The 7 Stages of Becoming an Artist

If you've ever ambitiously set out to create something beautiful, you've probably run into some of these often uncomfortable but (probably) necessary mindsets.

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Weekly Three

HEAR: You have to be in a very chill mood for some slow and jazzy bossa nova. If you are, “Corcovado (Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars)” by Stan Getz & Joao Gilberto is a beauty. 

READ: People today may be disenchanted by religion, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still searching. In fact, maybe that’s why they’re searching. Check out the article After Disenchantment: C.S. Lewis, Sally Rooney, and the Perennial Hunger by Cornelia Powers.

VIEW: Les Stroud a.k.a. Surviorman answers survival questions from Twitter.

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No. 82: The 7 Stages of Becoming an Artist

Some might be blessed with an unshakeable confidence in their ability to create beautiful things out of nothing. I salute them, because I’m not one of them. 

Attempting to create a good short story or a novel or even a work of nonfiction is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, especially when I’m up against casual truths like 1) the possibilities of art are never ending 2) what I deem good another person might hate and vice versa 3) the bar has been so often set so high by so many great writers both past and present that usually any attempt at art-making is an extremely daunting affair.

And all of these truths deal with craft alone. 

Craft is hugely important of course, but it doesn’t paint the whole Pollockian picture. On top of getting craft right, there is the life of the writer beyond the page. She has relationships to manage, day jobs to work, thoughts to think, notes to jot, places to see, experiences to have. The good writer doesn’t stop being a writer when she stops writing. Good writers think and act like writers in all aspects of life. 

But even assuming the writer is able to confidently execute their craft and think like a writer in daily life, she still (usually) has another problem. That is, convincing herself that what she has to say is worth saying, which brings us tidily back to confidence.

So much of writing — and any other form of self-expression — is a battle against self-doubt. It’s a battle that will never be won and still it’s a battle that no artist can afford to quit. And really, it makes sense, the battle. So much of the the person who creates is wrapped up in the thing they create. What does it mean, then, if you or someone else classifies the creation as nothing more than an oily cesspool of pisswater? It takes some extremely, extremely thick skin to be able to deflect every external and internal critique and press on as if you are the second coming of Jesus Christ. My skin isn’t that thick. My skin, I estimate, is of medium thickness, and that’s on a good day.

So clearly becoming an artist is more than just making stuff. It involves challenges to your whole being, and, as a result, transformations. Over the last year, I think I’ve begun to see a pattern when it comes to becoming an artist, one that plays out in multiple stages. Happily, I believe I’ve cycled through them all. But that’s not to say I won’t be yeeted back to Stage 1 again at any given point. I hope I won’t. I don’t think I will. But I can’t be certain. Nothing is ever that simple.

The 7 Stages of Becoming an Artist

Stage 1: Inspiration

You’ve always loved a certain artistic medium, but haven’t necessarily attempted to make anything. Sure, you’ve practiced. You’ve studied the works of the greats, but you haven’t dared act yet. At this stage, though, that changes. Something has inspired you to take the first steps toward action. 

Stage 2: Excitement

You begin to formulate the idea for your first work. The world will love it. You will execute it beautifully. The future is filled with marvelous possibility. For a moment, you just sit back and soak up all that possibility. It feels incredible. You know that the goods are within you. All you have to do is get them out. Right now, doubt does not exist for you. There is only the excitement and thrill. This is what you were meant to do. 

Stage 3: Action

You begin. You are composing a symphony to shake the world. Best of all, it’s effortless. You are a freight train that cannot be stopped. This state of flow is sublime. You are transcendent. You are God-like. The world will soon know your name. It’s as if everything you’ve ever done in life has lead you to this grand act.

Stage 4: Doubt

Wait, is your work really as good as you think it is? Compared to the work of that other, more established artist you were checking out the other day, this positively sucks. Are you really cut out for this? Have you done the right amount of preparation, of practice, of study? Do you even know what you’re doing? Are you simply fooling yourself like so many other idiots have done? More and more, the work you were so optimistic about is beginning to looking like your average piece of crap. Dang.

Stage 5: Fear

Should you even continue on what you started? What’s the point? Aren’t you wasting your time? Plus, say you do finish. Then what? All that work just for someone to tell you what you already know, that it sucks? Whenever you try to continue, your new “stroke of genius” seems to stand out like an ugly duckling. It’s so ugly, in fact, you want to turn away from it. You can’t bear to look. Worst of all, it came from your hand.

Stage 6: Avoidance

It’s probably best to leave the work alone for a while, go on a walk, ride your bike, go to a bar, make some food, learn to play the guitar, re-watch Breaking Bad for, you know, inspiration. Or maybe study the work of others some more to learn from what they have done. Yes, you just need to take some time away, get some peace of mind, gather your gusto again. That will help. So what if it’s been a week? So what if it’s been three months? So what if it’s been one year? It’s part of the creative process, man. You’re just working some things out.

Stage 7: Return to Action

You know what? Fuck it. You decide to just do the damn thing. Fuck it all. You’ve started, you’ve doubted yourself, you’ve been afraid to continue, you’ve avoided your work for weeks, months, years. Why? To what end? If you would have continued, even if the work really did suck, at least you would have had something to show for your time. You would have learned something, at the very least, and gotten better. Now, you have nothing to show but a bunch of random shit you bought on Amazon, because for some reason buying random stuff on Amazon soothes your anxiety. So, yes. Fuck it. And fuck your anxiety, too. You are going to go back to the work and you are going to finish it. You are going to be yourself in your work, whatever that happens to mean, even if no one likes it — even if no one likes you. This is what you want, after all. This is what you have always wanted. And if you don’t do it now, then when?

And suddenly, with this final realization that “I don’t care” is really the best mantra one can have when it comes to making art, once again you feel incredible. All the possibilities of your artistry come into view again. All the ideas rush back into your head like a flock of birds returning from migration. You are a freight train that cannot be stopped, stronger and faster now because you’ve been stopped once before. You know the deal — the doubt, the fear, the avoidance — and you know that it’s all pointless bullshit. You are an artist because you say you are. And what do artists do? They make stuff. And so, confidently now, or with reckless abandon, or because you simply don’t know what else to do, you do the thing you first set out to do.

You create. ♦

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Mailbox

Regarding the READ link from last newsletter’s Weekly Three a.k.a. the poem Collective Nouns for Humans in the Wild by Kathy Fish.

The poetry is powerful. Simple, but powerful. I had a special appreciation for a couple lines, as Mary is a neonatal ICU nurse and I, of course, am a special education teacher.

Not often that a special education teacher gets mentioned in a poem, and so beautifully. It’s like a little blessing from the universe. 

- Fred

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