This is the third section of The War of Art. It's the section that I've always had the hardest time with in terms of focus. I never understood what this section is supposed to be about. It talks about more spiritual aspects of creativity and it doesn't feel as concrete. So I'm probably going to talk about this section in more abstract terms. When I read the book version of Turning Pro, I felt like the advice felt more practical, which is what I felt in the first two sections of The War of Art. This is the section where it started to get all gaga googoo. Let's see if we can get through it.
The Forces We Call Our Allies
Pressfield calls these spiritual forces muses and angels. These are the forces that we wait for. These are the forces that seem to call up magic when we need it. But as Pressfield explains, the magic only happens when we sit down every day and are available to the magic. But magic doesn't occur without hard work. I find in my own work that since I've created a practice of working, the magic happens when I let go.
A month ago, I had already started to wind down. I knew that I had this pilot rewrite to finish. That's all I felt I needed to work on for the rest of the year. I wasn't feeling inspired. I wasn't feeling like I had a bunch of ideas swimming around in the queue of my brain. I kept saying to friends, "I'm out of ideas. I have nothing." Two days later, I had an idea for a new play. As I'm looking at the middle/end of November, knowing that I have a group session with my friends where we're going to each share 3-5 two minute pitches, I realize I have nothing. And by saying "I have nothing", I know that the muse is going to descend upon me at some point and supply me with some ideas. As long as I'm continuing to type every day, committing to the mechanics of the process, I know that something is brewing. I don't know what that is. I'm listening to Pat Benetar, I just finished listening to a bunch of podcasts, I had lunch with a new theatre friend - I'm taking in a lot of information. Something will come at some point. But I don't worry about it. I keep typing. I keep talking. I keep reading. And eventually -
Approaching the Mystery
I love the mystery. Correction: I've grown to love the mystery. I would freak out every year when I thought I'd have to come up with new ideas. I'd make a list of things. It was forcing out a poop when you're constipated. I was bound to bust something open at some point. I haven't done that for years. I guess some how I figured out that I have to trust that something will be there. Pressfield talks about trusting what's in the box - it goes back to some old improv exercise. When I have an idea swimming in my head, I keep a journal. I write in that journal constantly. Even if I don't know exactly what the story is yet. Or if I don't have the format. Or if I don't have characters. I keep a journal where I type - mechanically, full of unformed ideas. I let my fingers move. It somehow gets my brain working as well.
Pressfield says that doing the work - not that art, but the work - everyday allows things to unlock. First of all, we are focusing energy in one direction. It allows me to stay focused on the thing. I don't know what that thing is yet. But the mechanics are imperative in creating a routine. It creates a destination for the ideas to come. It's like creating a signaling fire or sending out flares. I know that I am in one place everyday - and that's the place where the traffic needs to be directed when there's an idea floating around in my head.
In the book, Pressfield suggests that all of these wonderful works of art already exist, but they just need a conduit. That brings to mind the idea of destiny. I believe it's my destiny to be an artist. ARTIST. That's a lofty title. Sometimes we don't think we're worthy of it. It feels selfish and self-serving. That's Resistance telling us things like "who gets to do this" or "it's a selfish pursuit" or "there must be better ways to serve others." Sure, if the only purpose you have is to service your ego or to get validation, then absolutely there are better ways to spend one's time. The whole point about making the pursuit an actual practice is that it becomes bigger than recognition. If you believe that all of it already exists and that it needs corporeal being - a flesh and blood material host - to bring it into existence, then it's a vocation and a mission, not just a career or a way to be acknowledged.
I have a friend who's really unhappy with his life and his career right now. He feels like everyone around him is getting opportunities that are somehow missing him. But he doesn't sit down every day. He does not focus on the thing that moves around in his belly, forcing him to get up. He doesn't have a purpose beyond getting a job and being recognized. An artist needs a purpose. An artist needs a reason. Or at least I do.
When my Dad died, I questioned whether or not I even wanted to write any more. It seemed to frivolous and unimportant compared to what I had just spent a year doing. I took care of my dying father. What's more important than that? I also realized that my life could not be defined by that one event. It had to be part of the journey, not the entire destination. It had to be the event that changed me, not the event that kept me stuck. The story was not over. When he was dying, I wrote every day. People seem shocked by that. How could I write with everything going on? How could I write if I was that tired? If I was really there for my father and had given everything to him, how could I possibly have any time for anything else? Why was I taking time to do something that was good for me when my Dad needed me all of the time?
I needed to survive. When I was a kid, being picked on, I wrote to survive. I wrote to make sense of the world around me. I wrote to have a place where I could still feel good and worthy. My imagination was my safe space away from all of the scariness around me. When my Dad was dying, I came back to that. I don't remember how good any of that work was. I wasn't thinking about how writing a play or a pilot was going to advance my standing. I wrote because I needed to be reminded that I existed. Writing kept me sane. That's all it needed to do.
When he died, I had some serious soul searching to do. Would anything ever feel that important to me? Should I become a missionary? Should I go become a nurse? Should I volunteer with refugees? Should I seek out a higher purpose? I got back to writing. Writing is about survival. Even when I'm trying to make a life for myself. Even as I sit in my writers groups. I am writing to survive. I am trying to make a living. I am signaling to groups of other writers that I am alive. I am bringing community to me by continuing to write. It's survival. I have to do it every day in order to feel alive. I don't do it to get on this show or to get that production. I have not lost the desire for those things. But they are not the main focus. In the process of writing for survival, I have let go of attachment to outcome.
My friend said that he doesn't buy it. How can I not be concerned with how people perceive my work? How can I not be attached to results? How can I possibly know if I am good enough if I don't seek out markers - or other people who tell me how good I am? That seems impossible to him. And it is impossible to him at where he is at this point in my life. For me, it's true freedom. I am someone who is a working college professor, a working TV writer, a member of the WGA, a member of a theatre company, and a future showrunner. I am a Professional - who detaches himself from results. That does not mean that I have no results. I have a shitton of results. But I don't try to anticipate what my plays or pilots or screenplays are going to mean in the world. I could spend all day driving myself crazy if I tried to do that. Besides, that's none of my business. I'm just trying to will ideas into existence. That's tired and frustrating enough. I can't spend my time worrying about all of the things I have no control of. I would never get any work done. And those people who spend all of their time concerned about stuff they don't have any control over never get any work done. I don't judge it because I've been there. My friend has every chance of making it out and every chance of not making it out of that head space. It's up to him. And it was up to me, so I know it's possible. And I've seen people who never make it out, so I know how dangerously close I was for it not being possible as well.
Why It's So Hard to Begin
I have this thing that I'm starting to identify. When I know something I'm about to write has great stakes, it takes me a long time to get started. Here's an example: Two years ago, I had three scripts I knew I had to write in May. I had a play rewrite for a reading. I had a pilot to turn in for a submission. And I had a spec to write for a contest. I wrote the pilot in two weeks. I rewrote the play quickly. And then it came time for me to get the spec done for a deadline in twelve days. I struggled. I slept a lot. I slept on the floor of my office when I was supposed to be working. It felt so damn important and I was scared. Beginnings are tough because we are awakening something that's going to conspire to help us get what we want. It's Resistance knowing that the moment we open up that pathway, it will be like Pandora's Box and we'll get everything we want. It's releasing something important and vital. And if it's not this script, it will be the next or the next. If we start, we may never stop. I struggled and I wrote that spec - but it took me an extra two weeks. I missed one deadline, but I made the others. Now maybe I was tired. Maybe expecting to write three competent scripts in four weeks was too much. Now, do I feel like a failure because I missed one deadline? No. I would have failed if I convinced myself that two scripts was enough for a month or that it was too hard or that I was really too tired to finish. The failure was not giving into my fatigue or my doubts. The failure would have been never getting up again. I did finish. And nothing happened with that spec.
Was that a failure? No. Because the following year I wrote twice as much as I wrote that year. I have developed a practice for myself. I had an office for five months that I had to say good bye to because I couldn't afford it any more. Was that a failure? No. A failure would have been to be so discouraged that I didn't write as much the following year. A failure would have been feeling like I could only write in an office by myself where I had to go into an office to write anything of real value. A failure would have been quitting. A failure would have been writing script after script and quitting because people didn't like it. I would have never written another play the following year. The muses and the angels wouldn't have blessed me with an opportunity to work with a theatre company that gave me the opportunity to write a huge play that was an idea I had that seemed impossible. It was a political play. A failure would have been to stop then and not even attempt the new idea because I'm not a political writer. A failure would have been to feel like my writing wasn't good enough for me to spend a year working on something that I wasn't sure would result in anything. A failure would have been to think that I'm not good enough, so I should move on and do something else. A failure would have been to believe that all of the rejections said that I was worth nothing. That resentment would have turned into Resistance. When I finished that play eight months later after countless rewrites, readings and workshops, nothing happened. After so many people in my life saying that this was going to be the play that was going to launch me, nothing happened. A failure would have been to believe that this wasn't a good play. This play ended up getting me a manager and a TV job. A failure would have been to think that I had done enough in those eight months. Instead, I wrote two more scripts in the last three months of the year. And I started the play I wrote this year. The second play in a row where people were saying, "Now this is what's going to launch you." I don't know about any of that. I know that I wrote a play that I LOVE. It deserves love. But I can't say whether or not it will get it.
Like I said to my friend, I'm not attached to the outcome. I have to do the work. A failure would have been to think that I've done enough with last year's play and that I should wait for all of the accolades to come because people say this is my "silver bullet" play. Because I wrote a play that was even better. I didn't plan it that way. And if nothing happens with this one, well, there's a new play idea I'm starting…
But that will probably be hard to start as well. I had that experience again this year. I had three things I was working on in August. I had my workshop coming up, so I had to write and rewrite the play for my workshops. I had a ten minute play that was due for the festival in October. Because I wanted to be on set and learn, I had taken some extra time in getting a rewrite to my manager. My friends say that three months is not an unreasonable amount of time. It is to me and I can only live by my own standards. But in that time I had written this play. I didn't count on my manager seeing it that way. So I decided that I had to get the pilot done because Mercury was about to go into retrograde and I needed to prove something to myself. I'm not sure how much investment I put into retrograde. I respect it. But regardless of my personal feelings, I took it as a deadline I needed to meet. So I turned in the pilot rewrite and the play to him. I made the deadline - the third thing I had to finish I ended up finishing on time. I conquered Resistance.
I had the same experience last week. I hadn't heard from my manager about those two scripts - the ones I had spent so much time on, that I had pushed myself to finish. Was he not getting back to me because I had taken three months? But I have him TWO scripts instead of ONE! Hadn't I proved myself? Was he punishing me? A failure would have been to give into the voices in my head. A failure would have been to give in fully to my anger and make me inactive. I knew that I had this other pilot I had been working on. I was struggling and dealing with Resistance on working on it. I had lost motivation. I had given into my fear. I decided to take my frustration about not hearing from him in two months - even after I had checked in with him - and use that as motivation to finish the rewrite. I knew that if I finished the script, I could say to him that I had a new script I wanted to show him, but I needed to hear about the other two pieces first. I finished the pilot in four days. I was going to take a week to rewrite and then give it to him on Nov 1st. The next day, I got an email saying that an agent wanted to see another play from me. I had reason to contact my manager and give him that news - in that email, I mentioned this script I just finished. We got on the phone. We talked about the material being ready to send out. And in a couple of days, we decided to send the plays to two more agents. I now have this pilot that I have time to work on. I have the month - or at least a few weeks - to perfect. Because I have been writing so much and because I have gotten a professional job that taught me how to be fast, efficient and precise in my writing - more than just writing on my own could teach me in a short amount of time - I know how to polish the fuck out of that pilot. I've gotten so much better. A failure would have been to stop all of those weeks, months, and years ago. A failure would have been to see "no results" and stop. A failure would be to stop now and not experience the growth ahead of me. I pushed through that Resistance and got things done. Now I'm in a position to make this pilot better and not be rushing to finish something that he's now begging me for because he needs another new piece of material. On our phone call, he said, "I'm going to need another pilot." I was able to say, "I just finished a rewrite. I'll get it to you when it's ready." A failure would have been to let Resistance beat me down when he wasn't getting back to me. The funny thing is that I'm not as tired as I thought I would be after writing over 1500 pages already this year. I want to keep pushing.
Territory versus Hierarchy
When you compare yourself to other people, to other things, to others' successes - you live in a hierarchical mindset. How can you not, though? In most of life, you feel you only know how good you are in comparison to other people. It's clear when you're in a classroom who is better than you - the people who speak up and who get better grades. It's hard to not look at someone else's paper and see what they're up to. Hollywood is the worst for that. It's very easy to say, "I'm not going to compare myself to other people." But it's very hard to do.
That's why my friend doesn't believe me when I say that I don't get moved one way or another when something good or bad happens. How can that be? I understand how and why he rejects that idea. But my friend believes wholeheartedly in hierarchy. He determines his self worth based on his place in the food chain. I did this for years. I would go onto Facebook and when people I knew were doing well, I would get a grimace on my face involuntarily. It got to the point where I had to decide to hit "like" when I got that grimace. That was me calling myself on it, but that jealousy didn't go away right away. I just found out a friend of mine got a script optioned by a very high powered producer. And I instantly smiled. I sent her a message. I can truly say I'm happy. I've been able to change my reaction over the years. Her journey is not my journey. Her success is hers and my success belongs to me. We worked together early this year when I was a writer and she was an assistant. It was clear then that that was only temporary. She deserves that success because she has worked hard. And she's a nice person to boot. My other friend would have been angry and jealous. It's not a fun place to live.
So if you're not comparing yourself to other people to see how well you're doing, what are you doing? Before I get to that, let me make this clear: not believing in Hierarchy does not make me less competitive. I have a different friend who said something to me a few months ago, after we were having this conversation about divorcing from outcome. She said, "I'm just competitive. I can't help it." At first, I thought she was trying to say I wasn't competitive because I don't attach to outcome. If I apply for something, I forget it right after I hit "send." It's easier for me. That doesn't make me non-competitive. I'm totally competitive. With myself. I love to compete. I love to play the game. But I don't get caught up in result. That doesn't mean I'm lazy or uninvested in doing well. But working hard lets me know I've worked hard. And that I know for myself. I don't have to compare that to anyone else to know how hard I've worked. But I play to play - to not sit on the bench. I want to be in the game. Absolutely. But I don't get mad if someone does well or if I don't get selected for something. My turn's coming - I absolutely agree with that.
But I've got to stay on the field and keep focused. I'm not looking at the scoreboard. The opposite of hierarchy is Territory. My territory is the rehearsal room, the theatre, the classroom, the writer's room, the set. It's my office. It's where I do my work. If I'm not in any of those places, then I can't compete.
According to Robert McKee, the definition of a hack is someone who second-guesses his audience. It's someone who writes to the market place - who tries to predict what people want. He doesn't look within and do the work that he feels authentically. I often say, "I don't care if this gets produced." Is that true? Is that being honest? I don't write something with an intention of what a theatre or a network or studio will want. The great thing about living in this era of many channels, streaming services and ways to get our work out there is that not everyone has to want what you have. It can be something that's right for a select group of people and that means that I don't have to please everybody. I write what's exciting to me. I have the skill to execute well. And yes, writing on a TV show this year made me a better writer. I want to work and be employed. But I can't predict what someone's going to like. Therefore, I can't write thinking I know what's going to sell. I write what I feel strongly about and I put it out there. Then I do it again.
When I work and work and work I put in deeper roots into my territory. I create an impression that's difficult to ignore. The way to know if you have a territorial mindset is if it's the thing you have to do, that you would do if you were the last person on earth, that you don't need approval or permission to do and that you'd do for free. I have had this commitment tested over the past few years because I have done it for free. I've done it despite the fact that it takes up most of my concentration and energy. I have done it for no monetary reward. I have done it and lost relationships over it. But what I've gained for myself is beyond measure. It has given me so much more than it has taken away. And it will continue to give to me. I have a better life now because I do the work for its own sake. This is the root of my philosophy that I have a claim only to my labor, not the fruits of my labor. In this world, it's hard to explain that to people in a way where they don't think you're crazy or have a trust fund. That freedom only seems like the territory of people who have the freedom or insanity to not work for money. In that case, I'm crazy, not rich. And now I make money doing the work. But not because the money validates me. I had to validate myself first before I could get the side benefit of money for my work.
I realize how crazy that sounds. I realize what faith that takes to trust. I remember a friend telling me years ago that she just hopes the money comes. At that time, I thought she was crazy and I wished I could trust that much. And now I do. It has been a real journey to get there.
Once I realized that my work is a spiritual practice and a work of giving - a prayer or an offering - I was in for almost a decade of work to get there. I didn't have that realization and then everything instantly happened upon me. I had that realization years ago. And it took what it took for me to live that. But I knew that I had a higher calling as long as I have been a creative person. Then good things happened and I got outside validation and then I abandoned all higher thinking for that. Then the Universe made sure that I got the lesson so that I never forget it. And I've got decades ahead of me to enjoy the lesson - but I had to do the work regardless of whether or not the lesson would ever come.
Reading The War of Art over the past thirteen years has changed my perception of myself. I now live in a way I never thought I would. Like my friend, I thought this attitude was impossible. But without it, I couldn't survive. I don't force my beliefs on my friends. I don't say that this is "the way" for everyone. It's the way for me. It's how I have to live. I can't think about the rejections and collect them as a way to motivate myself. I can't compare myself to other people and think that's going to help me rise up. I can't beat myself up constantly or be jealous of other people and think that's going to motivate me. It just makes me scared and insignificant and angry. It keeps me put. The lessons I've learned is reward enough. The life I live is reward enough. The joy I get from doing the work is reward enough. I truly believe the rest is gravy. I am a happier person than I have ever been. And I don't have every material thing I want. I may never have every material thing I want.
I will have things.
I will live a good life.
I will have a good retirement.
I will go places and learn things and spend money.
But I won't be defined by that. I won't define my place in the world from what I have and others don't.
If I have something, it will be good enough that I have it.
If someone doesn't have what I have, that will mean that it's not theirs or not theirs yet.
I don't know where this enlightenment comes from, but I'm sure glad I've arrived at it.
I have a smile on my face most of the time.
The work is hard, but it gives me joy - as do my colleagues and friends.
I'm a damn lucky person to be in this body, in this moment, at this time.
I am really grateful.
My intention is to grow.
My intention is expansion.
My intention is inner peace.
My intention is exponential learning.
My intention is happiness.
I am grateful for lunch meetings.
I am grateful for the variety at the Grand Central Market.
I am grateful for walks.
I am grateful for a place to work.
I am grateful for my hearing.
I am grateful for my love for the people in my life.
I am grateful for my limitations.
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