A freelancer walks into an office…
It’s a crisp winter morning and the smell of potential new business is in the air.
I get in the lift of the dun building with the mirror-lined lobby (it’s always nice to be able to make eye contact with your nervous self) and go to floor 294 (I don’t remember the exact floor, so let’s just pretend it was something noteworthy).
I’m early, which is advisable if you intend on asking someone for money. My prospective client shows up, we head to a small meeting room, and he starts things off by asking about my process.
I effortlessly switch into Lemme tell you what I think you wanna hear mode, as years of people-pleasing and corporate conditioning have taught me to do. I give an acceptable answer: review the brief, familiarise myself with the strategy, audit, ideate, jot some things down. He nods; I nod. We talk about stuff I’ve worked on. We exchange a couple muted laughs and pop culture references—two hallmarks of conversational success in polite society. It’s a brief, pleasant, promising chat.
So why, I wonder—as I’m confronted by numerous reflections of my own pensive face in the lobby—am I so bothered?
Still processing…
In terms of the steps I take to get a job done, that process outline was accurate—and there’s nothing more boring than accuracy—but it was also generic. What I said was just a bunch of accurate, generic sounds. Chances are, if someone’s asking about your process, they want you to tell them about your process, not a process. Besides the absence of personalisation in my answer, what got to me is that I’m not entirely sure what my process involves. Reason being, I don’t reflect on my process much; I usually just do the thing. As Maverick tells us in the Top Gun sequel: “Don’t think. Just do.” Nike-coded words to live by. Every time I sit at my desk, I venture into the verbal Danger Zone.
After that meeting, I started thinking about my process and… ended up finding some clarity and answers in an article and a mug. Admittedly, what I found didn’t really have much to do with process—but I did gain insight into how I operate.
Article + Mug = Insight
Let’s start with the article. I was reading a piece in The Economist titled ‘The secret to good government? Actually trying’. It includes such gems as: “When ministers try, things happen.”; “Inactivity is a choice, not an inevitability.”; and “Effort is required even if a target is improbable.” The piece includes Samuel Beckett’s inspiring take on failure. And it ends with this passage: “Trying is not sexy. Good government takes place away from television interviews and speeches to adoring activists… Yet whether policy succeeds depends on politicians having the stamina for a boring, determined slog.”
As for the mug, I’ve been gifted mugs by multiple women I’ve dated. I don’t know if this is common; I do know that the women were thoughtful and the mugs novel. My favourite one says: “Modern Art = I could do that + Yeah, but you didn’t.”
The article and the mug spoke to me. What did they say? It’s easy to make plans and not follow through. It’s easy to criticise. It’s easy to do nothingand risk nothing. Trying, on the other hand, is hard. But I do it. And not only that: I persist in trying. On the off days, I try to fail better. On the good days, I try to ride my ability as far as it’ll carry me. It’s seldom sexy. In fact, it can be daunting, lonely drudgery. Does trying get easier the more you do it? I’m not sure it does. But I don’t wanna know what happens to writers who stop trying.
Where there's a will, there's a writer
Here’s the main reason trying is so important to me. Like many people, I start every writing task by dunking a bucket of self-critical Gatorade over my head, pressing the permanent bruise of insecurity, and contracting a case of What if it’s bad?-itis. Yeah yeah, you know: writing’s tough. But every time you summon the motivation and commit the effort to doing battle with the Fear of Making a Shit Thing (FOMAST), you emerge the better for it—me and the artists who make abstract inflatable installations can agree on that much (see also: Dorothy Parker’s position of “I hate writing, I love having written.”).
I’m still processing what my process is, so I’ll leave you with what I believe: anyone can write; not everyone will. Talent aside, the difference between pedestrian and pro comes down to a willingness to just do, fail better, and keep trying. Wait… did I just identify my process?
Dan Steiner is a Contributing Writer for The Subtext. You can find him sitting in a chair, strolling by the beach, or wandering the digital corporate wasteland that is LinkedIn.
A freelancer walks into an office…
It’s a crisp winter morning and the smell of potential new business is in the air.
I get in the lift of the dun building with the mirror-lined lobby (it’s always nice to be able to make eye contact with your nervous self) and go to floor 294 (I don’t remember the exact floor, so let’s just pretend it was something noteworthy).
I’m early, which is advisable if you intend on asking someone for money. My prospective client shows up, we head to a small meeting room, and he starts things off by asking about my process.
I effortlessly switch into Lemme tell you what I think you wanna hear mode, as years of people-pleasing and corporate conditioning have taught me to do. I give an acceptable answer: review the brief, familiarise myself with the strategy, audit, ideate, jot some things down. He nods; I nod. We talk about stuff I’ve worked on. We exchange a couple muted laughs and pop culture references—two hallmarks of conversational success in polite society. It’s a brief, pleasant, promising chat.
So why, I wonder—as I’m confronted by numerous reflections of my own pensive face in the lobby—am I so bothered?
Still processing…
In terms of the steps I take to get a job done, that process outline was accurate—and there’s nothing more boring than accuracy—but it was also generic. What I said was just a bunch of accurate, generic sounds. Chances are, if someone’s asking about your process, they want you to tell them about your process, not a process. Besides the absence of personalisation in my answer, what got to me is that I’m not entirely sure what my process involves. Reason being, I don’t reflect on my process much; I usually just do the thing. As Maverick tells us in the Top Gun sequel: “Don’t think. Just do.” Nike-coded words to live by. Every time I sit at my desk, I venture into the verbal Danger Zone.
After that meeting, I started thinking about my process and… ended up finding some clarity and answers in an article and a mug. Admittedly, what I found didn’t really have much to do with process—but I did gain insight into how I operate.
Article + Mug = Insight
Let’s start with the article. I was reading a piece in The Economist titled ‘The secret to good government? Actually trying’. It includes such gems as: “When ministers try, things happen.”; “Inactivity is a choice, not an inevitability.”; and “Effort is required even if a target is improbable.” The piece includes Samuel Beckett’s inspiring take on failure. And it ends with this passage: “Trying is not sexy. Good government takes place away from television interviews and speeches to adoring activists… Yet whether policy succeeds depends on politicians having the stamina for a boring, determined slog.”
As for the mug, I’ve been gifted mugs by multiple women I’ve dated. I don’t know if this is common; I do know that the women were thoughtful and the mugs novel. My favourite one says: “Modern Art = I could do that + Yeah, but you didn’t.”
The article and the mug spoke to me. What did they say? It’s easy to make plans and not follow through. It’s easy to criticise. It’s easy to do nothingand risk nothing. Trying, on the other hand, is hard. But I do it. And not only that: I persist in trying. On the off days, I try to fail better. On the good days, I try to ride my ability as far as it’ll carry me. It’s seldom sexy. In fact, it can be daunting, lonely drudgery. Does trying get easier the more you do it? I’m not sure it does. But I don’t wanna know what happens to writers who stop trying.
Where there's a will, there's a writer
Here’s the main reason trying is so important to me. Like many people, I start every writing task by dunking a bucket of self-critical Gatorade over my head, pressing the permanent bruise of insecurity, and contracting a case of What if it’s bad?-itis. Yeah yeah, you know: writing’s tough. But every time you summon the motivation and commit the effort to doing battle with the Fear of Making a Shit Thing (FOMAST), you emerge the better for it—me and the artists who make abstract inflatable installations can agree on that much (see also: Dorothy Parker’s position of “I hate writing, I love having written.”).
I’m still processing what my process is, so I’ll leave you with what I believe: anyone can write; not everyone will. Talent aside, the difference between pedestrian and pro comes down to a willingness to just do, fail better, and keep trying. Wait… did I just identify my process?
Dan Steiner is a Contributing Writer for The Subtext. You can find him sitting in a chair, strolling by the beach, or wandering the digital corporate wasteland that is LinkedIn.
