*Typing*

Tiger whiskers function like miniature radar detectors. They can pick up on subtle vibrations in the air, allowing them to intuitively gauge distances between themselves and their prey, as well as detect subtle changes in the direction of the wind. If you were to somehow snip a tiger's whiskers––without first being mauled to death––you'd effectively be snipping away a good chunk of their intuition.

Those of us who work a vocation that require a high degree of creativity, have hyper sensitive whiskers. Legendary producer, Rick Rubin, calls these antennae. The problem with whiskers (or antennae) is that in addition to allowing for heightened creativity, they make everything hurt more.

When you're young, you can withstand the hurt. But, as you get older, the hurt can become too much to bear. Because of this, creatives snip their whiskers. They build up scar-tissue. They stop allowing themselves to feel. With time, their art will suffer.

Stay open. Even when life hurts like lye in a paper-cut, stay open. Keep your whiskers.

You are capable of developing an immunity to snake venom. If each day you inject yourself with a tiny dose of venom, over the course of many months you will build up an immunity. For the past three decades, a rock n' roll singer by the name of Steve Ludwin has been running this very experiment. He has injected himself with venom milked from Rattlesnakes, Black Mambas and Cottonmouths.

While I wouldn't recommend trying this fucked-up experiment at home, I appreciate the metaphor. Self-doubt is its own kind of venom. It's a venom that anybody creating or striving for something has experienced firsthand. The only way to build immunity to self-doubt is to ship a small piece of work every day. Every time I hit "send" I feel a small pang of fear––but with each passing day, it becomes easier.

Here's the kicker, though. The moment you stop injecting yourself with venom, you begin to lose your immunity. Isn't that interesting? While Steve Ludwin could hypothetically survive snakebites that would kill most people, if he stopped micro-dosing venom, he would lose his immunity.

The same can be said with creating and shipping work. The more work you create and ship, the easier it is to create and ship the next thing, and the next thing, and the next thing after that.

Andy Warhol approached art less like art and more like manufacturing. His studio was literally called "The Factory". He was an anomaly for his time.

While Warhol's contemporaries were warring against the commercialization of art in the 1960s, he embraced the constant change. Because of his adoption of innovations like mass printing, Warhol had just as many enemies as he did raving fans.

He avoided his enemies by taking a hard-hat approach to the creation of art...

“Don't think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it's good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art.”

I've found this is to be the only effective formula for battling self-doubt:

1. Make a lot of art
2. Ship a lot of art
3. Don't read the reviews

Don't think about making art, just get it done.

Two days ago, I lost my shit playing Pickleball. For whatever reason, the ball wasn't going where I wanted it to. I'd swing and the ball would end up in the net or six feet behind the line. With each shank, I could feel the rage well up in my chest like heartburn. Finally, I lost my cool and hurled my paddle fifty feet into the air like a Boomerang––except it didn't return. I calmly walked over to my paddle, collected it from the ground and continued the game I was badly losing. Two, three swings in, my paddle went limp in my hands. My tantrum had caused a fracture to form in the paddle that compounded into a full blown break. $100––gone. While I was no longer angry, I was left to clean up the mess my anger had caused. I liked the lesson and the metaphor. When you're angry, it's worth remembering there will be a moment in the future when you will no longer be angry. And, when you are no longer angry, life is a lot more pleasant when you aren't busy patching up holes.

Don’t get your hopes up. Because the world doesn’t want the dreamer to romanticize what could be. Don’t get your hopes up. Because God-forbid you have your heart set on something and then experience the heartbreak of that something not working out. Don’t get your hopes up. Because somehow being anxious about not jinxing the outcome is better than hoping the outcome will work out in your favor. Do get your hopes up. Because half the fun in dreaming is calling it in the air.