The Practice: Shipping Creative Work

by Seth Godin

The practice is not the means to the output, the practice is the output, because the practice is all we can control. The practice demands that we approach our process with commitment. It acknowledges that creativity is not an event, it’s simply what we do, whether or not we’re in the mood.

The important work, the work we really want to do, doesn’t come with a recipe. It follows a different pattern.

Creativity doesn’t repeat itself; it can’t. But the creative journey still follows a pattern. It’s a practice of growth and connection, of service and daring.

This practice is a journey without an external boss. Because there’s no one in charge, this path requires us to trust ourselves—and more importantly, our selves—instead.

Consider the people who have found their voice and made a real impact: their paths always differ, but their practices overlap in many ways.

At the heart of the creative’s practice is trust: the difficult journey to trust in your self, the often hidden self, the unique human each of us lives with.

As John Gardner wrote, “The renewal of societies and organizations can go forward only if someone cares.”

Skill is not the same as talent. A good process can lead to good outcomes, but it doesn’t guarantee them.

Perfectionism has nothing to do with being perfect. Reassurance is futile. Hubris is the opposite of trust. Attitudes are skills. There’s no such thing as writer’s block. Professionals produce with intent. Creativity is an act of leadership. Leaders are imposters. All criticism is not the same. We become creative when we ship the work. Good taste is a skill. Passion is a choice.

the pain of not being sure.

For the important work, the instructions are always insufficient. For the work we’d like to do, the reward comes from the fact that there is no guarantee, that the path isn’t well lit, that we cannot possibly be sure it’s going to work.

It’s about throwing, not catching. Starting, not finishing. Improving, not being perfect.

The combination of talent, skill, craft, and point of view that brings new light to old problems. The way we change our culture and ourselves.

Art is the work we do where there is no right answer—and yet the journey is worth the effort.

Your work is too important to be left to how you feel today. On the other hand, committing to an action can change how we feel. If we act as though we trust the process and do the work, then the feelings will follow. Waiting for a feeling is a luxury we don’t have time for.

If you want to change your story, change your actions first. When we choose to act a certain way, our mind can’t help but rework our narrative to make those actions become coherent. We become what we do.

The trap is this: only after we do the difficult work does it become our calling. Only after we trust the process does it become our passion. “Do what you love” is for amateurs. “Love what you do” is the mantra for professionals.

Focusing solely on outcomes forces us to make choices that are banal, short-term, or selfish. It takes our focus away from the journey and encourages us to give up too early.

It might not be what we want to hear, but it’s true.

Because the most important boss whom each of us answers to is ourselves. And what it means to have a better boss is to have a boss who raises the bar for us but still gives us a break when we fail. What we need is a boss who is diligent and patient and insightful. We need a boss who trusts us.

Just as a good process doesn’t guarantee the outcome you were hoping for, a good decision is separate from what happens next.

Decisions are good even if the outcomes aren’t. The same is true for the process of generous creativity.

Reassurance is futile—and focusing on outcomes at the expense of process is a shortcut that will destroy your work.

And I feel like an imposter often. That’s because my best work involves doing things I’ve never done before.

if you need a guarantee you’re going to win before you begin, you’ll never start.

Identity fuels action, and action creates habits, and habits are part of a practice, and a practice is the single best way to get to where you seek to go.

We’ve been fooled into believing that roles like “writer,” “leader,” and “artist” are birthrights, fixed in place, something we either are or we aren’t. That leaders are given talents or privileges, not choices. The truth is simpler: If you want to be a leader, then lead. If you want to be a writer, then write. “I am of service” is something each of us can choose to become. It only takes a moment to begin. And once you begin, you are.

Trust is not self-confidence. Trust is a commitment to the practice, a decision to lead and make change happen, regardless of the bumps in the road, because you know that engaging in the practice is better than hiding from it.

As we engage in the practice, we begin to trust the practice. Not that it will produce the desired outcome each time, but simply that it’s our best available option. Trust earns you patience, because once you trust yourself, you can stick with a practice that most people can’t handle. And the practice is available to all of us.

Elizabeth King said, “Process saves us from the poverty of our intentions,”

The world conspires to hold us back, but it can’t do that without our permission. The dominant industrial system misrepresents the practice, pretending that it’s about talent and magic. The system would prefer you to stand by, quietly. It says, “Please sign up for the status-driven recipe of insufficiency, compliance, and applause.”

Here’s an easy test for manipulation: if the people you’re interacting with discover what you already know, will they be glad that they did what you asked them to?

Artists have a chance to make things better by making better things.

people who have found their voice are able to help us see that life includes more than what’s requested.

Ideas shared are ideas that spread, and ideas that spread change the world.

The fifth hammer is the one that’s not proven, not obvious, or not always encouraged. The fifth hammer is you, when you choose the practice and trust yourself enough to create.

We can trust a process to enable us to get better and better at the work we do. We make a difference in the world when we seek to make a difference. Not because it’s easy, but because it matters.

My colleague Marie Schacht differentiates between hospitality (welcoming people, seeing them, understanding what they need) and comfort (which involves reassurance, soft edges, and an elimination of tension).

True learning (as opposed to education) is a voluntary experience that requires tension and discomfort (the persistent feeling of incompetence as we get better at a skill).

temporary discomfort for those whom you lead, serve, and teach, but to embrace your own discomfort as you venture into territories unknown. Artists actively work to create a sense of discomfort in their audience. Discomfort engages people, keeps them on their toes, makes them curious. Discomfort is the feeling we all get just before change happens. But this new form of hospitality—of helping people change by taking them somewhere new—can make us personally uncomfortable as well.

If you care enough, it’s worth doing as many times as it takes.

The world expects that its requests will be accepted. That assignments, lunch dates, new projects, and even favors will get a yes. It’s just a small ask, the person thinks. The problem is obvious—if you spend all day hitting the ball back, you’ll never end up serving. Responding or reacting to incoming asks becomes the narration of your days, instead of the generous work of making your own contribution. Should you check your email or work on your book? Deciding to answer the email counts as a yes. But it might be a yes to the wrong thing.

There’s never enough reassurance to make up for a lack of commitment to the practice.

Reassurance is simply a short-term effort to feel good about the likely outcome. Reassurance amplifies attachment. It shifts our focus from how we persistently and generously pursue the practice to how we maneuver to make sure that we’re successful. We focus on the fish, not the casting.

Hope is not the same as reassurance. Hope is trusting yourself to have a shot to make things better. But we can hope without reassurance. We can hope at the same time that we accept that what we’re working on right now might not work.

It’s tempting to want our feelings to be absolute: provable and fungible and tangible. But confidence varies from person to person and from day to day. Confidence is a feeling, and feelings are difficult to measure and control. Reassurance is futile because it seeks to shore up a feeling, and in any given moment, it might or might not do the job. We don’t have to be victim to our feelings. They don’t have to arrive or leave of their own accord. We can choose to take actions that will generate the feelings we need.

The practice is a choice. With discipline, it’s something we can always choose. The practice is there for us, whether or not we feel confident. Especially when we don’t feel confident.

Generosity is the most direct way to find the practice. Generosity subverts resistance by focusing the work on someone else. Generosity means that we don’t have to seek reassurance for the self, but can instead concentrate on serving others. It activates a different part of our brain and gives us a more meaningful way forward.

Choose to make work that matters a great deal to someone. Develop an understanding of genre, work to see your audience’s dreams and hopes, and go as far out on the edge as they’re willing to follow. Choose to be peculiar. Choose to commit to the journey, not to any particular engagement. Because you’re dancing on a frontier, it’s impossible that all of your work will resonate. That’s okay. Great work isn’t popular work; it’s simply work that was worth doing.

To commit to that path is a brave and generous act. And it puts you on the hook to see the audience clearly enough, and to be brave enough, to develop the empathy needed to create generous work.