Tag: Motivation

Go On, Be Weird

By Brendan O’Meara

The only thing in this crazy game that gives you a leg up is you.

Take podcasting: The tendency is to want to imitate or copy other people and then just overlay what you’re saying through a filter of people who inspire you.

That’s okay … only to a point … because at some point you need to find out what makes you tick.

When you land on what makes you weird, and by weird I just mean what makes you you, then you need to double down on that and don’t apologize for it.

People might want to push you toward the middle, but you want to keep pushing back until you reach the edge.

Whatever it is that makes you weird, that’s where you need to live and for those who call you too weird, throw up your hands and say, Thank you, it’s not for you.

But for the people you resonate with because of your weirdness, you’ll be special and they’ll keep showing up so long as you do.

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Give, Give, Give, and Take

By Brendan O’Meara

It’s easy these days to want to broadcast your own work as part of the self-marketing, self-promotional machine. It’s only natural, but it can be tiresome and transparent to the recipient, the audience you seek to serve.

Instead, the greater self-promotional tactic—if you want to get cynical about it—is to always be giving. Always be sharing people’s work you admire without commentary.

“Retweet with Comment” is just another way to be intrusive.

It’s not too hard to put into practice, but when you see something, share something. Give to the community and it will give back. Maybe not immediately, but you’re not in this for the quick gain, are you?

In the digital potluck we routinely attend, you want to bring other people’s work to the dinner table.

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You vs. You

By Brendan O’Meara

I’ve got news for you: You’re not in competition with other writers, artists, etc.

You’re only competition is you.

Who you were a ten years ago, five years, one year ago, yesterday.

Are you better or worse than that person?

That is the only metric that matters.

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You Anoint You

By Brendan O’Meara

When I was talking to the great poet Jericho Brown, a mentor told him he would be a poet.

Just like that.

And he thought, and I’m paraphrasing. It’s that simple. I’m a poet because I declare that I am a poet.

Nobody will make that choice for you. Nobody will anoint you. You anoint you.

You are a writer when you decide to write.

You are a painter when you decide to paint.

But you must do the thing. The only person who needs to give you permission is yourself.

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It Can Never Be About Outcome

By Brendan O’Meara

It can never be about outcome otherwise you will grow bitter and resentful.

As trite as it sounds, it has to be about the journey.

If you want to be a great golfer, you have to fall in love with the driving range.

If you want to be a great baseball player, you have to fall in love with the batting cage.

If you want to be a great writer, you have to fall in love with doing immense amounts of crappy writing in isolation.

If you want to be a bodybuilder, you must fall in love with the gym.

We see the outcomes of these tasks—replace them with whatever resonates with you—but fail to see the titanic effort and work that goes largely unseen to reach the stage.

Fact is, anybody who’s ever made it, finds a way to fall in love with the grind. Sure, there are goals and golden coins along the way, but what you find is that when you fall in love with the practice the outcomes will take care of themselves.

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On Aiming High and Coming Up ‘Short’

By Brendan O’Meara

You’ve heard the phrase shoot for the stars you just might land on the moon, right?

It’s a great sentiment, if you’re totally chill with landing on the moon.

Problem is if you’re the type of person delusional enough to shoot for the stars, maybe landing on the moon is a disappointment.

Here me out.

As a baseball player, I was just good enough that possibly playing in the pros wasn’t that much of a delusion. Throughout high school I busted and trained and hit and threw and fielded. I never made it to the pros, so by all accounts a disappointment.

But I was a damn good high school player and would’ve been a fine college player. My problem was that I couldn’t be satisfied with being a damn good high school player, one of the 100 best in New England. It meant nothing to me.

But…had I not pushed myself to that extreme of playing professionally, had I just been happy to be a decent high school player, I doubt I would’ve been a very good high school player at all. I shot for the stars and landed on the moon. My problem was I was grossly unsatisfied with the moon.

So we need to have Major League dreams and Major League work ethic, knowing all the while that reaching that mighty pinnacle is still unlikely, but that shouldn’t stop us, because pushing ourselves to that level will make us pretty damn good.

The trick—and the rub—is being happy with the moon.

And I think I have an answer for that, but I’ll save it for tomorrow.

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The End of Job Shaming Part III

By Brendan O’Meara

Okay, so this’ll be my last (I think) post for a while on Job Shaming. [Parts I and II]

You know what Day Jobs also do? They put you out into the world and in contact with people, and if you’re a writer: people are where the stories are.

Gay Talese, say what you will about him in recent years, but his advice to young writers coming out of school is to get a job driving a cab. What better way to intersect with people, real people.

I owe my first book to a retail job. There I was a double major, an MFA holder, working at a shoe store.

I was fitting a woman for a pair of running shoes. She asked me what I did besides the retail gig. I told her I was a writer and I had this book, Six Weeks in Saratoga, that I had finished and was shopping around.

She said, “I know an editor at SUNY Press and I know they’re looking for a Saratoga book.”

She gave me the woman’s email. I sent her the manuscript and…fast forward a few months…they accepted and would later publish the book.

This was lucky, but I also had done the work and was in the position to capitalize.

And it was the menial Day Job, one that I felt tons of shame over, that ultimately led to my first book. And it’s a good, little book for a 29-year-old. I’m not gonna denigrate it.

Point is, every time you punch the clock at work, you might have the opportunity of running into someone and that is likely someone you would’ve never met had you not had your Day Job out in the world.

No shame in that.

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The End of Job Shaming Part II

By Brendan O’Meara

Oh, and another thing about Day Jobs: They create structure, and they take pressure off your art. [The End of Job Shaming Part I]

Let’s address the first one. Say you work 32-40 hours per week, there’s likely a chance that you’ll have one to two hours before your shift or one to two hours after your shift to do your thing. Then there’s your days off.

Some of my best reporting was done during lunch breaks while landscaping (phone interviews). I often said to myself, well, my heroes in narrative journalism aren’t landscaping and doing reporting calls during lunch in 100-degree heat, but, alas, my path is my path and, you know what, it’s sorta cool.

I think people think that if they had all day to do their art they’d get more done. I don’t know if that’s true. The structure and time constraint enforced by a Day Job puts greater focus on the time you have. There’s a chance you do better, more concentrated work when that time is more precious.

To the second point: If you’re relying on your art to be your breadwinning you will find that something about your art dies with it. It certainly changes tenor. Not to mention that because you’re self-employed you’ll be paying nearly double the taxes, so you’ll have to churn out double the work or somehow find very well paying clients or markets.

See Day Jobs as something that pays you an advance on your work that you don’t have to earn back.

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The End of Job Shaming Part I

By Brendan O’Meara

You remember that photo, right? The one of the actor Geoffrey Owens, most famous for his role on The Cosby Show, working the register at Trader Joe’s? The photo taken by someone whose very intent was to shame a working actor for having what she perceived as a low-life job?

This angered me so much, but Owens graciously took the high road. He parlayed this job shaming into many appearances on morning talk shows. He lauded his employer for taking him in, for giving him a steady paycheck while he sought work as an actor. As a result, he ended up getting more acting work. He’s always been a working actor, and sometimes a working actor has to work at a job flexible enough to accommodate his craft. It’s not prestigious, but you wanna know what else isn’t prestigious: missing the rent.

If we’re not getting job shamed by our family or by someone at a party, then we almost certainly do it to ourselves. You think I spent all this money on education and it’s led me to working a crummy retail job because I can’t get enough writing gigs. You think Well, if I was any good at this craft, would I even need a day job? Or you start playing the Competition Olympics and think Well, my heroes, those artists I so deeply admire, they don’t have to stack produce at the supermarket while I fill-in-the-blank.

The fact is, in this day of social media highlights, YOU DON’T KNOW IF THEY’RE STACKING PRODUCE OR NOT. THEY MIGHT BE, BUT THEY’RE NOT BROADCASTING IT.

There are myriad things worth unpacking here and maybe this will be the first of several micropods about Day Jobs and Job Shaming.

I can speak to this because it’s something I have felt so deeply for many, many years.

I’ll leave you with this: Day Jobs are nothing to be ashamed of. Think of it as a way that subsidizes your art. Make what you can in the time you have and stop hating yourself for it.

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Start Now

By Brendan O’Meara

This morning I was riffing in my journal and my final passage lamented how much I want to do just in writing. I have so many projects in my head, written down, everywhere, and trust me, they’re all genius.

With so much I want to get to, where do I start? And for that matter, where should you start? The answer is: Start. Pass Go.

We’re not in this for the short gain, the short cut, and the low-hanging fruit. No, we’re in this for the long haul. We want to be 70, 80, 90 years old still churning out art.

Your journal entry on the eve of your eventual death should say something to the effect of, “I can’t wait to keep working on that project.”

Play the long game. You have many ideas and it’s stifling to think of them all. Honestly, most of them are likely garbage and won’t live up to the perfect ideal in your head.

Doesn’t matter. Start now. Life is long. Start now. Keep going. Please.

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