Do the Work

Hamilton, and what happens? I’m a loser, a phony; my life is worthless and so am I.
     
    My friend Tony Keppelman snapped me out of it by asking if I was going to quit. Hell, no! “Then be happy,” he said. “You’re where you wanted to be, aren’t you? So you’re taking a few blows. That’s the price for being in the arena and not on the sidelines. Stop complaining and be grateful.”
     
    That was when I realized I had become a pro. I had not yet had a success. But I had had a real failure.
     
    When we ship, we open ourselves to judgment in the real world. Nothing is more empowering, because it plants us solidly on Planet Earth and gets us out of our self-devouring, navel-centered fantasies and self-delusions.
     
    Ship it.
     
    One Thing I Can Promise You
     
    My personal bête noire of Resistance was shipping. When I was twenty-five, I had finished a novel 99.9 percent of the way. But I couldn’t pull the trigger. I lost my nerve.
     
    At that time, I had no idea there was such a thing as Resistance. I believed the voices in my head. I acted out. I blew up my marriage and blew up my life, rather than plunge a sword into the heart of that book and ship it.
     
    It took me seven more years before I found the courage to face that dragon again—and another ten years after that before I had finally learned how to lay him out.
     
    Here’s one thing I can tell you—and you can take this to the bank:
     
    Slay that dragon once, and he will never have power over you again.
     
    Yeah, he’ll still be there. Yeah, you’ll still have to duel him every morning. And yeah, he’ll still fight just as hard and use just as many nasty tricks as he ever did.
     
    But you will have beaten him once, and you’ll know you can beat him again. That’s a game-changer. That will transform your life.
     
    From the day I finally finished something, I’ve never had trouble finishing anything again.
     
    I always deliver. I always ship.
     
    Be Careful
     
    Just because you’ve shipped doesn’t mean Resistance is finished. Like the Terminator, it’s morphing into an even crueler and more diabolical form. It’ll be back.
     
    This is a topic for another book: the level of maturity, professionalism, and personal involvement demanded by the tectonic overthrows happening today in positioning, branding, marketing—not to mention pure art and soul-authenticity. But that’s for the future.
     
    For now: congratulations!
     
    You have done it!
     
    Kudos to You
     
    You’ve wrapped. You’ve shipped. You’ve licked this sonofabitch.
     
    Kudos to you!
     
    I salute anybody who took this vessel to sea and brought her safely again into port.
     
    I stand in awe of anyone who hatches a dream and who shows the guts to hang tough, all alone, and see it through to reality.
     
    I tip my hat to you for what you’ve done—for losing forty pounds, for kicking crack cocaine, for surviving the loss of someone you love, for facing any kind of adversity—internal or external—and slogging through. I come to attention when you walk past. I stand up for you like the spectators in the gallery stood up for Atticus Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird .
     
    If no one has congratulated you, I do that now.
     
    You have joined an elite fraternity, whether you realize it or not.
     
    By dint of your efforts and your perseverance, you have initiated yourself into an invisible freemasonry whose members are awarded no badges or insignia, share no secret handshake, and wear no funny-looking hats.
     
    But the fellows of this society recognize one another. I recognize you. I salute you.
     
    You can be proud of yourself. You’ve done something that millions talk about but only a handful actually perform. And if you can do it once, you can do it again.
     
    I don’t care if you fail with this project. I don’t care if you fail a thousand times.
     
    You have done what only mothers and gods do: you have created new life.
     
    Start (Again) Before You’re Ready
     
    I was living in a little town in northern California when I finally, after seventeen years of trying, finished my first novel. I drove over to my friend and mentor Paul Rink’s house and told him what I had done. “Good for you,” he said. “Now start the next one.”
     
    That’s what I say now to you.
     
    Take the rest of the day off. Take your wife or husband out to dinner. Pop some champagne. Give yourself a standing ovation.
     
    Then get back to work. Begin the next one