• There is a deep art to the work you do. No matter the form, no matter the specialism, your artistry and creativity are crucial for meaningful work.

    Creativity, I believe, is a function of the Artist within us—the archetypal character that makes something from nothing. We all have it inside. It’s what connects us to our innate creative power.

    Unfortunately, many of us are trained out of it, or even worse, don’t believe we have it to start with!

    How we kill creative genius

    There’s a fascinating study done by NASA in the 60s, exploring levels of creativity and innovation in people (they wanted to hire more creative engineers). For some reason, they used the same test on a bunch of kids, to see how they’d do. What they found was amazing.

    98% of these 5-year-olds scored as “creative geniuses”. The highest level in their model.

    But as they retested them over time, the creativity level steadily declined, until as adults less than 2% of those same people scored as creative geniuses.

    This of course begs the question: what the fuck happened in between?

    Well, school happened. And our assimilation into the culture that designed the schools.

    At school, we’re taught that work consists of a series of tasks which are put in front of us. We must complete the task, which means “getting it right”. The list of sums, or the drawing of a flower. We know it’s complete, and we got it right when the teacher says so.

    In my school, this was literally built into the workflow. When I was done with my task, I would get up, walk across to the teacher’s desk, and show her what I’d done. She would then check it and tell me if it was right or not.

    We are trained to take tests – the object of which is to get the right answer. The right answers according to whom? The people who make the test of course.

    “OK children. This morning we’re all going to make Mother’s Day cards.”

    We’re shown how to make a correct Mother’s Day card, which involves lots of reds and pinks, flowers and hearts. This is demonstrated to us through the materials we’re given to make these cards. You guessed it – red and pink paper, and pictures of flowers and hearts. The text for the inside of the card is displayed on the board so everyone can see.

    We know we passed the test when the teacher says, “ah that’s lovely”. We know we failed if she says, “that’s very ‘interesting’, but you were supposed to put hearts and flowers on it”.

    And so, day after day, year after year, we spend our childhoods being indoctrinated into the idea that life is about getting the right answers on the test.

    This is how we kill our creative genius.

    Creativity comes from the Artist inside

    Creativity does not want to be assessed according to right or wrong, it’s trying to get outside the box that the test came in.

    There is no “right form” for a piece of writing. There is no “correct” way to make up a story.

    Our creativity comes from the spirit of an archetype—the Artist—something we all possess inside. It was there when we were 5 years old. It’s still there now. And it contains the deep code that allows you to reach beyond the known world and create things you didn’t know you could make.

    This capacity is particularly important for us as entrepreneurs (people who make a business from the things they’re both good at and called by). For it is the Artist in us that expresses our deep creative power.

    The growth of a business involves the forging of new pathways. It means doing things you’ve never done before.

    And you’re here in life to do something that’s never been done before. Not the way you do it. And without the Artist inside, it’s almost impossible to find the path.

    So often we’re shamed in the creative act as children, and we learn to bury the Artist inside. As adults on our career pathway, we’re usually taught that art is “outside the business scope”.

    But it’s always here.

    It’s inside you right now. It’s the part of you that knows how to just make something, without a clear idea of what you’ll end up with. This is the magic of the Artist archetype—to channel things from beyond you into forms that surprise even you.

    The art that we create touches others, moving them through some indefinable sense of beauty. And it teaches us to see something new, even though the thing is often hard to name.

    Following the creative impulse

    Are you conscious of the Artist in you? Do you recognize your own artistry?

    Maybe you read these words and think “I’m not an artist”. This is common, and understandable. But it’s not actually true. You are an Artist—you possess this archetypal power. But perhaps it is not fully activated. Or it’s sitting dormant, waiting for you to wake it up.

    What ‘crazy’ idea wants to come through you? What’s the idea you’re already holding, of something you want to make?

    Perhaps it’s a teaching program on a topic you feel really moved by, but don’t know how to structure. Perhaps you want to write something or sculpt something. Maybe you want to create a strategic plan for your business. There is an art to all of these things.

    The Artist is moved to create. You feel it in your body—a feeling of excitement, fear and possibility.

    Can you feel the impulse? It’s in there somewhere, fizzing with glee, hoping you’ll pick it up and run with it. It may be subtle. You may need to quieten and still yourself to be able to feel it.

    The thing with art is, you don’t know where you’re going to end up. And it’s easy therefore to dismiss the impulse as impractical or silly.

    That’s our cultural code still at work, telling you to get back to the “right” work with the “right” answers.

    Creativity doesn’t follow this code. It’s taking you somewhere much more surprising.

    Trust the impulse. Follow it. See what comes out. See what you create.

    You don’t have to act on every single one! But if you act on none, you will never find out how creative you really are.

    If you’re feeling courageous, you could even tune in right now. Actually take a moment, and tune in…

    Feel your own body. Notice the sensation of the impulse. Then ask yourself “what do I feel moved to create?” And see what shows up.

    What’s the thing you want to make?

    Feel it. It has life energy. If you want, you can ride the impulse and see where it takes you. This is the creative power that the Artist gives you.

     

    This is part of a series of articles about the Artist, the Merchant, and the Seeker—core archetypes that underpin entrepreneurial work.

    My book on these archetypes will be published this Spring.

     

    Ewan Townhead

    , , ,

  • There’s an idea I’ve been fascinated for years now. It’s one of those things that has endured through different businesses and phases of my life.

    It is the idea that there is a new kind of professional role being formed in society at large – a kind of entrepreneur who is soul driven in some sense. A role where one’s professional work, is not seen as distinct from their spiritual path of awakening. It’s why I called my previous brand The Realized Entrepreneur.

    At the end of last year, I started writing about an archetypal way of modelling this character. I suggested that this new professional could be seen as the integration of three intrinsic archetypes – the artist, the merchant and the seeker.

    I then suggested the intersection of these was the hero.

    Honestly? I’m not convinced I’ve got the mapping quite right. But after a few months exploring some different writing avenues, I’m returning to this map in search of answers. Specifically, a topic that’s gnawed at me for years, that is, how on earth do art and marketing fit together?

    Temperamentally, I usually love creating new stuff, and desperately resist marketing it. And I know I’m not the only one that is like this.

    Is that because marketing is for shallow schmucks who can’t create interesting enough stuff that people naturally pay attention to?  Or is this my precious pretensions restricting me from actually publishing myself?

    Can the artist and the merchant work together?

    The Artist

    The artist is principally concerned with creativity. His objective is to create something original, something that provokes a deeper experience of the world, or elegantly solves the most complex of problems.

    Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and so the artist creates things that they themselves find beautiful. They create to meet their own taste.

    They are driven by the creative impulse. And creativity, as Seth Godin so eloquently defines it, is the tension between “this might work” and “this might not work”. If you know it will work, or you know it will not, it’s not creative. If it’s pre-determined it’s not art.

    Art is not painting, it is not poetry, it is not design. It is what is created when we venture beyond the border of what we know, and allow the mysterious forces there to guide our hand as we create something that intrigues us. The artist knows that he does not truly control this creative process. 

    And so the artist is one who is furthest away from the mainstream. They are by definition at the fringe, for it is only at the fringe that you will find the boundary between the known and the unknown.

    The Merchant

    The merchant is principally concerned with trade. Her objective is to relationally connect with other people and swap what they each possess, and improve the lives of everyone involved.

    The merchant operates in a relational space, connecting those who need something, with those who can supply it.

    The marketplace is a full and bustling arena that determines what is good and needed. And so the merchant seeks to understand what is in short supply, what is in high demand, and how to best make trades that fill people’s needs.

    The merchant trades in value. She seeks out objects or goods, that she believes will be of value to those she can reach.

    The merchant believes that what they have to offer is valuable – that it would help others – and so they feel no shame in promoting their wares to others. For in fact, to withhold their wares would be to violate their chief objective and belief: that consensual trade is good.

    And so the merchant is one who connects people, allowing them to relationally exchange for their mutual benefit. They are by definition in the midst of things, for it is from the middle that the different sides can be connected in mutual exchange.

    A philosophical clash of values

    From the perspective of the artist, the work of the merchant is ugly.

    The artist looks at the trading that makes up the merchant’s nature and sees only presumption, and manipulation. The merchant seems to increases the shallowness of life which the artist seeks to deepen.

    The artist never presumes to know the needs or will of another. This is the antithesis of their work. To presume the mind of another and to create something for them – to meet their need – is not art. This would be to prostitute their creative talents for money or mutual exchange. In other words, to “sell out”, which to the artist is an aesthetic crime. And the merchant has made an entire career from selling out!

    Thus the artist condemns the merchant as ugly, shallow and greedy.

    The merchant is equally distaining of the artist. She looks at the artist as a narcissist. How does it help anyone to make such weird and odd things to satisfy one’s own personal whims? It seems to the merchant like a naïve and wasteful use of time.

    The merchant thus judges the artist as useless. For art does not help people with their needs, it is an indulgent luxury. What people need, are things they want to come back to day after day, things they will consistently trade for.

    The creation of art is unpredictable. The productive output of an artist is unpredictable, and the value of the art produced is unpredictable. The merchant is concerned with mutual benefit, about meeting the needs of others, and so from her perspective this creative unpredictability looks unproductive and selfish.

    Separation is no longer adequate

    While it has historically possible – perhaps even necessary – for these two archetypes to stay separate and pure, today’s world cannot sustain their separation.

    The artist needs the merchant. Because it is only the merchant who can be impartial as to the value of what the artist creates. The artist is so caught up in his creations that he finds it hard to step out of himself and effectively offer his art to those that would benefit.

    The merchant is guided by value exchange, and value is determined not by her own subjective opinions, but by the intersubjective consensus of the marketplace. If her customers thank her for a particular offering and return wanting more, then she trusts it is valuable. Her judgement of worth is intersubjective. Whereas the artist judges subjectively – whether he himself is impressed or moved by his creations.

    The merchant also needs the artist. Because left to her own devices, the merchant will simply rely on offering what the marketplace asks for. She will have no motivation to look deeper under the surface at what new innovation is required. As Henry Ford famously said (actually he didn’t, but he should have done because it’s a wonderful quote) “If I’d have asked people what they wanted, they would have said ‘faster horses’.”

    The needs of the market change. Things move on. And without the innovation of the artist, the merchant will continue to peddle popular and proven goods, being increasingly left behind, as evolution pushes the edges of what people need.

    These two opponents need one another.

    Without the merchant, the artist becomes increasingly obsessed with his own creative explorations, becoming out of touch with society at large, and not providing things that help and move people.

    Without the artist, the merchant becomes increasingly shallow, providing value that is popular, losing touch with the leading edge, and not risking new things that will change society.

    The necessity for integration

    The challenge for many of us, is that we must play both roles ourselves. Or at the very least, I would suggest we need to integrate these archetypal orientations in such a way that they are not at odds in our own psyche.

    The larger and more idealistic hypothesis is that it is the integration of these archetypes that will lead to the resolution of so many philosophical conflicts in our world.

    I’ll leave that grand idea for another day, and simply say that I believe it is imperative that we at least understand the intrinsic perspectives of these archetypes.

    As a native artist, my unconscious tendency is to fall into snobby distain for merchant activities.  If I’m not careful, marketing begins to  look rather ugly and uncouth, and I instinctively begin to distance myself from it.

    But unshared art is useless. Literally.

    The unconscious biases may be different for you (although I suspect many of you who read my work tend toward the creative and artistic). Nevertheless, the principle is the same – to progressively understand and embody these archetypes, allowing them to integrate and create a new kind of professionalism, a new kind of work.

    I would even suggest that bringing one’s art to the marketplace is one of the great evolutionary requests of this new world. It is a least one that burns brightly in my heart.

    For never before has art been so accepted in the marketplace, or more needed. But to bring our creative work to market means resolving philosophical conflicts that have deep roots.

    Playing favourites is not adequate any longer.

    Integrating these historically opposed worlds is what will contribute the creation of a new one.

    Ewan Townhead

    , , , , ,

  • You want to make it don’t you? That thing that’s been nagging at you for weeks or years.

    It feels big. It’s tugging at your sleeve. It won’t leave you alone, although you do your very best to ignore it.

    “Create me!” It says, so innocently. As if it were the simplest thing in the world.

    But simple it is not!

    The stakes are high. Your sense of self is on the line. Your level of self-worth will be appraised. Because this thing is not just a cool idea, or a part of your career strategy, it’s the thing your soul wants you to create.

    I know you know what it is. And if what I’m saying is starting to irritate you, then you definitely know what it is.

    So what are you waiting for?

    You’re waiting until you feel stronger.

    You’re waiting until providence arrives to help you.

    You’re waiting until you have more of a cushion to fall back on.

    You’re waiting until you feel ready.

    Because there’s this point in the future, when things will be different. Right?

    You’ll be braver, or more prepared. You’ll have more experience. Or maybe a bunch of people will ask you to make it, so you’ll know it will work. You’ll have evidence that it will work! You’ll feel inspired!

    Better to wait until then, when you’re ready.

    None of this is actually true. But it’s the only story your mind can spin that will protect you from the truth. It’s the only way it can spare you the humiliation of admitting that actually, you’re scared.

    Who wants to admit they’re afraid, and bottling it!?

    No, much better to justify the whole thing to yourself.

    You’re not ready

    God. You’re so tired of believing it all. And believe it you do.

    You believe it in the moment you load up Facebook, or pour another glass or wine, or turn on the TV, rather than turning toward your soul, and at least hearing what it wants.

    “You’re not ready.” The fear whispers.

    You believe it when you notice you feel jealous about everyone else who seems to be so on mission.

    “It’s fine. You’re not ready to be like them anyhow.”

    You believe it when you just diligently get on with your tasks, and go through the motions.

    “Yes, better to just stick to what you’re good at. You’re not ready yet. Just wait.”

    He’s so sure of himself. He is adamant about the risks at hand. He seems so strong. He has so much authority. It’s no wonder you’ve followed his advice.

    But it’s not working. Under his leadership, you’re suffering. He promises much. Much never delivers.

    Go gently. But go.

    So, what are you waiting for sweetheart?

    I know. It’s fucking scary. That’s a good sign. It means you were right, and this is indeed the call of your soul.

    But you’ve got to be brave. Ok?

    Don’t push yourself too hard. That will only get good old fear freaking out again. You need to look after him too.

    Take it easy. Go gently. But go!

    Otherwise you’ll be waiting until it’s safe. And it will never be safe.

    What’s the first step? The first tiny step. The smallest step you can imagine.

    If you can’t do even that, just write down what it would be.

    “If I were to follow the call of my soul, the first small step would be…”

    Pin it on your refrigerator. And keep looking at it. Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.

    That’s it. That’s your first step. You just took it.

    Say “well done.” Say it out loud.

    Then take the next step tomorrow. Or next week. Just make sure you keep moving.

    The speed at which you progress is not the point. Moving is. This is how we feel good about ourselves. This is what tells us we’re doing the right thing.

    Look with honest eyes, at what it is you are called to create. And then watch yourself as you move slowly toward it.

    That is the feeling of being on purpose.

    Ewan Townhead

    , , ,

  • Because if you do, you will gift to the world expressions and stories that only you can give. And we want them. Need them even.

    You see beauty that no one else sees. You hear truth that no one else listens to. You have a belief in the goodness of the world that is completely unique to you.

    And your mission, if you cease to refuse it, is to make it. And give it. And move people.

    That’s what art does. It moves people.

    It moves them into something deeper in themselves – a place of ungrasped potential, or dishonoured tears.

    They are moved into a different vision. They see life’s landscape through your eyes, and something touches them. And their world changes.

    What is your art?

    Your art is your expression of your inner world, in outer form.

    The medium is less important. Writing. Song. Public speaking. Film. Facebook posts. Sex. Massage. Carpentry. Whatever feels good. Whatever allows your expression to be woven into something potent.

    What’s important is that you practice channelling your expression. No one can teach you what your expression is. They can teach you technique. They impart principles of practice. They can give you maps for the journey. But the expression is yours. It follows no rules. Except the rule of authenticity, which is not really a rule at all.

    The practice of expression is very simple.

    1. Express yourself through art
    2. Repeat

    The greatest teacher is your own experience.

    No one can teach you your expression, because your expression is simply what happens when you sink into yourself, and make stuff.

    Just as no one could teach John Lennon to be John Lennon, no one can teach you to be more you. Except you.

    Making it

    Making it is very simple.

    You carve out time, and you make it.

    If you’re a writer, you sit down and write. If you’re a tantrica, you feel your desire and fuck. If you’re a dolphin whisper, you get in the water and talk to dolphins.

    The goal is not to make good stuff; the goal is to make stuff. Good is not in your realm of control. Making is. And more you make, the more goodness you will craft.

    If you paint a hundred paintings, some of them will suck ass, half of them will be below average, and a handful will catch something beautiful in a way you couldn’t have predicted.

    Doing it every day is best.

    Doing is whether you feel like it or not, is crucial.

    It doesn’t count if no one sees it

    Art is something that moves people. If you don’t share it, then no one can be moved, and so it is not art. It’s a thing you made, and then hid.

    Once you’ve made it, give it away.

    Then it’s not yours anymore. It never really was to begin with. You were its parent. And the time comes, when you must let that child go its own way in the world. You cannot choose its impact.

    You don’t have to share all of your art. It’s better to not share all of it. Because a lot of it is junk. But you probably need to share more than you think you should.

    Risk over exposure.

    Do not try to repeat your success

    Listen for the impact your art has. What struck a beautiful chord? What hit a bum note? Notice how it permeates the people that engage it.

    But do not try to ‘repeat your success’.

    Art is the expression of novelty. You cannot repeat novelty. If you try to replicate novelty, you will simply mimic the past, and that is not art.

    So listen, very carefully, and let your impact on others impact you. Ruminate on its lessons. Let it work you.

    And then when you sit down the next day to make your art, forget all of it.

    Your excuses mean something

    They mean it’s something important that your resisting making.

    “I don’t have enough time, I’m too busy.”

    “I’m not good enough, it won’t work.”

    “It’s not appropriate, people will judge me for it.”

    These are the voices of resistance. Resistance is the density you feel when you try to push through into an explored place, like cutting your way through a virgin jungle.

    Following the advice of your resistance is choosing the wrong guide. Resistance wants you to turn around and return to safety. So go deeper into the exact place resistance is telling you to avoid. That’s where your art is.

    The closer your art is to your soul, that bigger the resistance you will feel.

    Choose your art and make it

    Today, I’m going to carve out 45 minutes.

    I’m going to sit down, and write about things that want to be written about.

    Then I’m going to do the same thing tomorrow.

    I’m going to share more of my art than seems sensible.

    I’m going to listen for the feedback, and then I’m going to dismiss it.

    I’m not going to be lulled into believing my resistance.

    I’m going to touch people.

    In the way only I can.

     

    Now it’s your turn.

    Go.

     

    Ewan Townhead

    , , , ,

  • You probably have an idea that you haven’t made and shared yet.

    I don’t know exactly what it is, but if you think about it, you probably have a bunch of reasons why it’s not time to share it with the world yet. Maybe it’s an idea for a course you want to make, or a workshop, or a painting, or a show, or a book, or even an entire business.

    The process of turning an idea into a real thing can be an arduous one. Especially if the idea is dear to me. In fact, the more exciting the idea, the more important it feels, the more confronting the prospect of actually manifesting it usually feels.

    And while our procrastination is utterly understandable. It is also, I believe, unnecessary. And I want to tell you why, and how you can take a different route to the creation of your inspiration.

    The day I drunk my own medicine

    I’m about to lead the final session of a group coaching program I’ve been running for the last 7 months. It’s been a special experience for all of us.

    The group looks little like the vision I had in my head when I conceived it. It’s not even the promised program that I enrolled people into.

    It started with an interview I did. Towards the end of the interview I was asked what final piece of advice I had for people watching. I said “launch before you’re ready.”

    I’d been practicing the principle for some time with my writing – publishing things despite my insecurity wanting to endlessly tinker with them. I’d published more regularly than my perfectionistic ego felt was safe.

    I’d launched my website the previous year before I felt ready as well. I’d procrastinated for months, and so in the end, after some help from a friend, I launched, with simply a front page. It had the name on it, an evocative picture I’d found, some prose and vague promises and a sign up box that offered free updates (I didn’t mention the fact that I didn’t really know what I’d be updating you on).

    So when I answered the question, and said “launch before you’re ready”, I contracted for a moment. I realized I’d just busted myself. Because I was thinking about launching a group program for the first time, and I was procrastinating, and I wasn’t taking my own medicine. I confessed this to her. And I said I’d follow my own advice.

    “If you are not embarrassed by the first version of your product, you’ve launched too late.” – Reid Hoffman

    And so the very next week I followed through. I put a small note on the bottom of a blog article I published. It said…

    “If you want to really dive into this, I’m going to be running a new small group coaching program called Creating The Work You Were Made For.

    I’ll be inviting 6 people to work with me closely for 3 months, and learn how to connect to, create, share and sell their essential work. Interested?

    Write “I’m interested” in the comments below and I’ll email you more details.”

    And a bunch of people did. And I enrolled the program from that group of folks.

    You don’t need to pretend you have all the answers

    I tell you this story, not to demonstrate any competence that I may possess. But to try and illustrate a point. That if you have something you’ve been thinking about creating and sharing, there is a way to succeed, without having to know all the answers, or plan the whole thing exhaustively, or know where it will end.

    If you instead use your authentic ignorance as a part of the launch itself, something very powerful is allowed to unfold. Because you do not hoard all the creativity for yourself, you allow your followers or clients to participate in the creative process with you.

    I didn’t know exactly what my program would look like, I didn’t know exactly what the curriculum would be or how I was going to structure it. I had a theme and a rough skeleton, but little more.

    But the seed of the idea was clear. It was a group program for 6 people, over 3 months. And it would be about helping people create and share their own true work. So that’s all I said.

    Now let me be clear, there is a difference between telling people about your thing before it’s finished, and there’s dumping a big pile of confusion on people and expecting them to sort the quality from the chaff. The first one takes courage, the second one laziness.

    But our tendency so often, is that we wait too long. The ripe fruit is not shared, we think it needs to mature further, until it begins to go black. So that’s what I decided to do. I shared the fruits of my idea.

    If no-one had commented on my invitation, I would have binned the whole thing right then. It would have stung my ego for sure. But at least I would have got real feedback immediately. It would have stung a hell of a lot more had I spent 2 months designing the program and writing extensive marketing materials for it, and then no one had commented.

    But as people began to tell me they were interested, I went to the next level of detail. I sat down to brainstorm ideas, and then the same day I wrote a letter direct to all the people that were expressing their interest. I tried to tell the truth.

    If you’re reading this page, you must have told me you’re interested in the program I’m running. I’ve launched this program in a somewhat unconventional way. I announced it before I knew exactly what it would be.

    So, from reading this page, you should get a really good sense of what this program is about, but you won’t get all the details. Because I’m actually still designing it, based on who registers!

    In fact, to be even more accurate, if you decide to come and be a part of this, you’ll be designing it along with me, as we go along. It will be alive, organic, unplanned (apart from the meticulous planning I will of course do behind the scenes because I’m a perfectionistic idealist who wants to serve the shit out of you.)

    I told them everything I did know about the program. And I told them where I was vague. And I told them things would definitely change.

    And they did.

    The design process continued throughout the entire enrollment

    The first time I sat down with one of the potential participants things changed. We had a really powerful conversation, I understood more deeply where she was at and what she needed. As we talked about it I realized the time frame felt too short.

    “I have a feeling 6 months would fit better for this thing, how would that be for you?”

    “Actually, that really relaxes me. Yes it feels much better.”

    I checked it out with other possible participants, they agreed. So I changed it to 6 months, not 3.

    Because I’d been explicit in that first letter about the experimental nature of the program, it gave me the freedom to change my mind as I talked with people. Those enrollment conversations were as much about discovering what they needed as they were about me inviting them to participate. I learned so much.

    If I had simply made it all up on my own and then presented it fully determined, I would have missed so much.

    And that is what I love about this principle. That by being explicit that you’re experimentally discovering the nature of your creation, as you create it, it loosens the habit we all have, of pretending we know more than we do, and telling people how it is.

    Launching before you’re ready conquers your resistance

    I’d been procrastinating on the group program idea for a long time. I’d first brainstormed ideas for it 9 months before. Though to be honest, I’d had the desire to run my own small group program for years, and never pulled the trigger.

    “It’s not quite time, I need a bigger following first, or at least a bit more experience.”

    “I don’t know what I’d teach, let’s just let the more mature ideas emerge organically.”

    “The prospect is really hard. I’ll just not put my attention on it so I don’t have to deal with the fact I know I’m stalling because I’m afraid.”

    We justify it to ourselves. “I’m not ready.” Or to be more accurate, I don’t feel ready. We’re trained to prepare and know all the answers. In school exams, or business presentations, or interviews, we’re demonstrate our competence by giving intelligent, comprehensive responses. “I don’t know” is seen as a sign of incompetence.

    By deliberately launching before I was ready, I cut through my resistance in one fell swoop. Once it was out, I couldn’t take it back. Or I could, but I’d look like an ass, which I’m always determined to avoid.

    And all it took was 3 sentences on the end of a blog post.

    Us human beings don’t like looking stupid in front of our peers. So once you let other people know what you’re committed to, it’s a hell of a lot harder to back out.

    And we back out all the time. We have an idea, an exciting idea, we’re inspired, and then we think about how far away it feels, so we back out. And we justify it to ourselves. We say we’re not ready, or not worthy.

    But most of the time, that’s just resistance. It’s your safety zone trying to maintain its integrity. It’s current reality trying to preserve itself. It’s your ego wanting to keep things just the way they are.

    Resistance is cunning as fuck. And insidious. It will take any form it needs to stop you in your tracks.

    You don’t have to wait. You could do it today if you wanted.

    Do you have something?

    Maybe it’s been simmering in the background. Maybe you constantly think about it, and dream of the day when you’ll be ready to actually make it real. Maybe it’s a new idea that feels precious and fragile.

    What’s in your way? A story probably. One that says you need to be more prepared. One that says it would be irresponsible or inappropriate to launch that thing today. One that says you’re not qualified, or that no-one will give a shit if you put out an invitation.

    You may be a lot more ready than you feel. You may know a lot more than you believe.

    Your idea might be vague, or detailed. It might be just a name and an inspiration. It might be nameless and mapped out in structure. It doesn’t really matter. As long as you have something that people can say yes or no to, that something probably is enough.

    “I’ve been thinking about offering sessions for people that want to do naked pole dancing. I’m so passionate about it, I do it all the time myself. Are you interested? Email me at fuckyeah@nakedpoledancingamsterdam.com”

    Because once you release it to the world. It’s not just yours anymore. And it takes on a life of its own. And it takes you on a ride that you could never have mapped out in advance.

     

    Ewan Townhead

    , , , ,

  • When people ask me what I do, I say “I’m a writer.”

    Though that declaration is relatively recent, my history of writing is not.

    I wrote my first poem at age 7. I posted it on facebook recently – it got more likes than my contemporary writing.

    I wrote songs for many years, though I didn’t share them with as many people as I wish I had.

    During my final year at university I discovered that I was really good at academic writing. I’d realized that essays could be a fun way to explore my new ideas around philosophy, rather than simply exhausting the word count as quickly as possible the night before the deadline.

    Four years ago I had a brief stint with my own blog. The tagline was “Living life’s big questions.” Though, looking back, I was probably better with the big questions than I was with the living.

    A few people really liked what I had to say. Then I had a massive confidence crumble over a rejection episode, and quietly took the thing down.

    I wrote a number of blogs for Waking Up the Workplace. My favorite being this one about business plans.

    I channeled most of my ability into copywriting (which is a whole different ball game). I spent years practicing it. When I coupled it with my strategic mind, I discovered I was good at marketing. It helped me build three small businesses.

    I would write for ‘real’ in private though. And occasionally, I’d read things to people, and they’d be really impressed. And I would be relieved, because I was scared of people not liking my precious creations.

    Then last year I decided to create what became this website – The Realized Entrepreneur. I didn’t know it was going to become a blog. I thought it would mainly be a podcast.

    And today marks 1 year since I published the first article on this site.

    So much has changed. So fucking much. I feel deeply grateful for the journey I’ve been on.

    So to celebrate, I decided to write honestly about my experiences. My wins, my stumbles, my hard-won wisdom.

    I hope firstly that it’s an entertaining read. I also hope it helps you. Especially if you’re a writer.

    These are my 5 lessons, from a year of writing.

    1.     Sentencing the Inner-Judge

    Before I launched this site, or told anyone I was launching it, I was writing for it.

    I was busily trying to script out the first podcast episode which would be just me talking about the project.

    I spent weeks and weeks on it.

    Writing, re-writing. Editing, re-editing. Doubting. Writing again. Throwing it away. Pulling it out of the trash. Editing some more.

    I would do extensive journaling while writing, exploring the struggles I was having with myself.

    Some days I would only get two sentences in before the inner dialogue would start up.

    “You need to sound like you know what you’re talking about Ewan. You need to sound authoritative, strong, and deeply wise, otherwise no-one will listen to you. Don’t put that vulnerable shit in there. That won’t work. Be impressive.”

    I’d try, but the clench in my gut would twist my words into empty shells of pretence.

    I tried going ultra-philosophical, the 40,000 foot view – the map of business as it could be in the coming decades.

    “Dude. You haven’t lived what you’re writing. You’re so out of integrity. You’re hiding behind big ideas aren’t you? Be real man, this isn’t working at all.”

    And then sometimes it would descend into self-abuse.

    “You piece of shit. This fucking sucks man. And you know it don’t you? Because you suck. What are you even doing here? Go home and cry like a little bitch.”

    I was so very hard on myself when I didn’t get it right.

    But really, I was afraid. Deeply afraid. I was afraid to start. I was afraid to put that ‘first thing’ out there.

    I’d launched a whole bunch of businesses and products before. But this time it was just me, and the things I really cared about.

    And I was afraid I’d be rejected.

    This is Lesson One. Starting is really hard, so do it before you’re ready.

    I was trying so hard to get it right before I launched. I really, really wanted to look competent, worthy and wise, like someone people would hire, or tell their friends about.

    I thought I needed to get it right before I shared it.

    I now know this is impossible.

    It’s never ‘right’. It’s art.

    Art is something that comes through you, from deep inside, or way high up. It’s your unique expression, it’s no more right than one person’s heart is more correct than another’s.

    It may not be right, but it is important. It matters. Deeply.

    And so, you never feel ready.

    I never felt ready. Because starting is like leaping into the unknown. And so far, I’ve never fully prepared for that.

    I ditched the script in the end, and started more simply, and after a few more false starts, I did release it into the world.

    And it was incredibly scary.

    And my hand shook as I pressed send on the email.

    And it was beautiful.

    And I’m so grateful I found the courage to do it.

    2.  The most powerful question I know

    Fast forward. It’s now December. I’ve got 2 months of writing and publishing under my belt (all four articles!). And I wanted to publish one last piece before the Christmas holidays.

    I had a title: ‘The most powerful question I know’. It was a question I’d spontaneously started asking myself the previous year during a very tough period.

    I’d been back at my parent’s house as a 30-something, my relationship on the rocks, wanting to get out of the work I was doing, not knowing how to make any money. I was in real crisis.

    Then during a cigarette smoking sessions in the garden shed this question emerged…

    “What is being asked of me?”

    I’d used it repeatedly, and it had helped me through some hugely challenging and anxiety inducing moments.

    I finished drafting the article at 3pm on Christmas Eve. I was short on time, so just read it through once, and then posted it.

    I shared it on facebook, closed my laptop and left the café.

    An hour of Christmas present shopping later and I pull out my phone to see if anyone has ‘liked’ my facebook status.

    I’m fully expecting my usual 3 likes (my mum, my girlfriend, and me), but today it’s different. People are really impacted by it.

    This is Lesson 2. Success is neither predictable nor controllable

    The article went ‘viral’. As in, it spread out well beyond my normal circle of friends and followers.

    Up until that point my most read article had about 300 hits. This post was read by 1,500 people in the first 2 days.

    It felt like it came from nowhere.

    This is what I learned: it’s almost impossible to predict what will be ‘successful’. Because if you’re committed to genuine art, you’re creating from the unknown.

    If you try and aim for success, you’ll just replicate what you think is successful.

    The next article I wrote after ‘The Most Powerful Question I Know’ was one where I tried to replicate its success.

    It duly bombed. It’s still my least popular article.

    In other words, the less sure we are about the quality of what we create, the more likely it is that we’re in the unknown. And that’s where creativity resides.

    If you’ve done it before, it’s not creative. If you’ve heard it before, it’s not creative. If it’s safe, it’s not creative.

    Some stuff works. Some doesn’t.

    And I’m not sure I’ll ever be done learning this lesson.

    3.  A commitment to regular inspiration

    I can’t remember exactly how it came about. I think I’d been reading a lot of Seth Godin and Steven Pressfield at the time.

    But a realization came to me. And somewhere towards the end of winter I decided to write every single morning.

    It changed the game for me.

    Radically.

    The power of that practice is now so obvious to me, but at the time it was a pretty scary commitment.

    Someone once asked the writer Somerset Maugham whether he wrote on a strict schedule.

    “I write only when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.” ― W. Somerset Maugham

    I’d had this idea that inspiration and creativity were wild natural forces that could and should not be controlled.

    If I didn’t feel like writing? If I didn’t feel inspired? If the mojo wasn’t flowing? I wouldn’t write. And I continued to believe that I was a slave to the muse.

    Until I started to write every morning.

    I’d wake up, shower and meditate. I’d make a green smoothie and bike over to my favorite coffee house.

    I’d order a latte, and set my timer for an hour. And I’d write.

    And a lot of it sucked. And I allowed myself to journal sometimes instead. And it was hard, and I felt insecure a lot, and frustrated, and hopeless.

    And I’d still write.

    Every morning.

    And it changed everything for me.

    This is lesson 3. Make love to your muse, every day.

    Inspiration isn’t a finite and fickle resource, it’s what happens when you make love to your muse.

    Your muse is not a master that has enslaved you. And neither are you its master.

    Your muse is your lover. The creative spark that’s always already in you, and that ushers you toward new ideas, new moments.

    Make love with that place inside you every day.

    And you will grow to know one another ever more deeply.

    And your challenges will grow too.

    And so will the level of beauty you can tolerate, and the level of truth that you can speak.

    4.   Someone steals my work

    It was a new kind of article for me. I’d actually researched the topic (albeit spontaneously), that I had written about. Because it was a big topic.

    It was called Money Is Not What You Think It Is.

    I’d grown up with some pretty strong narratives around the nature of money, and I knew they were having a big effect on my work and business.

    I spent several thousand words exploring the whole topic, and the article got a really great response. Many people sent me messages about it.

    One was from a guy on LinekdIn – he said the article had really spoken to him in a time of struggle, and given him a sense of hope.

    The next day I was checking my messages again on LinkedIn and saw an alert about a new blog having been published earlier that day. It was called ‘Money Is Not What You Think It Is.’

    “That’s weird. That’s the name of my article.”

    Perplexed, I clicked through and discovered my own article, copied and pasted, word for word, under his own name.

    An interesting message exchange ensued, one that I decided to post on facebook, where my friends rallied around like the generous motherfuckers they are.

    The whole thing got a lot of attention.

    Lesson 4. I’m afraid of being seen.

    I really want me and my work to be recognized.

    The irony of the plagiarism episode was that my work got a lot of exposure. And while I was deeply touched, proud and grateful. I also got to feel how uncomfortable it was for me to be so exposed.

    Underneath all my adult strength, there’s still this really shy little boy who feels overwhelmed by big groups of people, and would rather sit inside on his own, following his curiosity.

    Writing is one half solitude and one half exposure.

    It doesn’t count if I don’t show anyone what I’ve written. And it doesn’t count if I only show the safe stuff.

    The truer I am to the work that wants to come through me, the more visible I’m going to become, and the deeper I’m going to have to face all the things I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding.

    5.  Turning up the publishing volume

    It’s the start of the summer. I’m in New York, and I’m on the phone with my men’s group. I’m about to make a commitment.

    I’d been putting a new piece out once or twice a month. But I’d decided I wanted to do it more regularly. As an experiment.

    I could think of two possible solutions. Either I upped the amount of time I was writing, in order to produce more articles to share.

    Or I dropped my standards, and published stuff that I didn’t think was good enough.

    I opted for the second one.

    “I’m going to publish a new article every week for the next 3 months.”

    The first week went by without a hitch. The second week got interesting.

    By this time I was in Texas spending some time with my mentor. I had an article half drafted, one on marketing. And I sat down to finish it.

    I read over it and something inside me said…

    “This is not good. It’s too markety, too superficial. I think I should be writing bigger philosophical pieces. People won’t like it.”

    I wanted to scrap it. That’s what I would have done before – bin it and write something new. But I didn’t have time, I had to publish today.

    So I finished it. And mailed it out to my list.

    Lesson 5. Don’t trust your own opinions.

    People really liked the article.

    I know a lot about marketing. And I also have a love-hate relationship with it. It doesn’t always fit my ‘creative writer’ persona very well.

    Which was why people’s reactions were an important lesson for me.

    If I’d have listened to my own ‘wisdom’ I wouldn’t have published anything at all on marketing, perhaps indefinitely.

    But by throwing it out I realized just how wrong I was. As a consequence, I also then got over of my marketing-snobbery and wrote some more marketing articles, and really enjoyed them.

    Travelling the courageous path

    These were 5 of my lessons. There are more lessons I’m in the midst of. Perhaps I’ll write about them another time.

    But for now I want to say this to you (and to myself, as perhaps all good writing is actually intended).

    You’re unique.

    Your voice is unique.

    Your writing is unique.

    But it’s probably buried under conventions, other people’s opinions and old stories. And the deeper you cut toward that core of your own authentic expression, the greater your discomfort will be.

    If something pours out, and you don’t know where it came from. Or you feel like you can’t possibly show it to anyone. Or you feel massively uncomfortable, and don’t like it. Or you’re really scared people will reject you. Or whatever it is that specifically tells you “YOU MUST NOT SHARE THIS!”

    That’s the one.

    That’s the moment of courage.

    That’s the decision to show your heart to the world, and become vulnerable to its response.

    That’s the moment that things will change. And it will be out of your hands.

    Because writing changes you.

    It changes me, every day I do it.

     

    Ewan Townhead

    , ,

  • Entrepreneurship and anxiety go hand in hand. You can’t separate them. Though I tried.

    I spent the majority of my early adult life trying to run from anxiety. I was scared about feeling scared.

    My first job was putting cheese on shelves in a big supermarket. It felt perfect at the time, because it was almost impossible to fuck up. And I was horrifically anxious about fucking up.

    Throughout my professional life, I used my considerable intelligence to avoid things that scared me. I turned down promotions, I dodged taking on more responsibility, and I tried to stick to stuff I knew I could do.

    Anxiety was something I felt but didn’t want.

    It was also something I considered a dysfunction.

    “People who are successful, and have their shit together, and are talented don’t get anxious. Anxiety is for people who get burn out or panic attacks.”

    And then I started getting panic attacks.

    It started right around the time I quit my last corporate job, nearly four years ago now. It scared the shit out of me the first time it happened – an intense pain across my diaphragm and solar plexus. 30 minutes where I struggled to breathe and keep my head above the panic.

    There was nothing in particular that would seem to trigger them. One would just erupt, and I’d try and ride it out. When I started getting woken up by them in the middle of the night, I got really scared.

    Something had to shift.

    I got interested in anxiety

    Even as an entrepreneur, I’ve spent considerable time and energy avoiding things I felt anxious about.

    It’s why I liked being the marketing guy. I could hide behind the scenes, and construct powerful strategies and funnels, without having to actually face people.

    My anxiety hit new levels during a hugely challenging, yet ultimately transformational period where I started asking the most powerful question I know.

    My relationship had fallen apart, my work was a mess, and I was living back in England with my parents at the age of 32.

    Things were not going well.

    I felt stuck in a loop. Desperately wanting to quit the start-up I’d co-founded, but having no idea how on earth I could earn money without it. I’d churn it round and round in my mind, day after day.

    The anxiety levels in my body were so high that I started meditating every day, simply to allow myself to function. I’d go on long daily walks in the woods or fields, caressing myself through panic and hopelessness.

    It was during this period that I started to actually get interested in anxiety.

    Anxiety comes in two (very different) varieties

    It was last year that I got interested in work of the amazingly pioneering, yet frighteningly under-celebrated business philosopher Peter Koestenbaulm.

    His work is quite unlike anything else I’ve read, and was a huge inspiration to me while I teased out my early ideas for The Realized Entrepreneur.

    In a freakishly synchronous moment, I discovered that one of my clients had been a student of Dr. K (as she called him). During a work week with her in Colorado, I found myself thumbing through an old out of print book by Dr. K that she’d lent me.

    I came across a distinction that has utterly fascinated me ever since. He said there are two kinds of anxiety.

    One is dysfunctional. One is not.

    One is inevitable. One is not.

    Neurotic Anxiety

    “Anxiety is experiencing failure in advance.” – Seth Godin

    Neurotic anxiety is simply a poor use of the human mind.

    As human beings we have a quite remarkable gift. We can imagine the future. We can imagine possibility. Neurotic anxiety is taking that gift, and using it to envision futures that we really don’t want.

    “But if I publish this thing, what happens if no-one at all likes it? What if it doesn’t work? And I discover I’m actually talentless, and a fraud, and I have to go back to stacking cheese on shelves for the rest of my life, and die, miserable and alone…?”

    Neurotic anxiety is experiencing failure in advance.

    The failure hasn’t even happened yet. Yet you’re already imagining it, and visualizing it, and expecting it.

    But your nervous system can’t tell the difference between your neurotic dragon, or a real tiger in front of you. The sensations in your body are the same.

    It’s an insidious habit. It’s a destructive habit. It’s a useless habit. It’s a warped and kinked experience of the true nature of anxiety.

    Existential Anxiety

    “Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.” – Soren Kierkegaard

    Or to put it another way. Anxiety is the feeling of the unknown. Anxiety is what you experience when you step into something you don’t know.

    The feeling in my nervous system is exactly the same, whether the anxiety is neurotic or existential. In other words, my body is hard wired to feel anxiety when faced with something I can’t predict, and something important is on the line.

    Anxiety is not an emotion. It’s a condition. It is the natural condition of a human being

    It’s the condition of aliveness, and being faced with a level of freedom that no other being we know about has access to. It’s the condition of having our feet on earth, our head in heaven, and the consciousness to notice.

    Are you scared of your own freedom?

    You are. It’s hardwired. When faced with the possibility of greater freedom, wider awareness, larger wealth, we’re built to pull back. Is it safe? We get dizzy, like vertigo.

    Anxiety is just the feeling of unexpressed creative potential. Anxiety is the jittery pulsing of a manifesting force, yet to be uncovered. Anxiety is the consequence of not daring to grasp the latent power we carry.

    Anxiety is the material from which the road of growth is made. Anxiety is the excess energy that you haven’t yet learned to conduct. Anxiety is the inevitable consequence of creating something that didn’t exist before.

    It’s not something to be avoided.

    It’s not even something to be tolerated.

    Anxiety is something to be sought out, like the bread crumbs of God, leading us deeper into the magnificence that we are.

    Ewan Townhead

    , , , ,

  • “I can’t write today, I’m not feeling inspired.”

    “There’s no way I can launch this new thing without the logo being finished.”

    “One day, I’ll be ready to create that thing I’ve been dreaming about. One day.”

    Resistance.

    The albatross around the neck of every creative entrepreneur. The bane of every artist. The greatest foe of anyone bringing something new into the world.

    Whatever you make – a book, a business, a design or dance-show – the process is the same. It is the mysterious, chaotic process of birthing something new. It is the practice of creativity.

    When you create, you meet the inevitable counter-force: resistance. Resistance is the evil twin of creativity. It is inseparable, unescapable.

    If you create stuff, you will feel resistance.

    The Naivety of the Common Artist

    “Man, I don’t think I’m capable of creating this thing yet. I need to go do some more x, y, z. Then, maybe I’ll be ready to start work on it.”

    I need more healing.

    I need to be more recognized first.

    I haven’t learned enough about this topic to create something about it yet.

    I’m not experienced enough to create this thing.

    I’m not ready.

    I’m not capable.

    I’m not worthy.

    And so goes the never-ending naivety of the common artist.

    It is not the fact that the artist feels resistance that makes him naive. No, the naivety lies in the belief that resistance can be overcome.

    The mistake that I have continually made, my clients have continually made, and my friends have continually made is this: to attempt to resolve resistance, before proceeding to the creation of whatever it is we are called to create.

    The mistake is thinking resistance is personal. The mistake is thinking resistance says anything about the state or worthiness of your own being. The mistake is thinking that the cause of the resistance must be integrated, healed or resolved.

    Resistance cannot be resolved. Ever.

    Resistance is Part of the Physics of Creativity

    I like watching Formula One motor racing. It’s the pinnacle of motor sport where some of the finest engineers in the world seek to push the edge of technology, and build cars that go ever faster.

    When a car drives at high speed, the thing that compromises that velocity is the air around it. The faster you go, the more the car has to punch through the air.

    In other words, the counter force to a car’s acceleration is air-resistance.

    This is simple physics.

    When racing-car drivers hit air-resistance they don’t slow down, wondering what went wrong.

    They don’t reason that it must be a mechanical problem that the engineers must repair before continuing. They don’t see it as a problem with their own technique that must be rectified back in the simulator.

    But this is exactly what most creative entrepreneurs do.

    Trying to resolve your doubts, and insecurities before creating your work, is like trying to drive a car without experiencing air resistance. It’s like trying to change the nature of physics.

    It’s naive at best.

    It is the physics of creativity.

    I Disregarded All My Own Wisdom

    Launch fast. Minimum viable product. Beta version. Lean approach. Try it out. Don’t be perfect.

    I knew all the theory. I knew the practice. I’d taught it to our students in the conscious business academy. I’d read the books. Watched the videos. Extolled its wisdom.

    It’s sound wisdom. The faster you launch, the faster you can get real feedback from your real community. Don’t get too deep before you test your assumptions in the marketplace. Don’t think you’re smarter than the tribe you’re here to serve. Perfectionism will crush your entrepreneurial creativity.

    The sooner you get out there, the sooner you start doing the real work. It’s not real until it’s launched. It’s not art until it’s released.

    I knew it all. And I disregarded it.

    “It’s not ready. I’m not clear enough. The copy isn’t right yet. The design needs to be more polished. The podcast doesn’t work without its intro music.”

    When I launched this website in October last year, it was a single page.

    200 words. A single picture. A small logo. A place for folks to put an email address in. There wasn’t even anything for offered for signing up, just a vague promise of impending wisdom.

    It had taken me 8 months.

    For that is how resistance works. The more you care about your creation, the more you will be tested. The deeper the place it comes from, the further resistance will leap to meet you.

    Resistance is a Dishonourable Foe

    He knows your weak spots, and he’s not afraid to go for them. He’ll play dirty. Honour isn’t part of his make-up. He’s here to shut down your creativity, and he’ll use whatever strategy he can find to do so.

    He’s clever, very clever. He knows exactly what guise to assume. He has perfect timing. And he has no scruples.

    Resistance had me by the balls as I was creating The Realized Entrepreneur.

    “This isn’t good Ewan. It’s too vague. It’s too pompous. It’s not practical enough. It doesn’t have enough depth. It’s an ugly design. You’re being too perfectionistic”

    If I’d have been wiser to his game, I would have noticed that his advice had no consistency. He just said whatever it was that would plant the seed of doubt, and then he’d water it relentlessly.

    “Yes, you don’t feel ready do you? That’s because you don’t understand your target customer yet, you can’t launch until you do. You haven’t nailed your core message yet, make sure that’s clear before you go public.”

    It sounded like good advice. It sounded like the advice that a very experienced marketer would give himself. So I listened. Thinking it was my own higher guidance.

    He even spoke to me during meditation.

    “Maybe you should re-write the front page copy? Yes? You knew there was something that didn’t feel right with that copy didn’t you? It’s all written in the 2nd person. That doesn’t fit with your principle of personal transparency. Better re-write it. Your integrity is important.”

    My god he was clever.

    What is Resistance?

    Resistance is not really a he or a she. And he’s definitely not you, nor even a real part of you. He’s not a real voice of wisdom, and he’s not to be trusted.

    He’s just air-resistance with a microphone.

    He’s just the desperate status-quo hijacking your inner dialogue.

    There’s no inner-guidance to hear. There’s no grain of truth to be uncovered. There’s no valid perspective to integrate. He’s just out to keep you stuck exactly where you are.

    Don’t listen to him. And for god’s sake don’t try to reason with him. Learn to see him. His power is based on non-detection. He’s like a spy behind enemy lines. You beat him as soon as his cover is blown.

    If he can’t move stealthily in and out of your sub-conscious mind, he will lose his control over you. Learn to spot him.

    6 Disguises that Resistance Wears

    1. You haven’t done enough work on yourself. You need more healing. You need to meditate more. You need to resolve a childhood trauma, because it’s really stopping the real you from coming forth. If you transform that part of you, then it will be real, and authentic.
    2. Waiting for creativity to flow. Not flowing today? Wait till tomorrow. Not flowing tomorrow? Wait till after your weekend break. You tell yourself you mustn’t force it. You don’t want to distort the purity of creativity. You must wait for true inspiration.
    3. You’re afraid people won’t like what you make. I want to create. But it’s scary. It’s exposing. It’s dangerous. What if they don’t like it? What if it’s not good? What if it’s not valuable? You tell yourself these are rational possibilities. You tell yourself that you must resolve your fear first.
    4. I’m not in a rush, I still have plenty of time. I don’t want to force it, rush it. I know it’s tough, and I’m probably experiencing some of this ‘resistance’ thing, but I have time left. It will come at its own pace. I don’t want to be all disciplinarian with myself. I have years left.
    5. You keep shifting focus. You’re working on one thing, then something happens, and you decide to work on something else. You’re writing an ebook, but before you finish, you switch to brainstorming about a new idea. You tell yourself you’re just ‘following the natural flow’.
    6. Resistance doesn’t apply to me. Nice theory. Nice idea. I don’t really think it applies to me though. I don’t have resistance like you’re describing it. I have genuine reasons I’m not creating my thing. It’s not resistance, it’s something else.

    Resistance is anything that stops you from creating the work you’re called to create. He is a ruthless foe.

    Go Forth and Create

    Creativity does not belong to me or you. The things we create do not belong to us. They are the possessions of God. The great spirit of evolution.

    Our gift is to create. To get out of the way. To make the unmakable. To speak the unspeakable.

    It is not our right to determine worthiness. That is the purview of history.

    Make it. Share it.

    And if the thing you make is not good? If it stinks?

    Let it hang. Like a fart in an elevator. Feel the shame. Smell the toxicity. Feel like an ass. Suck it up.

    Then go create more stuff.

    That’s how you beat resistance.

     

    Note: If resistance is the dragon that we all must face as creative entrepreneurs, then the original St. George is a man called Steven Pressfield. If you’re an artist – someone who makes stuff – and you’ve never read his work. Correct it. Now.

    Ewan Townhead

    , , , ,