Evert now and then I’ll get a question about how to start.
So let’s cut through the prepocalypse…
You want to be a writer? Painter? Nude accordionist? Cool.
Here’s the secret, strapped to a rocket and aimed at your excuses…
Start before you’re ready.
The smart ones? They’re still stuck in the “research phase.”
Reading books about writing instead of writing.
Watching tutorials on brush technique while their canvases sag with dust.
Drafting 17 business plans for their Etsy store selling “artisanal chocolate marmalade.”
The dumb ones? They’re already elbow-deep in the guts of it.
Writing sentences so bad they’d make Hemingway haunt them out of spite.
Painting landscapes that look like a toddler finger-banged a kaleidoscope.
Playing the accordion so poorly, even subway rats toss coins to make it stop.
Preparation is a wank. Mastery is a myth. The only truth is this…
You will suck until you suck less.
Let’s use a quick metaphor to make this infect the mind a little more.
Imagine creativity is a back-alley tattoo parlor.
Smart You: Stalls for months, designing the perfect sleeve. “Is this dragon meaningful enough?” “What if the ink clashes with my aura?”
Dumb You: Walks in, slaps a $20 on the counter, and says “Gimme a sick scorpion holding a latte.” Two hours later, you’ve got a wonky arachnid with a foam-art heart. It’s terrible. It’s glorious.
(Cut to five years later: Dumb You’s covered in ugly-scarred masterpieces. Smart You’s arm is still pristine, pale, and pulsing with regret.)
Why does this work the way it does?
Brains are bullshit artists. Yours will whisper “You need another workshop” while it slowly pickles itself in anxiety brine.
Action is exorcism. Every shitty draft, botched chord, or deranged clay mug you make is a demon kicked out of your soul’s Airbnb.
Momentum is meth. Once you taste the crackle of doing, you’ll chase it like a feral raccoon hunting dumpster croissants.
Still stuck? Let’s weaponise a little incompetence…
Write the worst sentence of your life. “The moon howled like a diabetic wolf.” Congrats. You’re Tolstoy now.
Draw a stick figure. Give it a hat. A sword. A PhD in astrophysics. Boom. you’re a Pixar character designer now.
Record yourself singing “Happy Birthday.” Autotune it into a dubstep remix. NFT that nightmare. Retire.
The gap between “thinking” and “doing” is a graveyard where creativity goes to die in a Nike tracksuit. Stop polishing your tools. Stop curating your vibe. Start before your brain can hiss “But what if—”
Burn the plan.
Embrace the cringe.
Let your early work be a dumpster fire so bright, it guides other overthinkers out of the dark.
Stephen Walker
P.S. The world doesn’t need more “good” art. It needs your weird. Your raw. Your “what the fuck is that?”
P.P.S. Dumb isn’t an insult. It’s a revolution. Be the raccoon.
P.P.P.S. This post was written in 12 minutes. Edit? Never met her.
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom