Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had a job interview. It was a technical writing gig. I can’t recall the name of the company.

My throat tightened the minute I saw the sea of cubicles. I got downright jumpy when I met with the interviewers. There were two of them and me, in a small room. I suspected they were recent university graduates, and it quickly became clear they were both big fans of pre-programmed conversations.

They asked a few perfunctory questions, then started on the hypothetical quiz section. How did I feel about office politics? Could I give examples? How did I feel about the situation I encountered?

It was like I’d been sucked into The Matrix. I found myself fighting a nearly irresistible urge to bolt for the door.

“I’m not comfortable gossiping about a past job to get a new one. If I were the type, I’d give you my unvarnished opinion of the self-important jerk who took credit for someone else’s work, and exactly how that poisons a workplace. And if you’re asking me that question, I have to wonder what kind of culture you have here.”

But I didn’t say that out loud.

I gave them a sanitized version of the story, reluctantly jumping through their hoops, the desire for a cleansing hot shower growing stronger with every word.

Then things got interesting
When they finally got to the big question—why I wanted to work for the company—I did the unthinkable. I deliberately blew the interview.

“I don’t want a career. I want to do work I’m passionate about.”

I can’t remember if they asked me about writing.

I do recall two very clear realizations: first, I could never work in Cube Land again. Second, and this was striking: way too many job interviews are stellar examples of how to not get your message out.

Put the textbook down, and back away quickly
Far too often, marketing, like a bad job interview, becomes a meaningless ritual. You go through what you think are the correct motions. You sanitize your words to mimic corporate-speak, because corporations are successful, so you figure that’s the way it should be done. Formal. By the book. Non-threatening.

You tell people what you think they want to hear. You don’t dare talk about what you can’t—or won’t—deliver, because you might not get the business.

You water down who you are and what you really want to do.

You settle, too fast and too easily.

And you end up miserable.

A big opportunity and a big decision
A couple of years later, I had another interview. This one was for a vice president’s position at a small company that did cool creative work. I must have made a good impression, because shortly after the meeting they called and asked if I could come in for a few days, to see if it was a good fit before everything was finalized.

I thought hard, but not long. I didn’t want to admit it and lose out on the opportunity, but I knew even before the offer was made I’d rather be in the shop making stuff than in the office talking about it.

I turned it down.

The salary and the title were very tempting. But I knew I couldn’t give them what they wanted, or what they deserved. They couldn’t give me what I wanted, either.

I remained self-employed, for a lot less money.

On rare occasions, I still wonder if I was out of my mind.

This much I’m sure of: the source of those choices wasn’t madness. What I said was the simple truth, and both times the words just fell out of my mouth. I don’t have to fake excitement when I talk about making things, or telling stories, or pushing past stale, stiff, inflicted limitations to do your best work. Because those things matter.

Where good marketing comes from
When you talk about the work you’re truly passionate about, you don’t have to force your words or ideas. That’s the place the best marketing comes from, because it’s the place the best stories are made. It’s good because you mean it. It’s good because it’s true.

The people who love what you create hear that message, loud and clear. They’re listening for it.

When do you do your best blurting? Have you ever had a great opportunity turn out to be a big disappointment? How do you feel about turning down work when you know it’s not right for you?

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?

Do you approach business that way, too?

There’s nothing like that adrenaline rush you get when your back’s against the wall, when it’s do-or-die time. That sense of urgency pushes you forward.

What if there’s no urgency? What happens to your creative practice?

If you’re making a transition from a job to a business, or from one business to another, or if you’re moonlighting, you have a cushion. Your grocery bill is taken care of.

What would you do if that income suddenly disappeared?

If you make your living with your creative practice, are you playing with fire by putting things off? Are you missing opportunities because you’re comfortable with the way things are?

Forget about deadlines for a minute. What motivates you? What really gets you into the studio? What’s keeping you out?