Kern Carter's Blog, page 173

Some Tips for Concentrating from a Freelancer

Here are a few tips for concentrating from a freelancer. I have found freelancing is a great way to learn concentration so I have a few concentrating tips to pass on.

The most important tips for concentrating I have learned in a decade of freelancing and working from home include:

Avoid multitasking like the plague

I find multitasking to be the kiss of death for productivity. Notably, when I multi-task I do the most fun activity first and ignore everything else. In fact, boring and unpleasant activities never seem to get done when I multi-task.

Do the most important thing first

If something is important, do it first. For example, I now start my day by doing the most important activity. In fact, I make it a point not to touch email or social media until I complete the important task. Notably I prioritize paying work from clients.

Concentrate on one task at a time

The only way to complete a writing assignment is to concentrate on one task at once. If you are writing; write, and if you are editing: edit. Do not write and edit at the same time. Instead, schedule one activity at a time.

Plan and schedule

General Eisenhower once said, “In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.”

This means plans are useless but planning your day will make you more productive. Planning helps you get more done because planning requires you to sit down and think about your work.

Even a simple plan; such as write for two hours and check email and social media around 10 O’clock, is better than no plan. A big advantage to planning is that you can contain distractions like email and social media.

Therefore, have a plan for your day’s work but don’t sweat if the plan doesn’t work out. I find I’m more productive if I sit and down and plan my work the day before or first thing in the morning. Notably, planning helps you see what resources you have.

Prioritize, prioritize, prioritize

When you plan; first, go over your work and decide what is most important. Second, do the most important work first. My third suggestion is to put the less important stuff aside until you have completed the big job.

One trick I find to prioritizing is to complete the paying work first. Then move on to the unpaid stuff. In addition, do the highest paying work first. Instead, prioritize the work by the level of payment. If clients complain, tell them they will need to increase the pay if they want the work done sooner.

Schedule freelancing like a job

That is have a starting and stopping point. For example, start at 8 a.m. or 9 a.m. and stop at 4 or p.m. just like at work. The best point to stop during the day is when you feel tired or bored. Generally, I find I get little done after 4 p.m. so I stop around then.

Take breaks

Try to take a break every one or two hours and at least break in the day for a walk, exercise or lunch. Usually, I am a lot more productive if I take two or three hours off to take a walk and run errands in mid-afternoon.

Don’t eat in your work area.

Instead, take a regular meal break somewhere else. For instance, go into the kitchen and eat a hot lunch there instead of a sandwich at your desk. Food distracts and can ruin your work. In fact, going out to lunch is a great way to refresh your mind. I find I am refreshed even if I take a brown bag to the park.

Understand which distractions are most likely to keep you from work and eliminate them

If something; like television, video games, your smartphone, dirty dishes, that pile of unpaid bills etc. will distract you, get it out of your work area. If you cannot something out of the work area hide. For instance, cover the TV or stick the unpaid bills or the smartphone in the drawer. Taking a little time to identify and eliminate the biggest distractions will make you more productive.\

If possible, create a dedicated distraction free work area

Even if lock yourself in your bedroom or the basement with the computer do this. Generally, the more distractions the less you will get done.

Ideally, a freelancer needs an office dedicated to nothing but work. Even if that is impossible, try to create an area where you can concentrate.

Notably, some freelancers end up renting an office or an apartment just for work. In fact, wealthier individuals go to even greater lengths to concentrate. For example, J.K. Rowling has checked herself into a hotel to be alone and distraction free to meet deadlines.

Remember the fewer distractions the better. Just eliminating a few big distractions will increase productivity.

Concentration is the key to success as a freelancer. If you cannot concentrate as a freelancer seriously consider returning to the nine-to-five grind.

Some Tips for Concentrating from a Freelancer was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

500!

Thank you so much! To know that 500 of you have committed to reading C.R.Y means we’re moving in the right direction. We’ve opened up C.R.Y to other writers and their stories have added new voices and fresh perspectives to the publication. Trust me when I say we’re just getting started. C.R.Y will continue to transform, continue to evolve, all while keeping its promise of inspiring and educating creatives.

Check out some of the new pieces by our contributors below:

I Don’t Poet — Tre L. Loadholt

Yes, I Am a Determined Traveller in Writing’s Train — Aaska Ejaz

If the Show Is Sold Out, Am I a Sellout — Rick Gibbins

Comparison Is the Death of Art — Lucas Taylor

Don’t Fall in Love with a Writer — Arabella Marie

Everything You Need to Know About Bliss — Efi Asvesti

C.R.Y

500! was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I Don’t Poet

What To Do, What To Do? Author’s Photo Collage.I Write

I… if I can be frank, am the kind of Writer who believes that every genre is open to me. I, if I apply myself accordingly, can tackle these various genres using the skills and gifts that I have earned, learned, and attained. The fact that I connect the most with poetry does not mean that I am a Poet. I prefer the description/title/label Writer so much more. If I am feeling lovestruck, lovesick, doubtful of love, heartbroken, or misunderstood, I may lean toward poetry to flesh out those feelings.

If I want to be direct in my delivery, talk about politics and the imminent descent of this nation — this world, or give you pieces of who I am in full detail, straight-no-chaser, I go for nonfiction. If there are characters residing in my headspace, beating on the floorboards of my brain, I turn to my good friend fiction. If a thought is around, has no place to go, and simply wants to live outside of my head, free from being boxed-in, I may create a quote or an aphorism (for those of you who followed me during my very brief stint on Instagram, you may have read a few.)

I have stood by what one of my college professors said to me, “You write, Tremaine. There is not a designated category for you. You are a Writer.” It has guided me to this day.

I think Artists or Creatives do not want to be categorized or pigeonholed into certain spaces the creative world or their peers have hand-picked for them. It has been my experience to write what comes to me, in any form, but write. How, as a Writer who is known for one or a couple of genres, do you break away from the label? Are you, the Writer, struggling to balance what you are known for and what you love?

There was a time when I wrote fiction and nothing but for nearly one solid year. This was well before my days on Medium. It is what captivated me, what kept me afloat. I was in a place where living in the land of make-believe was better suited for my well-being. And even still, when I wrote for a small, up-and-coming online magazine, all of my work was nonfiction or journalistic and fact-based. Juggling every genre can be a test, but when you yearn to write from every feeling erupting from your spirit, there will never be just one category for all of your work.

I Don’t PoetI Write

And without the grueling, sometimes exhausting, and all-out mind-numbing beauty of writing, I would not be able to properly assert and motivate myself. I would not be able to build up where life has torn down some pieces of me. I would not move through each struggling moment — optimistic at each turn when moments of fear show up and attempt to stay. Essentially, if I was unable to write and write freely…

I would not be me.

Author’s Note: In my work, in my writing, I want to be my best self. I only hope that I can continue to grow with it as time passes. My prayer is to leave my mark and help others do the same. Peace.

I Don’t Poet was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Yes — I am a Determined Traveler in Writer’s Train!

Yes — I’m a Determined Traveler in Writing’s Train!Image Source: Unsplash, Photo by Green Chameleon

I am sitting on my couch, gulping my sip of strong bitter tea and I’m thinking what is more bitter: my tea or my writing journey, which continues to give me solid punches.

Sometimes I feel life is like a train which travels into all deserts and rivers, light and darkness, Winter and Summers. Till reaching the destination, many stations pass. I am also a passenger on this type of train. I am bearing all seasons of my journey just with my belief and faith that one day I’ll also reach my station. But the problem is that other passengers know about the place set for the end of a journey, but I don’t.

I’m afraid I’ve bored you with my philosophy, but there is a reason for giving this example. It’s my goal to elaborate on my intuition which is hidden in the angry part of my heart. For two years I’ve been continuously running in the race of my writing journey. Yes, I am just a common girl who has no golden spoon(lucky charm), but I am a hard worker and I know this is my power — yet I’m feeling my power is not working more to motivate me.

The dream that I shall be the best creative writer

Because only I alone believe that one day I will find success. Not my family nor my friends' circle; they constantly criticize me and tell me I can’t find success in my writing journey. They don’t trust in my dream world which I’ve been creating for many years —The dream that I shall be the best creative writer!

I don’t know but if truth be told I always wanted to write, not for others, but I write because words are my breath. When I write something to share for the betterment of this era, I sigh — deeply.

Nearly two years I’ve been trying to write perfectly. Between those years I’ve received many rejections from the world pretending there is no area for me. In fact, everyone pressures me persistently, for leaving the way, leaving this train. I can’t approach my station.

But the fact is, sometimes I also can’t understand where I’m going? Where is my station, actually? Yes, I’m fighting, running, bearing all the seasons. But will I get to my dream of success? Or in reality, am I riding on the wrong train? Yep — I often break like this and generally it’s human nature to ask these questions yourself when the sad moments come.

Yet, except all this, I’ve determined that the day will come when I’ll get the part of the sky which will be completely mine! Yes, struggling for two years (I still have 97 followers), I still don't have the support of my family or friends, but my heart never wants to accept or concede. I’m just traveling with my faith and hoping it will take me to writing success’s station.

I don’t know — when my straight road will take a turn to my destiny, but I’ll write. I’ll try to be a part of noble persons who help the world for the better. This is my wish and you better believe I have a lot of hidden tears in my eyes. I write from my heart!

Yes — I am a Determined Traveler in Writer’s Train! was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Exercise was the best thing I did for myself

Encourage yourself as if you speak to a child. That is the greatest gift you can give to yourself. Have small goals and tick them every day, until they become a habit. Tomorrow challenge yourself against the person you are today.

Wanting to die is so easy. I have wanted to die almost every day of my adult life. (I guess getting into adulthood is a little more difficult for drama queens). So yes, I have tried to kill myself in many lazy ways, like smoking everything, drinking everything, eating everything, especially shit. Yeah, shit was my favorite, shit was everything and I was always hungry only for that.

My decisions in life were even poorer. I wish there were poor decisions basically because there were no decisions at all. I think I believed that committing suicide was a kind of sport, so I wouldn’t do it! I was trying to die on the couch, like a lazy cat that didn’t want to live on the roof tiles anymore. Lying in the sun is so tiring, especially when you feel guilty about it. (Needless to say, I am lucky I was not a sporty person).

I was a living misery with a face of happiness. And I really want to ask: Don’t people watch people’s eyes anymore? Maybe they never did. Or we simply are or once were, in the wrong tribe. At first, I thought I could handle it, really. I thought that was life and I was just….behaving young. I also used to tell myself life is difficult and that was the reason I needed to struggle at work.

I thought something else would happen, something unexpected that would give me a lift. A kind of Messiah, even though I had stopped believing in God some years ago. An opportunity, a person, a trip..until one day I had my first panic attack. And that was my gift. My little Messiah was a little weird, but I have always loved weird things! So, I understood that the opportunity can only be built and I was the only person who could build it step by step. That was about taking responsibility and redemption at the same time. It was late at night. I was wrecked. I took a paper and a pencil and wrote down 5 things I loved about myself and three things I really needed to change. Then I wrote a letter of appreciation to me, whatever came in my mind about myself as a kid, what I loved, what I dreamed, what I feared and encouraged me to have the will to live. I was afraid.

The next day, I bought a notebook and made a list, every morning. My list at the beginning was funny. I had things like cooking, cleaning every day and walking….for 10 minutes. Yes yes, 10 minutes. Now I know the best gift I did for myself was that I made the list easy for me so as to encourage myself and make me feel happy at the end of the day. I am a teacher and early since I started teaching I had noticed the positive impact, positive dialogue and encouragement had to my students.

I never overwhelmed them and I always encouraged them, no matter how small the work was. I liked the result I used to see on my students, so I did it for myself too. I spoke to myself as I spoke to children and that was huge. 2 minutes of reading is reading in primitive level and form. Work on your 2 minutes of reading now.

Little by little my two new habits were built.

Soon I got used to cooking and walking 10 minutes every day and the next month I leveled up! I added 10 minutes in walking and I also started reading 5 pages of a book every day. I was so happy when I first bought my first book. I used to read a lot when I was a teenager, but till 18, the school got really hard and boring for me, making my reading a real struggle. School made me hate reading until I took a book in my hands 10 years later!

After 9 years of sitting on a couch and eating shit, my body was really in a bad condition. I didn’t aim to lose any weight, my aim was to get healthier. To breathe easier basically and lead a healthy lifestyle, so as to be strong to walk in the mountains. The weight loss would come as a result of this. I was lucky enough not to live in a big city, so I was close to nature in no time. I reduced smoking too.

When I woke up every morning my body was heavy as a broken truck. I had to go to work, so it was impossible for me to wake up earlier to go walking. I went at night and when I got back home, I used to pick my book and read my 5 pages. Sometimes it was really difficult for me because my brain always loves the habit. But I understood that I needed to make a new habit, it was only 5 pages after all!

I started loving reading, taking notes of motivation words written by wonderful humans 50 or 100 years ago. I loved the way they used to think and I loved that I found people that shared the same opinion as mine. That was when I built my self-esteem. I started believing in myself.

If you build it, it will come.

As the weeks went by, I improved my breath and started feeling a little healthier. After walking at night, watching the stars and dreaming, I returned home full of positive thoughts. Then I challenged myself to start walking in the morning, before work. I will not lie to you, that was really hard. I had my backs and forwards, but always tried to tick on my list every day or at least finish all the job at the end of the week. Walking brought magic into my life. As my breath felt lighter, I decided to start running for a second. (I know it sounds funny but I am proud of that!). I pushed myself to compete for my previous self, I put limits and personal records I needed to break. And one day the magic happened. I had a personal goal to reach for that day. As I started running, a non-relative thought came to my mind, and I forgot the goal. 10 minutes later I realized that I was running without thinking about it! It was the first happy moment of all this thing. My body was healthier and stronger, my mind was healthier and happier. I built it and now I could enjoy it and challenge it for more.

The deeper satisfaction was the mental part of this challenge. Walking and running gave me more happiness, for sure. Running had immediate effects on my brain. I really felt motivated and willing to live for the rest of the day, made me work harder for my goals, made me feel successful and determined. Not only I wanted to live, now I really wanted to succeed! Watching insects and animals working from early every morning made me loving being part of this ecosystem, made me want to work for it too. I have watched dawns and sunsets, all so different from each other, every single day. I have listened to birds speaking with each other, I have smelled the soil and the rain. I have danced alone under the stars, I have played like a little kid under the trees. I have let my thoughts dance, run, hop, laugh…

I don’t know many things in life, but one I know for sure. My life changed because I moved. Exercise is the most transformative thing you can do for your brain today and if you think you can’t, just think of how I started my journey. Wherever you are, start today, even with 6 minutes walk under the trees. I am not talking about the gym, I am talking about nature.

First of all, we are animals. Our bodies are made to move. Our bodies are made to work on the mountains, walk on hills and do stuff. We have built zoos for animals and our own kids. We have built zoos for ourselves and panic attacks come to warn. I find panic attacks as a gift, as a warning of our bodies that we are in the wrong path. I changed my whole life because of my panic attacks. I moved, I got broke, broken, lost..only to see that I was in the wrong path.

Wherever you start today. If you have started, keep on moving. I know how hard it is, but we really need to take care of the animal inside us, to be proud of being crazy and to keep on walking on planet Earth.

The opportunities are built.

Exercise was the best thing I did for myself was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

If The Show Is Sold-Out, Am I a Sellout?

Or is it the other way around?

Someone asked drummer, Louie Bellson, what the worst part of the music business was. His reply? The worst part of the music business was… “Waiting to play.” The operative qualifier was business. Nothing about the music presented any general playing difficulties, but business inserts a disruptive element into the process of musical creation. I can remember club owners complaining when we played tunes longer than 4 or 5 minutes, because “people can’t buy drinks while they’re dancing…playing ‘album cuts’ is bad for business!”

Business inserts disruptive elements into all human endeavors. But when you mix Business and Creativity, specifically creative efforts in any one of the performance humanities, you end up with a confusing set of mixed messages for the performing artist. (By ‘performance humanity’, I mean any creative endeavor that makes an artifact or leaves an aesthetic memory, e.g. music, dance, painting, sculpture, literature, …ah cooking, etc.) Here’s the source of the confusion: I want a “sold out” banner across my concert flyer, but I don’t want to be called a “sell-out” because I pander to popular tastes. I want to “sell out” the show, but I don’t want anyone to think I “sold out” for the ticket sales.

I found myself on a break one night with a genius keyboard player. He asked me, “Do you remember the first time that you played music in public…for an audience?”

I told him of my first experience. He pointed out that for almost all players the first public performance happened for its own sake. Almost like in the solitude of your practice regimen you looked up and people were watching and listening. He had a way of eliciting those early memories when we talked and it took little prodding to emotionally associate myself with the memory…as a little boy…of that first performance; the adrenalin rush, the titillating anxiety of being ‘exposed’, the self-esteem jolt (up or down depending on the performance quality), and once the performance concluded, the immediate urge to do it again.

Then he asked: “Do you remember the first time you played in public…and got PAID for it?” I didn’t remember the name of the club, but I remembered the gig: $20 for four hours. I know that sounds like a pitiful amount, but it was 1979. Funny thing: I’d walked away from a free ride in the Ivy League to be a musician, but that $20 felt like a better deal than a free college education. Of course, that elation with the money missed the double-edged sword folded up in the bills. It took years of being beaten into cynical submission by the ‘music business’ before I tried to hang up my guitar for more supportive pursuits.

I knew it was time to leave when I’d lost all sense of ‘titillating anxiety’ about the solo I was playing. The adrenalin didn’t show up in my blood as a response to the audience listening. I remember the night. I was playing a five-night-a-week gig in the lounge of an Italian restaurant, and I laid down a lame solo on a lame pop tune and I just didn’t care anymore. I remember looking out at the audience and saying to myself: “Fuck you…I am sick of playing this shit for you!” A sax player friend told me that I needed to get out of the business. I did…but the music kept singing in my ear.

“I began thinking about poems I hadn’t yet written, but wanted to write. What if I never get to write these poems?” –Nicole Sealey

Those conversations about the first time and the first time I got paid came up 30 years after I quit the business. Go figure. I couldn’t really put the guitar down, but it had taken most of that 30 years to get my head …ah… straightened out about the whys and wherefores of my musical aspirations.

It took all that time to get back to the joy of playing — to understand root artistic motivations and to reconcile them with the world I live in.

Getting paid to play the first time had been thrilling, but in the end, getting paid became the function rather than the vehicle of my aspiration to play music. In the beginning, playing all day needed money from playing all night to continue in any serious fashion. But you can only ‘whore’ out your passion so many times before the gift of music is dissipated by commerce. After a time, I realized I didn’t need to practice very much in the day to be capable of playing the crap I was getting paid to play at night. The gift of any human ability to express can be dissipated or enhanced by commerce. The problem is not in the money, per se, but losing root connections to the original reason you play or write, or paint or sing, or dance in the moonlight, can be a big problem.

That ecstatic connection to the joy of a guitar string vibrating. The thrill of writing a coherent sentence of substance. The recognition of the right color to put on the canvas. Experiencing those moments are the root motivation for aesthetically pleasing intentional human behaviors. Money can turn playing (or writing or painting or whatever) into a NEED…not a WANT. A teacher taught me: “It’s not what you want that makes you fat and lazy and kills you in the end …it’s what you think you need.” Ask a junkie.

“You may do this, I tell you, it is permitted. Begin again the story of your life.” — Jane Hirshfield

In the end, I came to see that nothing, except restrictions of my own making, could really keep me from playing. My guitar worked whether there was money in the tip jar or not. I can type this sentence and post it to Medium; nothing can stop me from doing that. My views, my readers, my claps, my followers are all post pen-to-paper phenomena. If I keep those things after the function of my initial aspiration, my creativity expresses itself more authentically. I probably have a better chance of getting those post creative rewards by ignoring them before they arrive. I can have it be like the first time I played in public. I looked up from practicing and there were people there…listening. You never forget that rush if you take the time to remember it on a regular basis.

“Work like you don’t need the money. Love like you’ve never been hurt. Dance (or play guitar;) like nobody’s watching.” — Satchel Paige

Copyright Richard Gibbins, 2019. All Rights Reserved.

If The Show Is Sold-Out, Am I a Sellout? was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Is There Room for Black Writers NOT Telling Black Stories?

Good question.

We have a responsibility as black writers to share our stories.

That’s the new narrative for writers of colour. I see all the headlines:

Eve’s Bayou Screen Writer Kasi Lemmons Says Black Wome Writers Have a Responsibility

or

If we don’t document our stories, the most valuable blueprints of those who come after us will cease to exist.

So now black writers have to make a decision: write about our own experiences (or what we know of others experiences) of being black or risk not being heard.

In a time when race — specifically black empowerment — has become publicly recognized as today’s zeitgeist, writers have been tasked with crafting stories that fit the narrative. That is; write about what it means to be black.

Is this external call for more stories that accurately represent our culture necessary? Unfortunately, yes. Until recently, too many black heroes (and villains, too) have been left out of popular discourse for far too long, or the manner in which their stories have been told has been expressed with a hushed caution, a sort of filter meant to make these stories easier to digest for those outside our culture.

Is this same call for stories fair? I say no. I’ve spoken about this before, but I’ve come to certain realizations that need to be said. First, I’ve accepted now that the interpretations of much of my writing will always be looked at from the perspective of a black writer. My picture is on each one of these posts, my name is another allusion to my ethnicity (apparently), and I am black. The way I see the world and express it through my art can only be through the lens of that reality.

I’ve also come to accept that this won’t change anytime soon. My race will be a significant part of how my work will be defined even as I don’t include race in the majority of my writing. My success will be celebrated as that of a black writer first, all other adjectives will be auxiliary. And to be completely honest, this is not where I find fault.

Where I struggle with this burden of responsibility is in the stories themselves. Right now, it feels like the expectation as a black writer is to tell black stories. If you aren’t telling black stories then your writing (or art) is somehow seen as less important, less vital, not a part of the culture. And that expectation is coming from both within the black community and from other communities searching for “diverse” stories.

I hate that. I’m just a writer looking to tell stories close to my heart. But I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit to feeling a degree of pressure to write more about not just my experience, but the parts of my experience that are thought to be specific to my race (I could write an essay on this last sentence alone, but I’ll spare you for now.)

Do what you can until you can do what you want

I guess that logic makes sense. Maybe I should write more about race till I’m popular enough to write about whatever I want. Get my foot in the door before being given my own set of keys. I get it.

Is it a major compromise? HUGE. It will require me shifting my creative energy, my focus, my imagination and the true passion I have for telling stories. But will it be worth it? It’s a question I didn’t even care to consider, wouldn’t even entertain or care to let fester in my mind. Lately, however, I have thought about it. And while my answer is still unequivocally NO, the fact that I’m even thinking about its value in relation to my career makes me angry.

So what next? As the great Toni Morrison said: “You wanna fly, you got to get rid of the shit that weighs you down.”

C R Y

Is There Room for Black Writers NOT Telling Black Stories? was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Playing the Wrong Notes with a Purpose: A Short, Short Story

“Sometimes you hear kids in a garage somewhere who can just barely play their instruments and are hitting it with a kind of ferocious, undeniable spirit that has a power and energy that no one else other than those kids playing on that day in that place will ever achieve in that particular way.” — Pat Metheny

“You might not feel like playing pretty all the time. Instead, you might want to play something nasty… you might want to play something out-of-context with the tune. It might be a note that creates so much tension it becomes unpleasant, but you want it to sound that way.” — George Benson

Out of the box my mother wanted an accordion player, or that was my impression as her only child. Hence, as the only child, I was the only potential first chair accordion for the Lawrence Welk Orchestra that she would ever know. I started taking lessons and practicing on my neighbor’s accordion by the age of eight, but it didn’t last long. The Beatles hadn’t happened yet, but in my working-class KC neighborhood, Elvis definitely reigned as king. He clearly had no truck with accordion players in his band. I know I could find little to redeem the accordion regardless of how smoothly I could render a version of “Little Brown Jug” or “Aura Lee”. I don’t remember how I manipulated the circumstance, but by October of ’64 my mother had relented and I began to take lessons on electric guitar; my own electric guitar.

Initially, she made me practice an hour every day, and we had many knock-down, drag-out family dramas about how I was sure-as-hell gonna practice that thang whether I wanted to or not. By the time the Beatles, puberty, social-cache-as-the-only-guitar-player-who-could-play-and-read-music-in-my eighth-grade-class, and…girls had had their way with me, practicing too much had become the source of family stress.

I ended up doing well enough in school to snag a free ride to Columbia University and off to NYC I went once I graduated.

I wish I could tell you how I juggled academics and musical aspirations on my own in New York and flourished upon my graduation, but I pretty much spent my time at Columbia frequenting bars and clubs on the Upper West Side and in the Village. School was a pretense to be in NYC. I got to see Paul Quinichette and Joe Jones at the West End Café before they passed, probably sat in a booth where Kerouac and Ginsberg sat and drank, bathed in profundity, and I actually developed a relationship with Lance Hayward, a pianist who had a sit-down residency at a club on Bleeker Street. I can’t remember the name of the place. Those are not names for most of us today, but in their day had their place on a New York stage.

Cutting to the chase, I ended up quitting school to marry my high-school sweetheart and began to pursue the life of a working musician. In those days, the mid-70s, you could go several directions to find work. Obviously, road gigs could be found, but more often than not, you’d find the road also had you traveling with guys you wouldn’t hang with under other circumstances. Making it big…yeah, I guess. But what a hassle, you know, with selling out your integrity and all

Comparison is the death of art

Comparison is the Death of Art

A hobby I used to love was toy photography.

It’s pretty much as simple as it sounds. One takes photographs, using toys as models. The results can be mesmerizing, just google it and you’ll find some really cool photos.

When I discovered the hobby, I grabbed some of my collectibles and started shooting. It was a lot of fun to think of new settings to shoot toys in, or new “stories” to tell with the shots. I started looking around my daily life and thinking on a 1/12 scale how things would look.

The last time I did toy photography was May of last year.

I had spent too long comparing myself to other toy photographers on Instagram. I grew jealous of their high follower number and it seemed that no matter what I was doing, I wouldn’t achieve the quality or following that others were getting.

So I stopped.

I still haven’t picked up the camera again to shoot toys, but I recognize that it’s foolish of me to feel prohibited from it.

The art of others shouldn’t hinder our own. It’s fully possible that I might never get 1,000 likes on a single photo, but why should that matter? Do I want to do art to be congratulated and told how brilliant I am?

I guess I do.

What’s interesting here to me is that photography isn’t my passion, or my career. Taking photos of toys is just something I find fun. It’s not like my writing, or storytelling, where I dedicated years of my life to sharpening my craft and am building a career to continue it.

It’s just a hobby. Like playing board games or writing adventures for Dungeons and Dragons. It shouldn’t matter so much to me.

I suspect this kind of thing happens to every artist at one time or another, regardless of their medium.

A painter feels discouraged because they’ll never reach the skill or fame of da Vinci.

A writer feels discouraged because they’ll never be as haunting as Lovecraft, or as epic as Tolkien.

From my own experience, when we make comparisons of our art, we’re killing it. One should of course look to different artists to find inspiration or learn, but we must be careful not to regard our own work as trash in the meantime. All of the photographs in this post are my own, and I’m proud of them. They’re not the best things out there, but I had fun making them and I think they turned out nice.

I say all of this, and I mean it, but I’m still not sure if I’ll pick up the camera again. Maybe soon I’ll go out with a camera around my neck and a bag full of stormtroopers to take some pictures.

We’ll see.

Comparison is the death of art was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

How Do I Separate My Art From Its Outcome?

I have expectations.

I struggle with this.

Every day I struggle with this.

Every time I sit down to type words to screen or put pen to paper or press publish on one of my posts, I have expectations. When I spend years writing and rewriting, hating and not hating, anxiously trying to create a novel that speaks to my heart, I expect the world to read it.

I’m not one of those writers who can be OK not being heard; who takes solace in the therapeutic nature of the craft. My goal is to inspire. To touch the world with my words. To pull readers into the worlds I create with those words and have them linger and feel and reflect and enjoy. This isn’t pressure. This is the expectation.

Expectations

My expectations are partly rooted in my upbringing. There were no celebrations for making the honour roll in eighth grade. No jumping up and down when I accepted a full athletic scholarship to a division one university. As a Carter, success was never voluntary, it was assumed.

And I’m OK with that. I’m not sure I’d have it any other way. The demand I put on my self has pushed me to be a better writer, has brought me above average income, has influenced the way I parent. It’s made me passionate and persistent; characteristics that protrude all aspects of my life.

Tightrope

But expectations have also placed me on a tightrope. Every step feels measured. Every failure feels catastrophic. The push for more is continuous and enjoying small victories laborious. Balancing the acknowledgement of my accomplishments with my mind telling me I haven’t done shit is a battle I often lose.

I struggle with this.

How can I convince myself to enjoy the journey when I’ve suffered on its paths? Felt let down at wrong turns. Slipped on its roads and dug rocks out from under my feet.

I struggle with this. I’m getting to the point where I’ll always struggle with this. How can I divorce myself from outcome…

How Do I Separate My Art From Its Outcome? was originally published in C.R.Y on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.