Last week, in “The War of Art,” we identified the enemy. 

This week, we talk about how to overcome it. 

Which, in Steven Pressfield’s parlance, means “turning pro.”

From what I gather, “turning pro” isn’t necessarily about remuneration (though that may be the conventional definition). Instead, it seems to mean treating our creative pursuits like they’re our day jobs before, during, and after getting paid. 

What does that look like?

1. 1. We show up every day. We might do it only because we have to, to keep us from getting fired. But we do it. We show up every day. 
   2. We show up no matter what. In sickness and in health, come hell or high water, we stagger into the factory. We might do it only so as not to let down our co-workers, or for other, less noble reasons. But we do it. We show up no matter what. 
   3. We stay on the job all day. Our minds may wander, but our bodies remain at the wheel. We pick up the phone when it rings, we assist the customer when he seeks our help. We don’t go home till the whistle blows. 
   4. We are committed over the long haul. Next year, we may go to another job, another company, another country. But we’ll still be working. Until we hit the lottery, we’ll still be part of the labor force. 
   5. The stakes for us are high and real. This is about survival, feeding our families, educating our children. It’s about eating. 
   6. We accept remuneration for our labor. We’re not here for fun. We work for money.
   7. We do not overidentify with our jobs. We may take pride in our work, we may stay late and come in on weekends, but we recognize that we are not our job descriptions. The amateur, on the other hand, overidentifies with his avocation, his artistic aspiration. He defines himself by it. He is a musician, a painter, a playwright. Resistance loves this. Resistance knows that the amateur composer will never write his symphony because he is overly invested in his success and overterrified of its failure. The amateur takes it so seriously that it paralyzes him. 
   8. We master the technique of our jobs. 
   9. We have a sense of humor about our jobs. 
   10. We receive praise or blame in the real world. 

Pressfield continues: 

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 overidentifies with his art. He does not have a sense of humor about failure. You don’t hear him bitching, “This fucking trilogy is killing me!” Instead, he doesn’t write his trilogy at all. 

The amateur has not mastered the technique of his art. Nor does he expose himself to judgment in the real world. If we show our poem to our friend and our friend says, “It’s wonderful. I love it,” that’s not real world feedback, that’s our friend being nice to us. Nothing is as empowering as real-world validation, even if it’s for failure. 

What’s challenging about this idea? 

Well, work isn’t exactly sexy. Especially hard work. Or work that humbles you. Or work that goes against the grain. 

It’s easy to fall in love with the illusions that money, likes, awards, power, etc. could potentially bring to any one of us mere mortals. Who wouldn’t want – what appears to be – a slice of heaven on Earth? 

But we’ve all seen enough They-Had-It-All-And-Then-It-Came-Crashing-Down narratives to know that these things aren’t the keys to long-term fulfillment. 

What’s liberating about this idea?

It means keeping the work front and center. 

It means doing the work for its own sake, that the work is the reward.  The rest of the supposed glory is ancillary and completely not the point. 

If you’ve shown the guts to show up to the page or stage and do your job, you’ve done your part in the War, soldier, and you’ve lived to see another day. 

What say you?