When it has to be epic
If this is your standard, I’m already exhausted. (Image by Vit Ducken)
As a young, aspiring singer/songwriter, I dreamed of creating something incredible.
Inspired by The Beatles, Chuck Berry, Smokey Robinson, and Bob Dylan — in other words, world-class, genre-defining, generational talents — I thought about where my music would fit in the pantheon of the greats.
In my “planning,” I completely skipped over the part where I would write, perform, and promote my music, connecting with potential partners and fans one by one, building a career the way everyone has to build a career: day by day.
I guess I hoped to circumvent this natural and necessary process and skip all the way to fame and fortune, simply by being amazing.
This made my progress far more frustrating than it had to be. Instead of appreciating each new original song as a means to hone my craft, I expected it to be fresh evidence of my singular artistic vision. Thus, I didn’t bother to finish most of the songs I began, because I couldn’t see how to make them what I hoped they would be. The ones I did finish were held up to unfair scrutiny, dismissed for sounding exactly like what they were: The work of a beginner.
Eventually, against all odds, I wrote some pretty good songs. That should have been a signal to keep going, but I became impatient for the next step. If someone important and well-connected could just hear my work, I could finally make it (whatever that meant).
Believe it or not, I did discover some opportunities and connections that could have led to breakthroughs. I squandered every one without realizing it, unwilling to work hard enough at the things that would truly make a difference, unable to tolerate the gap between where I was and where I wanted to be.
My regrets about this aren’t related to how my career turned out; rather, I wish I could have avoided so much needless suffering. I didn’t need to prove myself — I could have just made music, improving day by day.
Believing that my work had to be impressive actually prevented me from learning and growing as much as I could. I was by myself in the woodshed instead of sharing my music with others; when I did share with others, I was often looking toward the next thing instead of investing fully in the experience I was having. The music I was making wasn’t my “real” music -- surely, there was something else that would eventually make my path easier, right? Some magical song that would make all the difference? But no -- that song never came. At least, not that I recognized. I wouldn’t have known how to develop it properly even if it had.
When we undertake something big, like making a record, writing a book, or starting a business, we might have a sense that it has to be epic to be worth doing. After a period of early enthusiasm, we may flame out because things aren’t as good as we hoped they would be or we’re not getting the response we were hoping for.
But our creative work is not always romantic and dramatic. Perhaps it rarely is. Unlike my younger self, I understand now that even a seemingly mysterious act like writing songs is actually a quotidian process, ordinary even if not precisely predictable. You never know exactly what you’re going to get, but you show up and do the work every day to get something. But you’re only able to show up every day if you’re willing to risk creating work that is, itself, quotidian and unremarkable. Only then, with that consistent commitment and effort, can you actually make something “epic.”
And you may never truly do it. I’ve let go of thinking that I’m going to change the world with my singular artistic vision. But of course, once I gave up that notion, I started actually contributing things that made an impact in the world, however small. When I stopped trying to create something amazing, it made it easier to create.
What about you? Do you ever struggle with pressure to be “epic”? How do you deal with it? Let us know in the comments.