My friend Dave wrote to me a week ago with a problem. How do we as artists and entrepreneurs transition to the next project? Dave had just turned in a manuscript. He was trying to get the next idea going. The problem was he didn’t know what that idea was going to be. For me, the transition is as pernicious a Resistance war as the previous project’s attack towards the finish line. Yes, I know we’re supposed to show up, buckle in, lace up the work boots, and “start the next one tomorrow.” [But] sometimes [we] write and write and it…

One of the questions I get asked a lot is, “How do I decide on my next project? I have so many ideas, I don’t know which one to choose.” My usual answer is, “Pick the one that scares you the most.” The reason this works is you’re using your own Resistance to guide you. Since Resistance will always be strongest in the case of the project that’s most important to the evolution of your soul, you will feel the most fear when you contemplate working on that project. Voila! That’s the one you should choose, just like an actor…

  Writing a novel can test your sanity. Consider what you’re letting yourself in for. A two- to three-year slog with no external validation or reinforcement, no paycheck, no day-to-day structure except that which you impose yourself. Support from friends and family? Dubious. Future rewards? Highly uncertain. And we’re not even talking about the work. Will your Significant Other understand? The best advice to the mate of a novelist (or to anyone with aspirations in this direction) is to sit down, pour yourself a stiff drink, and make sure in your heart that this is a starship you’re ready to…

Why do we write? Most of us, if we’re honest, probably can’t answer that question. That’s not a bad thing. What I mean is, the reasons that compel us as artists to do the work we do are often (if not always) so deep and so hidden that we’re kidding ourselves if we claim we can name them or understand them. If you’re a writer, you’re compelled to write. Just like a dancer has “gotta dance” or a singer has to sing. Why? I believe in destiny. Each of us is unique, I believe, and every one of us was…

This post goes out with thanks to my friend Derick, who taught me a type of Resistance I had never thought of (or at least had never given a name to.)

We all have bad habits as writers. Here’s my worst: I have a terrible tendency to back off on the money shot. Meaning I’ll fail to maximize the drama in key scenes. I know why I do this. It’s Resistance. Fear of success. Fear of making something really kick ass. But I still do it. Even knowing this is my Bad Tendency, I still go soft on the accelerator pedal. It’s a terrible habit. Here are two examples, both from my book Killing Rommel.

People write me letters sometimes. Wannabe musicians, aspiring novelists; I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. These letters purport to be seeking counsel. The writer details his or her struggles with deciding which creative field to pursue, their frustrations with their own indecisiveness, with getting their art going, etc. Then they ask for advice. Now, there’s a good way to ask for advice. The good way is when the person is earnest, sincere; he or she can, in truth, profit from a boost of encouragement or an impartial reality check. That’s the good kind of advice-asking. But that’s not…

A boxer takes a haymaker to the jaw. He falls. He struggles to one knee as the ref stands over him, counting, ” … two, three, four … ” Watch the faces in the arena. They have become that fighter. He is living their life, their struggle.

I missed out on the self-esteem movement. My day was about twenty years too early. My generation was more like the Un-self-esteem movement. The Self-Disesteem Movement. We were constantly being told what bums and losers we were. Be a man! Suck it up! What’s wrong with you? Those were the child-rearing mantras that our parents, teachers, and coaches—the Greatest Generation—dished out to us. If you brought home a report card with straight A’s, the only question was, “Where are the A+s?” Personal validation became a big issue with my peers and me. I’m not sure where this topic sits with…

Years ago I rented a little house in Northern California and went there to write. I left New York, resolved to finish a book or kill myself trying. (I wrote about this period in The War of Art.) The great part about that time—it lasted about eighteen months—was that I had nothing to do all day but write. True, the chore was Sisyphean. I was busting my butt trying to learn not just how to put words on paper but, far harder and more critical, how to finish something. How to wrap up. How to ship. Still, life during that…