The Single Best Piece of Advice I’ve Ever Received
This post has been on my list of to-dos for some time. At first, it kept getting pushed because I was too busy to think about it. Then, because I didn’t feel like I was particularly suited for doling out advice of any kind — even if it was second hand. And now, it’s because 2020 has sucked every last ounce of inspiration out of me.
But now I realize I can delay it no longer. That we at MadWomen have a responsibility to push through the malaise because we made a promise to our community to support them through a virtual mentorship season with more content. I must pick myself up. Dust myself off. And do this. Not for me, but for you lovelies. Here goes.
Originally this was going to be a listicle running through all the good advice and bad professional advice I’ve received over my career. But now that I’ve taken this to a weirdly emotional place that doesn’t feel the right tone. It also doesn’t feel particularly helpful given that this year has been shit for everyone (just look at some of our recent posts).
Instead, I will share the single best piece of advice I’ve ever received. The one that has gotten me through professional and personal valleys. One that isn’t always easy to take, but has never failed me. Are you ready? Now that I hyped it all up? With four paragraphs of lead-in just working through the mess in my own head? Thank you for coming on that journey with me by the way. Okay here it is. The Best Piece of Advice of All Time:
Write through it — or — make good art.
This advice has come to me from multiple sources through the years. Most have been therapists or therapy-minded people reminding me that journaling is not something that I should fit into the gaps in my day, but something that needs to be a priority. But I think the true source is the delightful Neil Gaiman by way of thousands of authors, artists, musicians and other creatives who have used their turmoil to drive their art. When everything is going wrong: make good art.
I’ve had a complicated relationship with this advice (as I alluded to just five short paragraphs ago). Like a child with broccoli. Or an adult with a gym membership. I know it’s good for me. And I know I’ll be happier when I heed it’s gentle push, but in the moments when I need it most that’s when I want nothing more than to push it aside and bury myself in an Anne of Green Gables marathon (the Megan Follows/Jonathon Crombie classic) and hope the world has vanished by the time I’ve emerged.
Part of this might be the lack of confidence available to me when I’m feeling blue. It’s hard to think you have anything worth creating when everything seems to be crumbling. Certainly nothing worth sharing with the world. But this isn’t about the world.
I know that’s often how we view art — especially in our industry. Anything worth creating is worth sharing. Or has to be shared because the client will be here for the creative review at 2 and this better be good. I think it’s this looming pressure the industry has put on me over the years that is the biggest roadblock to making good art when I’m in the depths of despair (oh look Anne makes another appearance in this post).
In the early days, I could churn out client copy all day, go home and just write. Write stuff I knew would never see the light of day, but it didn’t matter. I had feeeeeeelings and I needed to get them on the page. Now, after a decade plus of monetizing words, I find myself struggling to write the ones that have no professional value. Failing to remind myself that processing value is just as, if not more, important. Writing the words that help me to work through those pesky feeeeeelings clears out the mind and makes room for the ones that inspire, connect (and, yes, sell) out in the world.
But more than that. It’s these words that keep me balanced in an unbalanced world. Keep me growing when I feel as though I’ve stalled. Keep me focused on the bits of life that really matter when the ones that don’t have crept under my skin. These words. The ones that are just for myself. May be the most important of all.
// Image by Pangrum