*Typing*

People tend to approach work in two very different ways.

There is the hunter and  the gatherer.

The hunter approaches their work like a bowman tracking an elk. All of her attention is focused on finding and killing the elk. She isn't thinking about anything else. She can't afford to. She isn't thinking about the squirrel or the pheasant or the bass she saw leap out of the lake.  If she doesn't come home with the elk, she will starve.

The gatherer, on the other hand, spends his days turning over dozens of logs and stones to see what he might find. In the morning, his attention might be on the blackberry bush. In the afternoon, his attention might be on the fairy ring Morel mushrooms. In the evening, his attention might be on the patch of wild onions. For the gatherer to prosper, his focus must be a little bit slippery, like water.

Which is better depends entirely on your vocation. If you're a novelist, you must work like a hunter. If you're a graphic designer––fielding multiple projects at once––you must work like a gatherer. If you're a programmer, you must work like a hunter. If you're a creative director––overseeing dozens of copywriters and art directors––you must work like a gatherer.

The only sin is to not know which approach is best for you, your vocation and the way you work best.

We have a tendency to dismiss ideas before we've given them a genuine chance to exist outside of our (or someone else's) skull.

Usually this dismissal is a side-effect of the following three things:

1. Preference

2. Insecurity

3. Prejudice (due to past experience)

Let's say you prefer the color red. Somebody throws out an idea that involves the color green. You might dismiss the idea simply because it doesn't involve the color red. This is dismissal due to preference.

Let's say you are insecure about the sound of your voice. Somebody throws out an idea that involves you being recorded. You might dismiss the idea simply because it makes you feel insecure. This is dismissal due to insecurity.

Let's say you are prejudice again flutes. Why? Maybe your ex-girlfriend played the fucking flute. Somebody throws out an idea that involves an intricate flute harmony. You might dismiss the idea simply because it reminds you of your ex-girlfriend. This is dismissal due to past experience.

The bottom line is that dismissing ideas before they've had the chance to take form outside your skull is wholly unproductive. It gums up the creative process. When you or someone else has an idea, try the idea. Get it out of your head and onto the page or the canvas or the demo or the screen.

Then and only then are you allowed to dismiss the idea.

It can be damn difficult to know when you're on the right path.

There are no neon signs, fireworks, mile markers nor thunderous voices echoing down from the heavens reassuring you that you are, in fact, on the right path.

Furthermore, the "right path" can often be challenging and terrifying and uncertain, which illicit a whole host of complicated emotions and fears that can lead you to believe that you have stumbled down the wrong path.

Before you turn around, make sure you're not feeling any of the following symptoms...

1. You are scared shitless
2. You feel like an imposter
3. You consider quitting
4. You self-sabatoge
5. You question if you're good enough
6. You look for excuses
7. You give into distraction

The further you work your way up the path, you will notice these symptoms give way to tremendous growth

1. You are scared shitless (but exhilarated)
2. You feel like an imposter (but a capable imposter)
3. You consider quitting (but you know you will regret it)
4. You self-sabatoge (but then dust yourself off)
5. You question if you're good enough (but realize no one is)
6. You look for excuses (but find none)
7. You give into distraction (but then get refocused)

When you are being called to embody your highest self, give in.

There is a fundamental difference between the craftsman and the artist.

Craftsmen know what they want to make before they make it.

A barista knows she wants to make a Café au lait before she makes a Cafe au lait. A carpenter knows he wants to build a staircase before he builds a staircase. A blacksmith knows they want to make a spade before they make a spade.

Artists, on the other hand, don't know what they want to make before they make it.

Vincent van Gogh didn't know he wanted to paint The Starry Night before he painted The Starry Night. Patti Smith didn't know she wanted to make Horses before she made Horses. Cormac McCarthy didn't know he wanted to write Blood Meridian before he wrote Blood Meridian.

Sure, these artists had an idea or a feeling or a sound or a sentiment they were hoping to capture. But, one can't simply plan to paint a masterpiece the likes of The Starry Night night.

The world needs craftspeople just like it needs artists. Neither is better than the other. However, if you're choosing to be an artist, you're choosing to forfeit certainty. You're choosing to journey into the unknown surrounded by the blackness of night with little more than the torch that is your skill, intuition and past experiences to light your way.

It's a courageous act and one not everyone is cut out for.

Herons are some of the best fishermen on the planet. They lurk along the banks like silent assassins, waiting for fish to swim near. Upon spotting their next meal, they will extend their neck until it's poker straight and stand as a still as a statue before driving their beak into the water and spearing their unsuspecting prey.

Interestingly enough, some Herons have forsaken fishing for hunting.

In parts of the world where there is a large gopher population, Herons have learned they can spear the rodents in the same way they spear fish. They will stalk open fields, tilting their heads to the left and right to pick-up on tiny vibrations in the ground and once they've honed in on their target, they will javelin their beaks into the ground, unearthing a lifeless gopher.

I found it to be an interesting reminder not to become overly attached to any one way of doing something.