Becoming a professional

This is huge.

It is quarter to ten. I step off the Metro at Central Station, ride up the escalator, and make my way to the Eddy Avenue exit. I step outside and pause. It’s been over twenty years since I was last here. It feels familiar and unfamiliar to me all at once. I try to picture what the station looked like back in 2002, and I’m startled to realise that there is not much that I remember even though I walked through here at least every other weekday for five years. I realise, also, that I don’t even have any photos to refer to—there’s nothing but an unmistakable sense of déjà vu to suggest that this place was a substantial part of my past.

As I walk along the paved footpath leading down to the main road, I see a flock of pigeons to my left, clustered closely together and seemingly in a flurry of activity. As I draw nearer, it becomes clear that they are busily and diligently pecking away at food on the ground. I take out my camera to grab a shot, but half the flock detects this tiny motion and flies away.

I turn right at Eddy Avenue and go through the underpass, noting the absence of any unpleasant odours. On Elizabeth Street, I cross the tram line and the main road at the traffic lights. I glance briefly to my right and see the building that Campbell’s studio is in. Just a few nights ago, I emailed him to thank him for his time and to say that the space was probably too quiet for me. For a moment, I feel sad that I turned him down, but I also know it was the right decision.

____

At Paramount Coffee Project, a waitress with a high ponytail takes my order: a large soy latte. (I’m an open book, people.) It arrives promptly, and I drink it with more gusto than usual. Sleep was not great last night.

Next to me, a young mum arrives with her baby. She is wearing a long pastel blue shirt over a white dress, and there is an attractive energy about her. She and her baby both have honey blond hair. She parks her pram next to my chair. Our eyes meet briefly, and we smile. I wave to her baby, and he grins.

At the centre of the table is a glass vase filled with massive hydrangeas. They are green and purple and stunning. I get out my camera, step back a few paces from the table, and get a few snaps for my personal library.

As I sit back down and open up Scrivener on my laptop, three Korean friends arrive and are seated opposite me. The bloke wears a navy blue t-shirt and has sunglasses perched on the top of his head. The girl in the middle has straight long hair that’s parted on the left-hand side. She, too, has sunglasses on her head. She wears a silver watch, a ring on her left hand, dainty little earrings, and very light make-up. Her skin is pretty much flawless. The third friend wears her hair in a pony tail and has on a heart pendant, a white tank top, and an unbuttoned blue shirt. She speaks with a surprised expression on her face almost the entire time. I watch as the three of them share a thick slice of banana and walnut bread, the signature brekkie roll, and the smashed avocado and egg on toast. They spend a happy hour eating, chatting, and enjoying each other’s company. There is a wholesome sibling vibe about them, and I can’t help but smile as I listen to their chatter.

Many other guests arrive in pairs and, much to my amusement, are dressed as such. There are two friends in matching white blouses, matching denim mini skirts, and matching Converse high tops. Two friends in black leggings and black t-shirts. Another two friends with identical slouch jeans. One particular couple practically mirror each other with their white shirts, linen shorts, casual sneakers, and sweaters draped artfully around their shoulders. Later still, two guys walk in together—both wearing rain jackets, polo shirts, shorts, and Birkenstocks.

I message my husband: ‘We need to start wearing matching outfits.’

He does not reply.

____

The house pigeon is back today—casually and quietly pecking its way around the floor. The waiters pay it no heed. The occasional guest glances at it. I watch as it tries to eat a piece of toast. I lift my bag off the floor and onto a chair.

Peck away, my friend.

I reach into my bag and pull out The War of Art. I ordered it two weeks ago but haven’t had a chance to dive in yet. Sitting at the table, I digest the first one hundred pages or so. It is a gold mine.

Let me tell you, Steve Pressfield does not mince his words. Take this, for example:

‘Now consider the amateur: the aspiring painter, the wannabe playwright. How does he pursue his calling? One, he doesn’t show up every day. Two, he doesn’t show up no matter what. Three he doesn’t stay on the job all day. He is not committed over the long haul; the stakes for him are illusory and fake. He does not get money. And he over identifies with his art. He does not have a sense of humour about failure.’

That’s from page 71. Ouch.

And how about this?

‘The amateur believes he must first overcome his fear; then he can do his work. The professional knows that fear can never be overcome. He knows there is no such thing as a fearless warrior or a dread-free artist.’

That’s from page 79.

Double ouch.

This paragraph from the book’s introduction also hit home:

‘There's a secret that real writers know that wannabe writers don't, and the secret is this: It’s not the writing part that's hard. What's hard is sitting down to write. What keeps us from sitting down is Resistance.’

As did this:

'How many pages have I produced? I don't care. Are they any good? I don't even think about it. All that matters is I've put in my time and hit it with all I've got. All that counts is that, for this day, for this session, I have overcome Resistance.'

Pressfield also shares how he spent twenty-six months working on his first novel. He never found a buyer for the book, but it didn’t matter. The point is that he sat down for twenty-six months, faced his novel head-on, and worked on it day after day. And because of that, he finished it. He finished his novel, and that is what counted.

Pressfield will never know how much I needed to read his words today.

I’ve honestly lost count of the number of times I’ve conceived a body of work, drafted a whole plan for it, mulled (read: obsessed) over it, decided it would fail, and thus abandoned the work before the work had any chance of even commencing.

The pain of this is utterly real, difficult to articulate, and can perhaps only be understood by a fellow artist who has similarly tried to start a project and found it impossible to do so because of fear and doubt.

It’s like needing to sneeze but, at the last moment, the sneeze disappears, and you’re left with the most irksome sense of emptiness that lingers on and on, and you know that nothing can make it right.

The plain truth of the matter is that resistance has been kicking my butt for years now.

So what does one do about it?

Quite frankly, there is only one thing to do about it.

I hereby declare that this is the year I become a professional.

Yes, and I’ll say it again for the people at the back.

This is the year I become a professional.

This is the year I conquer resistance.

This is the year I show up when I say I am going to show up.

This is the year I sit down to write and not care about whether what I write is any good and whether I am going to delete it, archive it, or publish it.

This is the year I make art for two days a week and not care about whether I keep it, give it away, discard it, burn it, or sell it.

This is the year I finish a body of work and not care whether it succeeds or fails.

This is the year I look fear in the face and not let it paralyse me.

This is huge. Monumental. Ground-breaking, in fact. (Almost like a rebirth, but let’s not be too dramatic.)

I feel the urge to tell the guy next to me about the enormity of the commitment I've just made, but I resist. After all, he's obviously on a date and probably doesn’t want me interrupting.

Instead, I celebrate by ordering a bacon, kale, and egg roll and by waving at the house pigeon which has respawned at my feet.

Ah, my old friend.

As I watch it peck its way across the floor, carefully dodging everyone’s feet, studiously picking up every scrap of food it sees, and not giving two hoots about what anyone else thinks, one thought crosses my mind.

Now that’s a professional.