Here's a nice article, since only recently I've had someone marveling at the amount of output I create in what little time I have to create–which I marvel at, personally, since I'm a shmoe who is unworthy of being marveled at in the first place.

At the beginning of 2004, a few friends came over to get some advice. They wanted An Idea to start a company around. Cool, I thought, and we started brainstorming. But I soon realized that while they said they were looking for An Idea, they were really looking for an excuse not to do anything, to remain where they were and grind their wheels.

Part of the problem with people, at least in my opinion, is indeed the fact that they expect something for nothing–the author of that article talks about people who are "frustrated that they can't send one email and become a sports agent." I've known many people who would submit a short story and then give up.

But more than just laziness–and perhaps riding shotgun with it–is fear. People are afraid of failure. I've known people who, years ago, had more content in the can than I do now. And it was–and presumably still is, hopefully still is–brilliant stuff. I would beg and plead with them: "Get it published. Send it off. Submit it. Hell, publish it yourself (and this was before self-publishing became a simple(r) task)–I'll help you!" That's how good this stuff was/is. But they would never do it. Beyond that, some people I've known have killer ideas–but they just don't put fingers to keys. Why is this?

Sure, fear of failure has something to do with it: "What if I spend all that time writing and it's just not any good?" Or, couple that idea with the Next Big Idea thing and you get: "I'm afraid my Idea isn't good enough and that it'll all collapse–not even worth starting." But I think there's something else.

Namely fear of success. Because some of the people I'm mentioning had no reason–and we're making a leap that fears can be rational, but bear with me–to fear failure. Sure they might get turned down a few times before somebody agreed to publish them, but somebody somewhere would have to enjoy their stuff. They knew they were good on some level–they had attended poetry readings and spoken word events, performed, and were enjoyed by tons of people. So it's not like they were Emily Dickinson, ignorant of their own worth and tying little bows around things for some unnamed later posterity.

No, I think some people are just afraid of what happens not just if they fail, but if they succeed. I've seen it other places than just writing. Bands, too, that were so close to "levelling up" but just couldn't bring themselves to do it. Actors that were just flat out disgustingly talented. They reach a certain level and become comfortable–or at least as comfortable as they can–and fear that success will destroy that comfort. What if the writers have to actually step up and type more/faster? What if they have to spend time promoting their own work? What if they get to the point where it's time to make the leap and finally kick the Day Job Virus? What if the bands actually have to go out on the road to promote their CD? What if they have to go from their comfort level of playing in a small club to an actual concert hall–bigger audience? What if the actors have to move to a city with enough acting jobs available for them to make their living? For somebody who's never faced these questions and actually put some time into coming up with answers, it's some scary shit, because with any level of success comes an added level of burdens and responsibility.

In the end, I think it's probably a combination of the three that becomes the paralyzing cocktail that effects so many and answers the question of what I think of as "the Artistic Fermi Paradox": if there are so many talented artists out there, where are the products of that supposed talent?

The answers are these. Still researching their Next Big Idea. Still allowing themselves to be distracted from working by any number of easier pastimes, because art is hard work. Still afraid to stick a stamp on an envelope. Still afraid to cut and paste their shit into Wordpress and hit "Publish." Still afraid their shit isn't any good. Still afraid their shit is good and unsure where that road will lead.

How to overcome this cocktail of doubt and distraction? You make a Decision. You Decide what's important. It's not like I didn't spend years wrestling with the concept myself. I mean years. It took my poetic guardo camino and mentor, Dwight Humphries, to kick me in the head in such a way that the Lesson would stick.

Dwight–and I just realized my eulogy for him is still on the non-WP site–I'll move it–was the most amazing poet you've never read. He lost count the number of poems he had published at 400. He was so prolific it was almost as scary as he was. But he had been waging a war against various illnesses and knew it was only a matter of time before he was gone.

One day, I'm sitting at a table–and I want to say this is at a Barnes & Noble before a reading, but I can't swear to that–and Dwight's sitting opposite me. And we're talking, I forget how the subject came up–but put two writers at a table and, huh, wonder what subject could come up. But the bottom line is Dwight said that he was just, at that point, trying to write as much as he could, as fast as he could, to get as much of his stuff on paper as possible before he died. And that he knew he wasn't going to make it. He wasn't going to get it all out. So he was trying to save as much as possible.

Think about that, ye would-be artists. All of those Big Ideas you have rattling around your head. If you were struck by a tractor falling out of the sky tomorrow, where would they be? Some random notes on some yellow stickies in a folder? Some more random notes in the margins of college notebooks? Some files on a diskette none of your survivors will ever find? They'd be gone, friends. All of those characters that came to you to get their story out–they'll die with you. All of your ideas that would make Chris Claremont piss himself in shame and promise to go into real estate. That painting, that photo, that drawing–if you're gone, they're gone. And no one will ever, ever see them. They'll be forgotten, since you won't be around anymore to talk them up to friends who are too polite to point out that they wish you'd shut the fuck up about your art and actually create it.

Dwight's proclamation scared the shit out of me and warped my world view in a fundamental way. Because let's face it, art is supposed to be our shot at immortality, right? The writing will be here long after we're taking our respective celestial dirt naps. But if we don't get off our asses–or in the case of writers get on our asses–there's nothing. Do you really want to be remembered for a high score on a video game? For how many television shows you watched?

People ask me: how did you get serious about your work? And it's just that: a Decision. Decide to do it. And then the next day, Decide to do it again. And it gets easier. Seriously, I'm a shmoe: if I can do it, anyone can.

So I ask you: are you ready to get serious and start creating? Because it's nearly 3:00pm here, the sun will be going down soon, and we could all be dead tomorrow. Are you ready yet? Because if not today at 3:00pm after reading this–then when?