Just start

Years ago I watched a video by Kyle Cease called ‘Just Start’. In it, he talks about how to start, how to cross the border from not-creating to creating, from not making a video to making a video, from nothing to something.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to start a video,” he begins, speaking to a person off-camera. “I mean, I do, but it’s like, I just know I’m supposed to start. And most people don’t even start. They just go, ‘I don’t know how, so I’m not going to start.’”

So begins the eleven-and-a-half minute unscripted, totally spontaneous monologue about how to create. It’s powerful. When I first watched it, I went through a period where I sent it to loads of people I was coaching. This evening, when thinking about what to write today, I noticed, as I do every day, the same slightly terrified, slightly lazy thought: I don’t know what to write about. Today, as it does every day, the thought crossed my mind to skip the day, to just take a day off, to not worry and come back to it tomorrow.

Nick suggested that I write about exactly that – I suspect it’s slightly tedious for him hearing the same repetitive, uninspired drivel come out of my mouth every day – but I had the thought at the exact moment he did, (‘Oh, I don’t know what to say. That happens every day. I should write about that!’), and then the Kyle Cease video came to mind, so here I am.

There are a lot of difficult things about the creative process, but starting, or rather not starting, is arguably one of the big areas where we trip ourselves up. I don’t know quite what it is. Is it the anticipation of the frustration that we inevitably encounter in those moments when the words really aren’t flowing? Is it laziness and not wanting to pour our energy into one dedicated activity, preferring instead the easy alternative of checking social media just one more time for a quick dopamine hit, (which research has found it gives)? Is it self-sabotage, or perhaps a kind of battle against reality that arises from putting your work out into the world and realising that even though you’re doing it every day and getting wonderful feedback (as is my experience this month), there’s still no magic bullet, no medal awarded, no instantaneous fast-pass to the publishing deal of your dreams?

I don’t really know. It’s probably a combination of all of the above, plus a load of other subconscious narratives. I do not want to wrap this up in a neat bow by concluding that regardless of the outcome, the fact that I showed up is worth it. That feels lazy and predictable, too simple and saccharine to be true. I don’t know whether I’ll still be dedicated to writing in ten years if ‘nothing’ has happened (and by nothing, I probably mean a book deal that then leads to some sort of success in some form or another). I don’t know if it’s enough for me to simply write. I am kind of attached to the outcome, and I do want to see something happen with my words in the world. It feels kind of gross to admit that, but it also feels true.

I have a sense, however, that regardless of how things unfold, me developing this discipline will set into motion a course of events that wouldn’t otherwise occur. I don’t know what those events will be, but already this month there have been podcasts and articles sent my way (thank you, Iain and Sarah!) and conversations had with too many of you to name as a result of me writing that wouldn’t have happened otherwise. It’s felt reciprocal and powerful. I have shown up, and as a result things have happened in the space I’ve taken up and the space that others have given my words that would otherwise have been filled with other things.

This all happens because every day since I made that commitment, I have had that moment where however much resistance has been present, and however late it’s been in the day, I have just decided to say fuck it and start. Many pieces have felt a bit rushed; I’ve re-read pieces and realised they need an edit; I’ve said certain things and have wondered if I needed, ideally, to let them sit for a bit before putting them out into the world. I imagine other people’s judgement almost every day: God she’s self-centred. She only writes about herself. It’s all I, I, I, I, I.

In other words, this isn’t a comfortable practice – but it does feel like a pressure valve has been activated somewhere within me. It was starting to feel pretty fucking urgent. I sensed even last April that the ‘Phoenix process’ that got initiated when I left my ex hadn’t fully come to fruition. I knew there was more, I just didn’t know what it was. Now, it feels like something important is shifting. It feels like new life is taking root. It feels like change.

So I suppose what I am suggesting is that getting it right or even as good as it has the potential to be isn’t always the goal. Perfect is an illusion so I’m not even bothering to go there, but even the idea of good enough can sometimes feel like a stretch. What if the goal is simply, in some cases, to start?

If there is something within you that wants to dance or to paint, to tell stories or do stand up comedy (I’m looking at a certain someone here), to sing or compose music or bake or launch a venture or try tie-die or start an exercise programme or go for an audition or speak up in a meeting, I have a feeling that putting it off won’t necessarily make it any easier to do at some vague point in the future.

At some point, you will still have to cross that threshold from not-doing to doing. You may never feel ready or equipped to start doing your thing. And I don’t think any of that really matters.

We are born with bodies, which become our tools and instruments for communication and expression, and we develop language and skills and desires and imagination. Let’s use them, is what I’m saying. Let’s make our minutes and hours here feel meaningful. Let’s not waste our talent. We have multitudes within us, as Rob Bell says. Let’s see what happens if we let it all out.

And to begin?

Just start.

(Photo by Jukan Tateisi on Unsplash. Thank you, Jukan. And thank you Unsplash. What a bloody cool resource.)