In weight lifting there are these sets called drop sets.
What they are is you start with heavier weight and do, say, eight reps, then drop weight, do eight more reps, and so on, for about four to five total sets in quick succession.
What happens is that first round is real heavy, but as soon as weight gets stripped away, it’s easier until you get tired. And so on.
Point is, the hardest reps are the ones at the start, but once you get moving, the weight gets lighter.
Same goes for your art. The heaviest words are always the first ones, but they get lighter and lighter as you get moving, but first you gotta lift that heavy weight so you can get the cascading effect of the drop set.
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.
Anika Fajardo, author of Magical Realism for Nonbelievers, stopped by CNF.
“Part of me thinks nobody should write a memoir.” —Anika Fajardo (@anikawriter on Twitter)
“Writing is about communicating, so that’s why we have to send things out. There needs to be a point where it goes out in the world and we communicate with a reader.” —Anika Fajardo (@anikawriter on IG)
Here we are again friend. I’m in the midst of rebranding so you’re listening to CNF, the show where I talk to badass writers, filmmakers, producers, and podcasters about the art and craft of creative nonfiction.
In any case, I hope decide to subscribe to CNF wherever you get your podcasts. And if you’d be so kind, I’d appreciate a rating or review over on Apple Podcasts. They help validate the show.
Also, keep the conversation going on Twitter by joining me @BrendanOMeara and @CNFPod. Tag the show and I’ll jump in the fire. It’s all good.
I think you’ll get a lot of tasty nuggets out of this episode. I hope you enjoy it and you share it widely with your CNFin’ friends!
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.
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.
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.
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.
