Fake It ‘Til You Make It
Early in 2011, I read an inspiring post on creativity (and writing) by Austin Kleon, called “How To Steal Like an Artist.”
I still have several of his sort-of koans posted at eye level in my office. Every time I read one, I feel like maybe I can do this thing called the pursuit of happiness (which to me = writing):
» Steal like an artist.
» Use your hands.
» Side projects and hobbies are important.
» Creativity is subtraction.
» Geography is no longer our master.
» Be nice.
» Do good work, then put it where people can see it.
» Garbage in, garbage out.
And finally, the one I have relied on for solace more than any others:
» Fake it ’til you make it
Because for me, 2011 was a non-stop brutal year of rapid-fire growth and hard realizations (mostly about my own behavior). Originally designed to be a smallish side project, Story Story Night became an entity with a hunger and need and force all its own. At the same time, my copywriting business expanded steadily in scope and project load, and I have a way of being unable to say no while being completely unrealistic with deadlines.
Nobody ever talks about what happens when the sh*t hits the fan and you achieve the great fallacy known as “success.” You are tortured day and night by the weight of it. You feel like a failure most of the time. You (okay I) gain 20 pounds. You live in a undying fog of your own red alerts. You cry and vomit so, so pathetically much.
But you just fake it ’til you make it. Vintage silver and gold metallic polka dot dress (gift from Kelly from a thrift story in Mountain Home). Black leggings ($3.75-thrift store). Merrell fleece-lined boots $12 (REI garage sale).
This doesn’t mean being fake. More biting off more than you can chew. Stepping into bigger shoes than you can fill. Those sort of metaphors.
This is what I mean. From 0 to 24, I was so shy I barely spoke to anyone. Before copywriting, I was a complete and utter short-term incompetent at nearly every job I had, especially my excruciatingly awkward stint as a waitress at the Outback Steakhouse. Until my late 20s, I was terrible at clothing choices. I was a punk, a grunge, a weirdly Mormon/lesbian-looking preppie, but never myself.
But eventually you do grow into your own dreams. Then your own skin. Then you fake it to another level. Armor Bijoux antique Afghanistani silver and glass necklace ($$$). Art deco silver earrings ($1-Antique World Mall). Gold leaf headband ($11-some discount store in Baxter, MN).
Speaking of, I’ll be on Radio Boise (89.9 FM) today from noon to 1pm on a show called the Writers’ Block. Tune in if you can. The internets now offer it up too. You see what I mean though? How insane is a one hour radio interview? I guess I’ll find out.
Because I fake it til I make it.
Then rock on.
Addendum 1:
This year, I am adding one more crucial point, a huge life lesson I learned in 2011:
» You get by with a little help from your friends
Thank you Anna D., for being there in the grueling trenches with me and for your brilliant ideas and inspiration as a co-leader of Story Story Night. Thank you Kelly Lynae, for kicking ass in such a tremendous way on your copywriting subcontracting. Thank you Bethany, for reminding me how amazing collaboration can be with Frivolous Universe. (And for these, and all the other, fantastic photos.) Thank you Kim for your stunning soul, and for letting me visit you in Bangkok (eventually). Thank you Nicole, for your non-stop daring and non-stop booty, and for letting me visit you in New York (soon).
Thank you Sam Stimpert and Anneliessa Balk at Visual Arts Collective, the art/music/theater/awesomeness venue that played host to this frivolous New Years Eve party. I know the VaC journey has been long and torturous, but what a vision, and what a place. We look forward to our new Story Story Late-Nights there.
And big thanks to Jen Pascoe for her extraordinary nutritional counseling over the last several months, and for reminding my mind again about my body, and vice versa.
Here’s to 2012.
Unnecessarily Graphic Addendum 2:
I wore this dress on New Years Eve. By the end of New Years Day, still on my pitiful body, it had undergone a graphic horrorshow of alcohol sweat and 12 hours of projectile vomiting. What a trooper.
Here’s to less vomit (and less booze) in 2012.
Photographer: Bethany Walter
