Begin again, and again

When I create something — a new program, a story, a talk — I’m taking a risk. 

Even with sincere effort and skill, the work might turn out to be ill-conceived, a false start, or an outright flop.

I spent a few weeks trying to get you to consider joining my 10-week course - which I love so much - but you didn't bite.  

Why? 

I don't know for sure. 

But I think it has to do with a combination of things I'm looking at -  my pitch, the timing, not enough folks on my mailing list.  But that's all strategy.

Before I get to strategy, I have to experience the feeling of failure.

I really loved planning for this course. 

Creation has an almost sublime energy to it - it's playful and light, but determined.It wants to move forward.  It senses possibility.  

When we are finally creating with clarity  — focused, present, playing in the wide-open field of “what if?"  — anything is possible!

But if, as in this course launch, the outcome doesn’t meet our desire... it stings.

That sting can tumble further downhill where our sweet energy of creativity may meet a Mac truck of despair.

That sense of Why bother? which can linger for days, weeks, or longer.

Why bother? is a slippery slope that's hard to climb back from. 

It marshals voices from the shadows to keep you from beginning again:

🐝Will I ever sell another course?

🐝Will I ever get another client?

🐝Will I ever make any money?

🐝Am I any good?

What then?

I had two conversations yesterday — one with a writer, one with a filmmaker — both of whom described spending months, even years, in that place.Even with evidence of their skills. Even with finished work behind them.They got stuck in that in-between of transition. 

What now? 

They chose curiosity over fear.They haven't yet begun something new.But they are ready to try. That is the work, after all: To begin again and again.

When we stay curious, that in-between time can fuel a kind of rebellion — a kind of abandon — that, in coaching,

I shape into the language of a commitment.A commitment anchored back into what you truly long for so it becomes a risk you are willing to take . . . again. 

After all, no one here is putting down the pen, the camera, the brush — right? 

No one here is turning back. 

I recently flopped. It stung. I licked my wounds.

I got empathy from a small group of creators I belong to.

And yesterday, I began again. 

One small step. 

I sent a dozen personal emails to colleagues and friends asking for support on a new idea. 

A small victory on the path to restored creativity. 

So I’ll ask you:

Where are you now in your creative process? 

Has something ended?

 Are you in an in-between time in your creative work? Or are you ready to begin again?