Mar 072013
 

After writing my first ebook, I spent a lot of time monitoring the sales figures and reviews. Crickets. Wha’ happened?

Of course, I started feeling badly. Maybe I didn’t do this right. Maybe the whole thing sucked. Maybe I’m in the wrong business. Maybe I need a real job at a cubicle farm.

It’s so easy for me to look at something after the fact and give myself a few swift kicks. I tend to do that anyway. Better to learn from any mistakes, apply them to my next project, and go at it again. I’ll eventually see growth, which is what I’m after anyway.

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Oct 092012
 

It’s real easy to plead ignorance as a reason to not try something. I do it all the time. I’ve turned down jobs because I feel I don’t know enough about tech trends to write intelligently about them, and turned down music gigs because I didn’t know the songs.

Here’s the thing, though. Creating is a learning process. A writer is a perpetual student. A musician learns stuff on the fly. There’s a lot of flying by the seat of the pants when you’re an artist, entrepreneur, or problem solver.

If you know just half of what you think you should, that’s probably enough. Companies promote people with no management experience all the time. You’ll learn the rest by doing, by just getting into it up to your elbows, and growing from there.

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Sep 212012
 

Back in the late 1980s, when I was a relative kid just stretching my legs in writing and music, I did a little work with Rosie Hamlin.

You’d have to be a baby boomer or a real oldies freak to know of Rosie. She was the lead singer for Rosie & The Originals in the ’60s. Her big song back then was “Angel Baby.”

Now, when I worked with her, everybody wanted her to do that song. Except she was a teen then, and her voice had matured considerably and getting the high parts punched holes in her range. Besides that, she wanted to do blues. To accommodate her fans she’d work Angel Baby into a medley, singing just part of the song.

An artist knows when it’s time to move on. With some — particularly in jazz — it’s expected. Miles Davis redid his career several times, creating several subforms (cool, modal, fusion) in the process. In a couple of years John Coltrane completely changed his sound from his Classic Quartet days to his Pharoah Sanders period.

You’ll find this process elsewhere. Basketball great Wilt Chamberlain morphed from scoring machine to assist man to defensive specialist in just a few years. While his critics swore these changes were just because he was getting old, it was just Wilt moving into a new role for his team. Shoot, his Lakers already had enough high-octane scorers; if he hadn’t redesigned his game they’d need three basketballs out there.

If you’ve been creating for a while, you may notice major changes in how you do things. You learn new techniques, you find different stories to tell, your imagination goes places you’ve never visited before.

But the catch here is in making sure your audience — your tribe — goes with you.

If you can do something that satisfies that inner Muse and carries enough authenticity to keep connection with your tribe, you’ve probably pulled it off. Otherwise, you’ve just jumped the shark.

After Fleetwood Mac recorded that great Rumours album, the question was what do they do next. Their answer was Tusk, and the title track was recorded with the USC (Southern California, not South Carolina) marching band. A lot of Fleetwood Mac fans were scratching their heads over that one, saying they’d lost it. Maybe, but I thought it was a real gutsy move.

Some of my favorite novelists ended up writing things outside their realm — David Baldacci and John Grisham wrote coming-of-age stuff and relatively lightweight (for them) fare. Stephen King wrote books that do not scare the stuff out of you.

Robin Williams started doing serious roles (The Awakening, Good Will Hunting) and made new fans. Even Richard Pryor wanted to try something serious.

It’s so easy to do the same thing you started with. It’s a whole lot safer, and the rationale is solid. Why argue with success? Stretching things out is a risk.

But sometimes growth is forced upon you. I’m thinking of all those out-of-work newsmen who have to change things up one way or another. Rebuild some skills and go into freelance? Work on the periphery, such as technical writing?  Throw the dice on writing/publishing that novel? Play it safe and hook on with another paper that may actually survive the year? Sell blood for a living?

Other times that growth comes on from pure restlessness. I find that’s true of me. One of the disadvantages of living full tilt is that I get burned out quickly. I need to constantly adjust, keep trying new things. To stay motionless is to die.

Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t picture a creative life without growth. To me, if my work looks a lot like it did 20 or 30 years ago, I’m moving in the wrong direction. Even if this means getting dangerous and trying my hand at something I’ve never attempted before.

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