first place. But what you wanted it to be doesn’t matter. What matters is what it is.

If it exists, then it has the potential to speak to someone. To connect with someone. And that person doesn’t care what you thought it could be, or what you wanted it to be. They care what it is. What it means to them. What it says to them. And they can only do that when it exists.

You can only learn from it when it exists. You can only edit it when it exists. And you can only do it better next time… that’s right… when it exists.

And when you think of it like that: this hill we’re trying to climb doesn’t actually feel as steep as we thought.

This isn’t about writing a great story. This isn’t even about writing a good story. This is about sitting down and doing it. Whatever ‘it’ means for you. Coming back, even after the hard days, and doing it again.

Because that’s what makes an artist. Not golden days of effortless creation. But doing the thing, over and over again, until it’s done.

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All that glitters

I find it hard sometimes not to look for the beauty behind the words. Not to pretty things up and find some lofty thematic thread that makes all this rambling more ‘literary’ than it has any right to be.

But sometimes, honesty is the thing that matters. So here you have it. A little honestly from me to you: Right now, this is hard. I’ve never felt so uninspired, so unproductive, and had such constant, crippling self-doubt as I’ve had these last few months trying to write.

But. BUT. And here is where we pull each other back up, brush the dust from our clothes and pick the scrunched-up pieces of paper off the floor… I’m not quitting. We’re not quitting. Neither of us are quitting. We are going sit back down at that desk and it’s probably going to suck. It’s going to be hard, and it’s going to keep being hard. But we’re going to do it until it’s done. We’re going to push through. We’re going to keep pushing through. We’re going to take however long it fucking takes until we can sit back and be proud of the words we hold in our hands.

Are those words going to be great? No. Are they going to be good? Unlikely. But that doesn’t matter.

Good is irrelevant. This is about getting to that last page and writing THE END. Holding it in our hands and knowing we did it.

This isn’t the only book you’re ever going to write. This is just A book. One book. The first of many. This is how you learn. These are the training wheels. It will fall short. It will be awful in places. It will be all the things you don’t want it to be. And that’s ok, because we’re going to finish it. And when we have, we’re going to look back on this moment and think, “See, isn’t it good that we didn’t quit. Isn’t it good that I ignored every voice in my head that was telling me I couldn’t do it. And now I have this thing to show for it. An ugly, messy, ridiculous thing. But a thing that exists. A thing I can hold in my hands and say, “I did this.”

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Little pieces

So go forth and write. Whatever that means for you today.

If it means getting words on a page, do that. If it means staring out of a window for three hours and thinking about that line of dialogue that just doesn’t sound right, then do that. If it means writing something entirely different to force yourself to stop overthinking your original piece of work— then hey, do that. I’m here for it. That’s all I’ve been doing these past few days— writing things I love to remind myself that I love it. And hey! That still counts as progress.

Because the progress of the day is not measured in word count. It’s not measured in chapters behind you or plot points hit. It’s measured in sitting down and writing. That’s the only thing that matters.

We’re in a pass/fail class now. There are no varying degrees of success. No “If I get this many words down, then I can feel accomplished.” You’re letting yourself write. That’s the only thing we care about. You’re letting yourself think. Or plan. Or just sit with your work and feel about it for a few minutes a day.

That’s all we need. Little pieces, slowly building, that will eventually create a whole.

And, just to be clear, this rallying war cry to just sit down and write, no matter what comes out, doesn’t negate the need to take a break every once in a while!

Take a break when you need to, and try to be ok with needing to. Writing every day is a beautiful idea, but life happens. Work happens. And you need to step away from the story and breathe as much as you need to sit down and write it.

Don’t beat yourself up for getting coffee with a friend. Or for watching a shitty TV show after a long day. Your brain needs to power down and reset the same as your computer does. Living your life is not quitting. Taking a break is not quitting. Taking a month off to refresh your mind and remember why you’re doing this in the first place is not quitting. We’re in this for the long haul. Safe, sane, and consensual. So don’t beat yourself up for being human.

And know, right now, that you are going to do this. It might take 6 months, 12 months, two years, maybe longer. But we are going to get there. We’re going to get it done! And then we can look back, with cocktails in our hands, and wonder how the hell we did it.

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I hope this helped. In some way. On some level. Or at least made you realise that wherever you’re at in your writing journey, at least you’re not as lost as me.

And for those of you who are finding this hard— soul-crushingly, emotionally-wrecking, doubt-spirallingly hard— know that it’s not just you. That I’m right here with you. And when we do reach the end, we can raise a glass together, with our messy, disastrous, cobbled-together manuscripts on the table between us, and say, “Fuck me, that was hard! Wanna do it again?”

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To J-. You keep me writing. We’re gunna do this. Whatever ‘this’ we want to do. And when we do, the world can blame you for whatever literary monstrosity I inflict upon it ;P