a clear horizon

I’ve been grinding ever since I can remember. I’m not really sure why it was always so important to me to do everything perfectly. Correctly. Strict Afrikaans parents? Equating praise with love? Who knows, but turns out I have a work ethic (maybe too much). Gotta get that croissant, ya know?

In 2013 I moved from Boston to New York City with some clothes, an amp, and a bunch of guitars. I started getting hired to play in people’s bands and was actually able to make rent! I guess my early twenties were perfect for getting very little sleep, drinking too much, and engaging in chaotic relationships. But it felt like I was constantly busy and my time was almost always spoken for.

A few years into touring, somewhere the middle of America waiting on a tour bus for soundcheck, my frustration was mounting. The band was on a college tour and I honestly think we were all depressed by this time. We’d been on the road for a while and the repetitiveness was wearing on us. I missed my family, my friends, and I really missed creating. So I started making demos on my laptop while tucked away in my tiny bunk. I remember that all I wished for in that moment was to have a clear horizon — an empty day to wake up to my instruments in my own apartment and write some music. It took about five years to get to that point, and it only really happened because I started composing for commercials. So I didn’t have to tour anymore and could (mostly) make my own schedule.

You ever have a goal and when you achieve it you’re like, “welp, is this it?” I think a lot of people experience that. I now felt the curse of the responsibility of free time — the pressure to get songs done and released, with no one giving me a deadline but myself. There was no longer a schedule written up every day by a tour manager, now it was just… me. When all the distractions had disappeared and there were no more excuses, I was face-to-face with myself and the blank page. The work had shifted from making rent to cultivating intrinsic motivation. In Room to Dream, David Lynch says that the artist has to believe that making the art is worthwhile. Like you actually have to spend hours and days and years believing this thing you’re shaping is important. Which can feel crazy sometimes when you’ve spent three days editing a music video called “Fine Plump Hen,”studying Kate Bush videos to get your color-grading just right.

When I stopped being the guitarist in people’s bands I realized how much I’d attached my self-worth to my shred on stage. Now I was a writer, I was making a transition, I had to suck at something again. It took some real willpower to turn down auditions for X Ambassadors, Rina Sawayana, and to stop playing in LPX with some of the most hilarious and fun friends I’d ever toured with. Now I was home in my own apartment with the much-awaited free time. I’d finally reached the mountain top, it was such a long climb, and here I was feeling scared. Scared of failure, that I wasn’t good enough as a writer or artist. This was a huge lesson because I’d always thought, man, if I can just get some time to myself, I can create so much music. But it turned out that took a lot of work as well. Steven Pressfield calls this “the resistance,” and says repeatedly in The War of Art that this is the artist’s biggest obstacle.

Turns out it wasn’t just as simple as having the time. You need the mindset, the grindset, and the ability to push through the boring shit that comes with the territory of any job. In The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, Mark Manson said something that always stuck with me — figuring out what you want to do for a living is way more about the stuff you hate doing but are still willing to do, as opposed to the stuff you love doing. It’s easy to daydream and fantasize about the job. It’s hard to wake up alone, be alone all day, and relentlessly create. It was no longer just writing when I’m inspired, it was showing up every day to see what could happen and believing this was important work.

This post isn’t to complain — I’m definitely very fortunate to have these circumstances. But I’d be lying to you if I said I found joy in all the moments of being a creative, or that it was easy. All I can ever hope for is some time to myself, a piano to play, the will to do the work, and a few people who might want to hear what I make. Life in, art out <3