Kill Plan B

So you’re a writer working in a bookshop. You’re a painter selling art supplies. A guitarist cleaning floors in a recording studio.

It’s all kinda in the field you wanna break into, but not quite. And not original.

Nasty business all this. You go home after these jobs no more creatively fulfilled than when you left the house in the morning.

You’re life is a lie.

Could be worse. You could be a poet writing copy for an ad agency. A photographer doing happy snaps of marriage ceremonies. Perhaps a film maker shooting corporate videos. Sure, there’s an element of creativity, and it’s (technically) in your field of choice. But, still, not quite there.

You still come home aching for that buzz that only creation can give you. Pulling things out of the void and making them into stories, sonnets, scenes, statues, songs …

The cursed life of the creative.

Keeping your sanity is possible – but it comes at a price. Rather too high for some. Honesty. The blood simple, shoulders squared to the mirror statement that you can’t run away from. “I hate the shit I’m doing.”

But talking isn’t enough. Never was. You must act. Try this model on for size:

From today on I will be a shit copy writer. From today on I refuse to give it my all. I’m better than this. Much better. I’ll laugh at their puerile jokes, I’ll engage them in their mindless banter at the coffee machine, but I will never again fool myself into believing all this crap means anything more to me than food and rent.

So begins the sacred act of destroying the monster you created. Albeit one pin-prick at a time.

Kill Plan B – or it will kill you.

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