When time comes calling
A friend is very ill. We used to be close, but drifted apart, as friends sometimes do. When I heard the news, I sent her a message. That I was thinking of her; that she didn’t have to reply if her social capacity was on overload.

She just received more bad news, which she’s accepted with more grace and good humour than I could ever manage. She thanked me for writing.

“I hope you are well and happy—and creatively engaged.”

Creatively engaged.

Funny how that impacts on “well” and “happy.” I have, truth be told, spent too much time trying to be useful of late. An honourable pursuit, perhaps, but Creative has taken offence and packed her bags. Can’t say I blame her. And to be honest, Useful has gotten to be a bit of a bore. Some changes in metaphorical personnel are in order.

Because when you get down to it, none of us really knows when time will come calling.

Five simple questions
So let me ask you this:

How much time do you spend in the wrong places? On things that don’t really matter to you?

How much time do you waste worrying instead of exploring? Dreading rejection instead of taking a risk and getting on with it?

What would you change so you could fully occupy your creative life?

This is part two of a series dedicated to retail craft and art shows. Part one was about marketing, and how creatives can no longer depend on show organizers to connect with their customers. Today it’s about how one simple (and painfully common) mistake drives existing customers away.

Words you don’t ever want to hear

Dear exhibitor:

I spent nearly 10 minutes looking for a parking spot, then walked three stinking blocks in freezing drizzle. Then I see your vehicle parked less than 100 feet from the door (maybe next time you should take your decal off the window).

Then I get the unparalleled privilege of paying $7.50 for admission to the building, and to put the sprinkles on my soggy cupcake, when I finally find your booth, you don’t look up from the book you’re reading.

I can get better parking and deal with equally disinterested people at the mall.

Sincerely,
The customer who won’t be back

Do you really know where your customers are?
Customer traffic has dropped significantly at many retail craft shows and art fairs. Some of it has to do with poor marketing, some of it has to do with competition, but there’s another reason people walk away.

It also applies to high end shows and online selling.

The reason is multi-faceted, but very simple: the customer has been dropped from the equation.

You have to do more than put in an appearance
I once met a creative entrepreneur almost by accident. I say “by accident” because if I hadn’t recognized her business name, I would have walked right past her.

Her display was minimal. Rented pipe and drape, with a couple of shelf units sitting on one of the tables provided by the venue.

She told me a full booth would be very inconvenient for her to set up.

And that’s the problem.

Your customer’s experience isn’t about your convenience.

Being successful in business requires you focus on the person with the money in her hand.

Because without her, you’re done.

Walk a mile in a customer’s shoes
Picture this: from across the aisle you catch sight of a sea of black, with small, unidentifiable objects on display. The exhibitor is skulking at the very back of the booth like an unhappy bear in a den.

She’s not doing great business.

Bad for her, but it doesn’t hurt the show much. The overall impression of the show is one of quality, so you ignore her and carry on.

The slippery slope that kills a show
Now imagine: among several well-dressed booths there are a number with rented pipe and drape, and tables covered in plain cloth. You have to bend forward to see the items.

Some of those booths don’t have lighting.

How does that make you feel?

You encounter exhibitors sitting in standard height chairs. Some of them are seated across from each other, chatting at the entrance of the booth.

You don’t go in, because you feel like you’re interrupting dinner.

You’re not in a crafty-craft show with things made from kits and copied from magazines, these people are supposed to be professionals. At least, that’s what the show poster promised, and that’s the way the show used to be.

Selling is not about logic—it’s about people
Think about how you’re feeling now.

You’re the customer, looking for something special.

You hunted for a parking spot.

You paid to get in.

You were planning to spend an hour or two, enjoying the work as well as the atmosphere.

But you have to work harder and harder to see past ho-hum booths and surprisingly apathetic people.

Think about how you feel.

Do you want to be there?

Do you want to go back?

Join the crowd.

Want to be memorable? Bring it—all of it
Anyone who thinks making the work should be the end of their efforts undermine their own businesses and drag everyone else down with them. 

“Handmade” isn’t enough to attract customers anymore. With a site like Etsy boasting hundreds of thousands of sellers, handmade is no longer a rare and wonderful thing.

The rare and wonderful rise above the hacks and hobbyists, and savvy customers look for the cues.

They don’t have much patience when they feel let down.

The pros are serious about delighting customers
Anyone can throw a cloth on a table and sit on a lawn chair for three days. Or sign up for a Blogger account (which they then neglect), or set up an Etsy shop (complete with out-of-focus photographs).

Professionals take the extra step. They think about how customers see their entire business and create a remarkable experience, in person and online.

The pros know the magic is in the details.

They know customers rarely speak up, but will tell their friends about their disappointing buying experiences.

The professionals know a negative impression is incredibly difficult to erase.

Follow the right crowd
“What can I get away with?” is exactly the mindset that will drive away business. There are too many people following that crowd. Certain bloggers will encourage you to “fail fast” or just throw something out there and fix it later.

It sounds great, doesn’t it. Easy. No real commitment.

It’s sound advice when you’re making new work. Experimenting with creativity is part of the job.

But your customers rarely see that part of it. They’re not meant to.

Getting lazy when it comes to selling is a massive mistake.

No ifs, ands, or buts
You don’t need to spend thousands of dollars to display your work.

Your customers don’t expect you to be corporate-polished perfect.

They expect you to bring the Wow. To be interested, and fully present.

They have every right to.

About the author: Stacey Cornelius is a writer and artist who believes successful creative ventures run far deeper than snazzy sales pitches. She helps empower artists, designers, writers and craftspeople to do their best work and show it to the world. Sign up for her free, jargon-busting foundation marketing email class right here. For high-speed inspiration, follow Stacey on Twitter. 

A universal portrait of dread
There’s no place like the dentist’s chair to contemplate all possible meanings of the word “discomfort.”

I lay there, face numb, jaw forced open with exotic devices made from steel and latex. A tiny television screen, meant to distract, was mounted in the corner of the room, sound emanating in one ear from an ill-fitting set of headphones. Competing with that was the tinny sound of music from somewhere in the ceiling (not even remotely to my taste), and shop talk between the dentist and her assistant, just inches above my head.

All of it was drowned out by the siren song of the drill as it resonated off old, cracked metal fillings. (When I say “siren,” I refer to the sound of emergency vehicles. Interpret it as you wish.)

Suffice it to say I was conflicted about the visit.

Discomfort can be a great motivator
Discomfort can galvanize you into decisive action. Say, for example, searing headaches and seriously reduced neck mobility, compounded by stabbing tooth pain while chewing anything but lukewarm food, caused by nocturnal teeth grinding.

That discomfort got me past my longstanding dread of dentists. I gave up and made an appointment.

Memory can amplify discomfort
I haven’t had the best time of it with dentists. Those memories have stayed with me, changing, as memories do, over time.

As the appointment approached, I tried not to think about the worst part of the process. In my mind’s eye was an instrument best suited for decorating cakes, fitted with a small harpoon that required something akin to the action of a bicycle tire pump to administer local anesthetic.

At least, that’s how I remember it.

What I saw on the day was a brief glimpse of a very small syringe that came with a matter-of-fact request: “Close your eyes for a minute.”

I didn’t feel a thing.

Anticipation can make you crazy
As the dentist got to work, I wondered how hard it would be to peel me off the ceiling if the freezing didn’t take. I braced myself for the inevitable, while trying to figure out how long the drilling would last. I caught a whiff of hot metal, then another…

And the drilling was done.

It’s easy to conjure up any manner of terrifying scenarios in your head. It can have great entertainment value after the fact, but it can also cause a ridiculous amount of needless anxiety. Those what-if’s can be paralyzing. It’s not a good habit to get into.

Avoiding discomfort creates monsters
It’s human nature to avoid things that make us uncomfortable, but there’s a chronic condition that goes with that choice.

Instead of feeling relief at not doing the thing that intimidates—whether it’s that dreaded dental appointment or a follow-up client call—what you find instead is the ghost of the undone thing.

Avoidance creates a vacuum. That space won’t stay empty for long.

Fear of the dentist is replaced by the pain of the neglected tooth.

A dwindling bank balance is a glaring testament to business ignored.

That feeling that haunts every step, every new idea: I let myself down.

Instead of freeing yourself, you retreat into a place that drains your energy. There’s no room in your head for bright, shiny new things, no room to truly create or to grow.

There comes a point where a real decision needs to be made.

Deal with the acute, the chronic takes care of itself
To be perfectly honest, I’m not sorry I waited to make that appointment. I had three very old, cracked-by-grinding fillings replaced in one shot. One appointment, despite my sore mouth afterwards, was far better than three visits.

And since I’m being honest, let’s also be very clear: I got lucky. They were three adjacent teeth, which expedited the procedure. Years of avoiding sugar probably saved me from periodontal disease (read: potential hygiene appointments every three months).

It wasn’t worth the risk.

I’m glad it’s done, but I’m very glad I got over myself.

Well.

There was that one thing.

The dentist heard a remix of an old song, which she described to her assistant. She began reciting lines:

I am a man who will fight for your honor

I’ll be the hero you’ve been dreaming of

We’ll live forever

Knowing together that we

Did it all for the glory of love

“It’s by Peter Cetera. Do you know that song, Stacey?”

“Ungh,” I replied (I was still wearing dental apparatus).

I’m sure she took that as a yes. What I really meant was, “Great. Thanks. Now I am in pain.”

Perspective and payoff
I spent weeks fretting over the appointment. And for what—90 minutes out of one day?

Two-day Peter Cetera ear worm aside, it’s a blip on the radar screen.

Avoiding discomfort requires more time and energy, and causes way more trouble than it’s worth.

Where’s your discomfort zone? What are you avoiding? And what’s it costing you?

Image by Ross Harmes

A few people have commented on a favourite saying of mine: the scent of desperation attracts vampires. I’d like to trademark it and put it on t-shirts. And lunch boxes.

Until my legal team finalizes the details on that budding corporate empire, I’m happy to tell you I was recently offered the opportunity to take a rather fanciful view of what happens when we act out of desperation and the vampires do come.

Instead of a regular post here at the Studio Source, I have a guest post at The Fiction Writing Directorate. The Directorate is devoted to helping writers break down their creative blocks, and to have a mighty fine time while doing it. Many thanks to the lovely and talented Beth Wodzinski, who oversees the eccentric crew at the Directorate, as well as wearing the sizeable hat of editor and publisher of Shimmer magazine.

I had a ridiculously good time writing the piece—I hope you enjoy it.

Image by William Warby

I once had a rather brief conversation with an artist about what I do here at the Studio Source. She asked about consulting and what I charge.

“A hundred dollars!” she gasped. Then, “Oh, just kidding.”

She wasn’t kidding.

She wasn’t really thinking, either. It was an instant reaction that had nothing to do with me or the services I offer. That horrified gasp was really about her relationship with money.

It’s an uncomfortable relationship a lot of us can identify with.

I’ll bet you a hundred dollars, and a hundred more, that belief system is seriously undermining her business. I’ll also bet you a big bucket of money it never occurred to her to ask one critical question.

What’s in it for me?

This isn’t just about the money, honey
Before your inner cynic jumps up to hit the Delete key, let me assure you this isn’t one of those manipulative sales pitches disguised as a post. This isn’t about me or my services. This is about how you perceive the value of time and work.

This is about priorities
Where I live, $100 will buy you about 10 packs of cigarettes, 10 bottles of cheap wine, or five party-sized pizzas. Lots of people have no trouble dropping that kind of cash on any of those things, even those who describe themselves as cash-strapped. That’s partly because the money drifts away slowly, so it’s not so painful. In fact, that disappearing money might not even merit a second thought. Ask for $100 in one go? That apparently gets attention.

So let me pose a few questions:

• What’s the very best use of your hard-earned money?
• What brings you real comfort and joy?
• Where do you strike the balance between the two?

We value the tangible and the immediate
Now tell me if any of this sounds familiar:

• How many artists overbuy supplies?
• How many creatives value learning new skills?
• How many ask “How much?” before asking “What do I get out of it?”

Shift the meaning of value, and we balk
My hand was up for the first two questions. It took a long time to shift my thinking from cost to investment so I could finally put my hand down at that last one. I was raised in a working-class family where money was sometimes an uncomfortable subject. I spent a lot of time looking for the cheapest solution, which was rarely the best one.

I finally got tired of throwing good money after bad. I’m still working on being comfortable with deciding when to spend, and when to be sure my money really should stay in my pocket. If I feel uneasy about spending, it’s a sure signal to stop and think about the source of that discomfort, because my head and my gut are not in agreement.

The perception of value works both ways
It’s frustrating to run into people who don’t understand the time, energy and skill required to produce good work. But here’s the thing: when it comes to investing in your own career, you sometimes fall into that very same way of thinking.

“I can’t afford it.”

“It’s too expensive.”

I’m not trying to be cruel here. Some people really don’t have the cash to spare. Some really do have to eat lentils for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The people I talk to, face to face, aren’t in that situation. They just don’t see the value. The can’t declarations are excuses to avoid dealing with how they really feel about money, about how they value their work, and most important, what they believe about how others value their work.

The perception of value is subjective
What qualifies as “too expensive?” Is it something you can’t pay cash for right now, or is it something more complicated?

Sometimes “cost” isn’t about money at all. Sometimes it’s an illusion.

The $100 question
What’s worth $100?

Do you have to compare apples and oranges to answer it (no-name brand versus premium in the grocery store)? Or do you need to reach for apples and zebras (a massage therapist’s fee versus the local welding shop versus a business coach)?

Here’s a better approach: what’s in it for you? To frame it in mainstream marketing terms, what are the benefits?

In plain English, and perhaps more practically, what will you gain if you spend money on that software, or service, book or workshop?

If your answer puts stars in your eyes, be careful. If you respond with, “If I buy this I’ll have to work,” you’re probably on the right track.

An active mindset is good. Your beliefs about money affect more than how you spend it.

Once upon a time, during one of my unfortunate stints in the world of business administration, I worked in a shared set of offices. One day a woman stormed in, red-faced and angry. She was holding a black velvet board with earrings pinned to it.

“Would you buy these?”

She phrased it like a question, but it was a demand. A furious demand.

I discovered she’d applied to a high-end show and the jury rejected her work. She decided to prove how wrong these misguided, awful people were by immediately selling her samples to anyone within earshot. My office was her first stop.

I stammered something about it not being my style, and she left without pressing me further. I was hugely relieved.

Because I lied.

The style wasn’t the problem. The designs weren’t thrilling, but they weren’t bad. There was definitely a market for her work.

The problem was in the execution.

Straight bits were crooked, pieces meant to match, didn’t. The work was not a good fit for the quality of the show, and the jury decided accordingly.

She didn’t want to hear that.

Nobody ever wants to hear that.

Criticism stings—even when it’s necessary
We’re protective of our work, and sometimes insecure about our skills. We can be completely neurotic about our talent—the thing we believe we have to be born with and can never learn. When someone even hints we might need to improve our technique, it can feel like the world is about to cave in.

Sometimes an honest comment can kick us out of a carefully cultivated sense of denial.

Sometimes that hard landing is exactly what we need.

One caveat: criticism has to be constructive, it has to be honest, and it has to be informed. There are plenty of people out there who don’t know what they’re talking about, but still spew all manner of negativity. If criticism comes from resentment or ignorance, it’s just noise. On the other hand, if someone tells you your work isn’t a good fit for her or her venue, she might think it needs improvement, or she might simply mean what she says (maybe because you didn’t do your homework before approaching her).

The courage to be truly creative
One of my favourite art school instructors had a brilliant bit of guidance for her intro level students: don’t get precious with it.

You can’t get better if you get precious. Creativity isn’t about playing it safe, and it’s not about sticking your head in the sand and pretending the big, bad, critical world doesn’t exist. The world can seem cruel at times, but there are people who can see potential and don’t want it to be wasted. They’ll tell you the hard truth because they want you to achieve the great things they know you’re capable of.

When you commit to a life as an artist, boundaries have to be broken, even if you make one tiny crack at a time. As Leonard Cohen said in “Anthem,” “There is a crack in everything / That’s how the light gets in.” We all need those creative fissures.

Don’t take it personally—kick your critical thinking into gear
No matter where you are in your career, it’s important to understand where your buyers are. Your real buyers. The people who will give you money for your work right now. You may aspire to greater things, but if your work isn’t ready, neither are the clients.

Readiness comes in stages. Creativity is a continuous process. There is always something to learn. There’s no shame in that, and no failure. It’s true for every artist, regardless of medium.

Take the advice and run with it
The angry artisan found a mentor, who showed her fabrication techniques that completely transformed her work. From what I heard, that connection was made through the organization that rejected her application. I don’t know if that’s true, or if she sought him out herself, but she was able to get past her wounded pride and do what mattered most to her. She went on to create a successful business and was able to reach the clients and the shows she wanted.

How about you? Have you ever gotten a creative kick that stung, but then turned out to be great advice? And if I’m preaching to the choir… how goes the marketing?

“Hiiiii.”

Little girl voice. Four syllables. Waltzes into the booth, snatches up a piece and examines it. Closely.

She’s not a buyer.

She’s a competitor, and she’s counting on her flirty persona to excuse the violation of the trade show contract she signed. The contract that explicitly states no exhibitor is to enter someone else’s booth without permission.

What do you do?

Barbarians at the gate
You can kick her out. But a confrontation in the middle of a show is awkward, if not downright ugly.

You can watch what she does to see if she’s up to no good, or just being nosy. There’s the distinct possibility her attempt at industrial espionage will turn out to be nothing more than a dust-eating expedition. It’s hard to remember details on the fly.

You can chat her up—but then you run the risk of her thinking the welcome mat is out. Not a great strategy if she’s serious about helping herself to the proverbial fruits of your creative labour.

Whatever you choose, you’ve been put in an difficult position. It’s unfortunate, but many of us have encountered these people, and many of us have heard horror stories about creatives who have had designs stolen.

There are trolls and vampires everywhere. Some of them are even paid to do it.

What’s to stop them? There are two simple answers: integrity, and nothing. It’s an unpleasant reality of being in business.

Damn the torpedoes, watch for the trolls
I know people who don’t want to put their work online because of the possibility of theft. The thing is, someone could just as easily buy a piece and copy it. Or use a picture in a catalogue or show guide.

You should never avoid promoting your work because of the threat of design theft—it may never happen to you.

Generally speaking, a maker is awarded immediate copyright to her work. That doesn’t stop someone from ripping you off, and if that does happen, you might need a lawyer. Copyright law is complicated. I’m not a lawyer, and I don’t play one on TV. My best advice is to protect yourself and do your best to keep the obvious vampires at bay. You can start with the basics, and do a little research into copyright or trademark law if you’re really concerned about it.

• Know your competitors. You don’t have to make nice. You don’t have to follow the advice to keep your enemies closer than your friends. Just be aware. It’s smart business to know your market.
• Document your work. This one seems like a no-brainer, but it’s easy to forget to keep your archives up to date.
• Be loud and proud. It’s much easier to say “This is mine!” when your work is in the spotlight.
• Include a copyright notice and keep it up to date, whether you claim full rights or use a Creative Commons license. It won’t stop every would-be design thief, but it might give a desperate amateur reason to pause.
• Keep developing new work. It’s hard to hit a moving target. It’s better for your buyers, too.

I’ve never had to hire a lawyer, but I’ve had images lifted from my website, and I’ve been in that booth when a less-than-scrupulous competitor made an appearance.

A tale of two trolls
The first time it  happened, I did nothing. Still regret it, even though nothing bad resulted. It just bugs me that I didn’t have the guts to stand up for myself.

The last time it happened, there were two of them. And I was ready.

“Hi there!’ I said, nearly standing on her feet. I acted like an over-caffeinated sales clerk hawking cheap furniture on commission. She mumbled and tried to sidestep to get into the booth. I danced in front of her, all smiles and borderline hysterical good cheer.

I managed to scare her off.

Five minutes later, her partner showed up, and I did another dance.

Avoiding a nasty scene felt good. The next day I discovered I provided some mid-afternoon entertainment for my neighbours, and apparently word got around the show. A few of us were laughing about my Tony award-worthy performance when someone joined us, and with big eyes said, “Did you hear there was a confrontation yesterday?”

We nearly fell over laughing.

Not a bad tally for the weekend: I scared off a couple of trolls without stressing myself out, accidentally started a juicy rumor, and best of all, one of the other exhibitors was also a kids’ soccer coach. He told me I had good moves.

Nice to have career options.

How about you—have you ever had to wrestle a would-be design thief to the virtual ground? Do you worry about those people? How do you protect your work?

It was one of those too-early hot, humid days that turns the world into an aquarium. A day that dampens everything. Clothes sticking, air thick and stale.

“I’m supposed to be enjoying myself,” she thinks, slowing to a walk, then stopping without fully realizing it. Running was always her refuge, her tonic, particularly when she was blocked.

But not today. Not yesterday, or the day before.

This block was a big one.

Nothing felt right. Ideas came, then vanished; frail, frightened things that skittered away at the slightest inclination to catch them. Work had become work, her studio a prison worse than the last day job. She was avoiding deadlines, letting people down. She didn’t want to get out of bed anymore.

“Is this depression? What’s happening to me?”

Then the voice comes. Not the kind that warns of invasions from outer space and sends you running for the tinfoil, but the other voice. The quiet one. The voice you ignore at your peril.

“There is nothing here to sustain you.”

She takes a breath, closes her eyes, tries to push it away. Can’t.

“Shit.”

She doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud.

A kid with a skateboard gives her a sidelong look as he shuffles by, absently scratching his side with his free hand.

Unnoticed.

She stands in the middle of the path in the middle of the park in the middle of the day, perfectly still.

– — – — – — – — – — – — – –

Sometimes I think we avoid marketing not because we’re afraid of rejection, but because we harbour the irrational belief it will eventually consume us. That we’ll become so preoccupied with marketing we’ll stop making good work. That we’ll be forced to spend so much time selling we’ll start to dread the very thought of walking into the studio.

If you believe that, you’re doing it the wrong way. And you’re not alone.

I got preoccupied, and spent the last three months reconsidering everything.

Confession
Long story short, I failed to practice what I preach: that marketing should flow naturally from your creative practice—that it should also be the work of imagination.

It looks stupidly simple in print. But life has a way of getting complicated, and we humans aren’t particularly good with perspective. I can only now confess to my hypocrisy through the benefit of hindsight.

At the time, I told myself it was burnout, and that was true up to a point. But I was wrong about the source, which wasn’t just overwork. I’d reached the point where I didn’t like what I was doing and wasn’t sure why I was doing it. It wasn’t so much a disconnect as an unraveling, and it crept up on me slowly. It ended in an almost palpable sense of unease, as if I were trying to wear someone else’s skin.

The scary part
The inevitable questions arose. Was I doing the wrong thing? Was I doing the right thing the wrong way? Was I following my gut or my ego? How could I get myself out of the rut? Was the endeavour even viable?

There is nothing here to sustain you.

Those awful words echoed in my head. I didn’t know where to get the answers I needed. But I knew I had to start digging.

Like our fictional friend in the park, I let people down. I started saying no to things. I got rid of stuff—donating, gifting, recycling, tossing out, clearing my space and desperately trying to clear my head. I told myself there had to be a yes somewhere in all those no’s.

But I also realized there was no guarantee I’d find it.

Deadline
Labour Day arrived with a heat wave and a hurricane. Vacation time was supposed to be over. I considered quietly deleting my Twitter account and making this site vanish into the virtual mist. That option is still on the table, and I think it always will be. The prospect of instant, irresponsible freedom is appealing, and might just see me through a rough patch someday.

But bailing out wouldn’t solve anything. Neither would forcing it. So I waited. Gritted my teeth and let things play out.

Renewal
In the end, yes bubbled up as quietly as the slow descent into the mire. Just a few days ago, a bunch of little things gathered themselves together and reminded me where my creativity lives and what really gets me jazzed.

Yes climbed out of my cramped computer and went out dancing in the big, wide, real world.

What we create reflects who we are as a culture. What we surround ourselves with—art, design, music, writing, reflects who we are as individuals—not just our sense of aesthetics, but our dreams, desires, and even our most secret fears.

As makers, we begin with an idea, give it form, and present it to the world. Why we do it is as unique as we are. Some of us love design for its own sake. Some of us yearn to make meaning. Some have a passionate connection with our medium.

For some of us, it’s a combination of all those things. We need to carry those reasons with us wherever we go and never lose sight of them.

Perspective
Marketing isn’t scary because it’s big. It’s scary because it can get very small, very fast.

I started The Studio Source by urging you to forget the uptight business speak, because marketing is cool. I got so caught up in trying to create a clear message I took all the—what’s the word I’m looking for?—right. Creativity. I took all the creativity out of it,  and everything stopped being cool.

Never doing that again.

Next summer I’m going to the beach.

There are times when you find yourself reflecting on the choices you make. Like when you’re laying in the middle of your driveway, reflecting on the laws of physics and the frailty of the human body.

Allow me to elaborate.

A lesson in physics
I walk my dogs on long leads. Several days ago, as we set out on our usual morning walk, something flashed across the end of the driveway. It was either one of the neighbourhood cats or a hare. I can’t say which because it was moving too fast to identify. The dogs took off, I started running behind them, then one of them suddenly changed direction, and I went down like a gazelle on the savannah. The lions (or in this case, the wolves) abandoned me, apparently far more interested in pursuing smaller prey.

I remember the instant of impact. I’m not even remotely prone to falling, so I vividly remember being shocked at the force when I hit the gravel. I rolled after I fell, but don’t recall how many times.

I figured I wasn’t in nearly enough pain to be seriously injured, but I wasn’t interested in getting up, either.

I considered gathering the dogs before they got into trouble, but I still wasn’t interested in getting up.

I pulled my right hand out from under me and discovered gouges on the heel of my hand. “Great,” I thought, “That’s going to leave some scars.” Didn’t look forward to cleaning the dirt out of the worst one. But that would have to wait a few minutes.

I finally got to my feet and retrieved the dogs, who were in the woods, still frantically sniffing for the mysterious beast that instigated the big adventure. I got them back into the house, cleaned and dressed my hand, inspected the road rash on my left knee (minor) and hip (impressive), and got on with my day, planning my next blog post. The worst of it seemed to be my hand. I couldn’t grasp anything without irritating it, or type very well.

But then there was a second crash. Two days later, my twitchy metabolism let me know I finally pushed it too far. I crawled into bed and stayed there for a day and a half.

Five days after the big fall, I sat across from my doctor and felt the extraordinary ambivalence that comes with the words, “Can you stop work for a while? Can you take the summer off?”

The prospect of having a summer off is like being a kid and finding out school is ending a month early. On the other hand, several weeks without your usual income is okay if you qualify for employment insurance or short term disability, but if you’re self-employed? Not so great. Not even if you have a backup income in the form of a significant other, because your business is still new, and you really don’t want to find it in a shambles when the respite is over.

Like I said, ambivalence.

The hazards of self-employment
My health is a delicate balance at the best of times. I don’t much like discussing it, because I don’t define who I am by my current circumstances. Mostly I’m able to keep myself in running order, but the rigors of a new startup and occasional forays to the land of Forbidden Food left me a little too close to the edge.

The whole “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” thing pretty much did it. To make a long, complicated story short: I’m in the middle of a massive energy crisis.

A tough choice and clear lesson
So there’s a choice to be made: try to keep going with a partially charged battery and scale back as much as humanly possible, or hit the Pause button for a couple of months and let the battery charge fully.

Neither choice feels exactly right for various reasons. But there is one smart choice.

And the only guarantee is there will be lessons learned along the way.

The big lesson so far is simple: I shouldn’t have tried to ramp up a new business while winding down another one. An overlap seems logical, but things haven’t gone as planned. Since I haven’t had enough energy or clarity of thought, I’m not doing anything particularly well.

When you think you’re done, but you’re not
I didn’t expect the sense of loss that came with the decision to wrap up my bricks and mortar artisan venture. I couldn’t grow it the way I wanted to, so instead of driving myself (and everyone around me) crazy bemoaning the fact, I decided to move on to something else. It sounded good, but when I started telling people, I realized I wasn’t entirely relieved. I also had to keep things running until the announced end date. It’s been surprisingly difficult to keep my head in the right place with it.

The best laid plans get bigger than you expect
I was surprised by the amount of work that came with building and marketing an online business. I’d also conveniently forgotten about the standard package of freakouts that come with any new startup. Add to that the demands of running a second business, even though it’s winding down, and the load gets heavier than you ever could have anticipated.

Business, like life, is funny that way.

Check the space between your ears
There’s a big pile of coping in my world. I require more sleep than most humans, which shortens my work day, and have a list of food sensitivities as long as my arm, which strains my sense of humour.

That’s my baseline.

There are also the above-mentioned businesses that need tending.

This may not seem logical, but I discovered it’s not the number of tasks that get you, it’s the consciousness required to keep everything sorted and moving in the right direction. There’s a point where you want to throw yourself down in the middle of the floor and wail like a two-year-old, or do something stupid like eat an entire carton of ice cream, or drink way too much. While that may be cathartic in the moment, there can be consequences (I don’t recommend having the tantrum in the middle of the frozen food section of the grocery store, for example, and no, I did not do that). It may be a pleasant break from your routine, but the work is still there when you’re done.

Taking theory into practice requires a master translator
Yes, I know. This all looks very good in writing, and it seems simple to avoid these painfully obvious problems. But we’re complex creatures—ingenious, creative, resourceful, but when you translate theory into practice, we often discover we’re really not that bright.

Or maybe that’s just me.

But what’s true for most of us is it’s hard to see the big picture when you’re in the middle of it. It often takes a good shakeup to get you to see what’s really going on, and sometimes the only way to deal with a difficult situation is to step out of it.

Ironically, the unexpected meeting with the driveway happened just as things were starting to settle with both businesses and I was getting ahead of the stress. I’m going to tell myself that, anyway. It sounds better to blame irony than to say “My dogs saw a bunny and I fell down.” I’ll save that little gem for when I’m sitting in my recliner in my fancy sweatsuit watching Wheel of Fortune.

What the future holds
I’ll heed my doctor’s advice and spend the summer in my garden, contemplating the mysteries of sorrel and hawkweed. I’ll do my damn stress prevention yoga routine, take my extra supplements, go to bed at 10pm as ordered, and we’ll see what transpires come September.

Over the next couple of weeks, I hope to introduce you to a couple of my friends and colleagues. They’re busy business owners too, so if they aren’t able to finish their guest posts before I officially hang up my Gone Fishin’ sign, we’ll just postpone the introductions.

The moral of the story
I’m writing this story instead of making a short announcement because someone might find some value in my experiences. Like, say, instead of following my stellar example, have a contingency plan in place in case your doctor “suggests” you take some time off work before you do yourself some serious damage.

I’m also writing this because a three week gap would be downright flaky. I believe in being consistent with your brand and your marketing presence, and while I don’t have the illusion that any of us are machines, I also realize that you, dear reader, have reasonable expectations, and continued silence is no way to treat people whose attention I value.

Have your say
Have you ever been faced with choices you’re just not happy with? Does your brain ever elbow your gut out of the way?  Do you have a contingency plan for your own business?

Sunday, 7:00 p.m. A post needs to be written for Monday morning. It’s not happening.

“Forget it,” I say, “I’m going to welding school.”

“Okay,” the fella replies, in that unmistakable tone. He’s humouring me.

Truth be told, I didn’t use the word “forget.” I used another word, one I don’t throw around in polite company.

I couldn’t do it. The well was dry. I was convinced if I tried to utter one more syllable about marketing, or creativity, I would implode.

When your work ethic hangs you up
Here’s the thing—I have perfectionist tendencies and a long-standing hangover from a sadly misguided Protestant work ethic. My art school roommate used to joke with me about it. I could never relax—an affliction unknown to him—so I’d pretend to razz him about being lazy, and he’d reply, “That’s right,” with a big, cheese-eating grin.

Things haven’t changed much. He still knows how to relax, and I still don’t.

The work ethic has evolved into something more sensible, but it still hangs me up. I feel a huge responsibility to my readers (that would be you) to deliver valuable information. There’s a lot of noise out there. I don’t want to add to it. I don’t want to be a make-believe, self-appointed guru. I want to help people for real.

You would be amazed at how fast that kind of self-inflicted pressure can throw you into a seething pit of self-doubt.

Then again, maybe you wouldn’t.

I’ll bet my last dime you’ve been there at least once. You ask yourself, “Is this good enough?” and a voice rises up like a recurring nightmare, laughs at what you’ve just created, and snorts, “No!”

When that happens, all you want to do is raise the white flag, gather your wounded, and get the hell off the battlefield as fast as you can.

But before you declare your surrender, there’s something you need to know. The voice isn’t yours. And it’s lying to you.

Respect your work and see self-doubt for what it is
“Is this good enough?” is a worthwhile question. It means you care about what you send into the world. It means you’re not so deluded that you think everything you create is perfect and wonderful. It keeps you from becoming complacent.

If something needs a little more polish, or even a major rework, fair enough. A sense of responsibility to your audience, a sense of integrity, pushes you to be better. A chronic, knee-jerk, all-encompassing negative response will make you crazy. That goes beyond self-doubt and into full-blown self-sabotage. You can’t make anything good when you’re being crushed under that weight.

You need to know where your self-doubt comes from, and you need to shut it down.

You don’t require a PhD in psychology to figure it out. Somewhere along the line, maybe when you were a kid, you got it into your head you couldn’t. That’s not an accidental grammatical error, that’s how it feels when you fall into serious self-doubt. You can’t. Period.

Self-doubt is an impostor
Something happened to make you internalize someone’s criticism. When you were little, you didn’t have the experience, or the vocabulary, to understand how the world works. When someone criticized you in adult terms instead of talking to you at your level of understanding, you weren’t able to reason it out. Adults were powerful. Adults knew everything. So you decided you were wrong.

Maybe it happened later in life. Someone you admired stomped all over you. And you absorbed it.

You might not even be aware of how it seeped into your consciousness. But now you carry it around, a toxic load of criticism and negativity, waiting like a virus to jump on you when your defenses are down.

It might happen when you’re about to send work to a jury, or bidding on a job. It might rear its ugly head when you’re developing new work, or crafting promotional copy.

One negative comment from one person could trigger it.

Or it might just show up when you’re overtired, or when you’ve been working too hard, and all you’re trying to do is something you’ve been doing consistently for months, or even years.

Pull back the curtain and see self-doubt for what it is—an imposter. A boogeyman who should have been retired long ago.

If you learned the skills and executed something that was good, you have proof you can do it. If you’re starting out, you’re not supposed to be a master. Mastery takes time and practice. The “no good” message is a habit so deeply ingrained in your thought patterns it’s automatic.

Self-doubt a short circuit. When you stop the automatic response and change the habit, you fix the wiring.

Skills improve. Techniques evolve. We mature as artists and as people. We all make mistakes. That doesn’t mean you’re no good—it means you have more to learn. We all have more to learn. There will always be room for something better.

The next time self-doubt comes calling, force it to state its case. Demand proof. Require it to justify its position. When you turn it back on itself—when you look it in the eye and hold your ground—it crumbles.

Over to you—what’s the most effective way you’ve found to fend off self-doubt?  What, or who, helps you through?