Creative Real Talk: Do You Like Your Own Work?
Nada Alic / WNW Member
On occasion, I’ll find myself quietly amused by my own work, sometimes even making myself laugh out loud. Cool, I know. It’s that rare and exhilarating feeling of self-satisfaction that drives me to create art in the first place. In those moments, I’ll indulge in myself and go over it again just to be sure that it is in fact good, then I’ll shut my laptop triumphantly and think, maybe I am good at this.
But overnight, something inevitably happens that I can’t explain: my perspective shifts and what follows is sober embarrassment (this is bad) and a feeling of being a stranger to myself (how could I have ever thought this was good?) This kind of tumultuous relationship with my own work and whether or not it’s “good” has plagued me throughout my life. My definition of good evolves as my work does so being good somehow always feels just out of reach. Even when other people assure me that my work is good (sometimes even great!), I won’t accept it, preferring to believe there’s something wrong with them or that they must be lying to me. More broadly, my work tends to follow a more predictable pattern of a three-month window of tolerance. After three months, I no longer seem to have the same interest in my work and find a hard time connecting to it. Maybe at that point all of my cells have regenerated and I am 100% a new person and that new person is older, wiser, and more judgmental than my past selves.
“Very few creatives want to talk about whether they actually like their own work. This is especially true in our culture of self-promotion, where many artists are forced to feign confidence when discussing their work and ease when describing their process.”
Beyond the famous Ira Glass quote about closing the gap between good taste and our capacity to make work that lives up to that taste, or Elizabeth Gilbert’s more spiritual approach of being a vessel and letting spirits work through you, the topic of liking one’s own work has remained largely taboo. Very few creatives want to talk about whether they actually like their own work. This is especially true in our culture of self-promotion, where many artists are forced to feign confidence when discussing their work and ease when describing their process. It’s all about constructing a myth and convincing others that your work is excellent despite your secret doubts about it. So much of art is subjective and when it becomes entangled with commerce, there is even less space to be real about how we actually feel about our own work. For starters, do we like it? Does it express who we are? What motivates us to create this specific type of work? I constantly wonder whether some of my favorite artists like their work and see it the way I do. Or maybe they’ve outgrown their work and feel just as embarrassed. How much does liking our own work matter if it lives independently of us once it’s created? Isn’t all work just a part of an evolution of a person? How do we bridge the gap? I asked eight different creatives from filmmakers, writers, illustrators, and musicians to unpack their own complicated relationship to their own work to find out if this is a collective struggle or one that is unique to me (spoiler: it is not).
Do you like your creative work? Do you feel like it expresses who you are?
Nick, Filmmaker & Writer: Regarding my new screenplay, I feel it more reflects a bizarre amalgam of the media I've ingested my entire life rather than who I essentially am. I'm not sure I'd be able to tell you who I am or even stomach the exercise.
Angella, Writer (critic and essayist): Even though I write nonfiction, I feel my frenetic range of interests and compulsion to chat up strangers is suited for the type of writing I publish. I also have (finally) hit a stride with writing reviews (art, mostly) and even though it took YEARS to get here, I feel sure-footed, confident, and funny. Finally.
Holly, Illustrator: I do like it. I find that I get to show my thought process and perspective through visual metaphors and feel quite close to my work and ideas. I am grateful that it is usually encouraged for my personality to shine through in my illustrations.
Alex, Filmmaker/Writer/Author: I make an effort to express myself authentically and hopefully from as intimate a space and place I can reach into myself. Hopefully the deeper I get, the more authentic the work is and the more authentically it expresses who I “actually” am. We are in a constant phase of becoming and discovery.
Shazia, Writer: I don't know if I like it or don't like it, but every time I write something I'm always surprised by what comes out. I've come to accept that language begins with failure and nothing I ever write will align with what I was thinking in my head and what I hoped to do initially.
Thad, Musician: Yes. I do feel like it expresses myself and also what I hope to be to others. It’s the act of trying to make a connection that I like. And I have never seen a kid go to his parent to show them something they made that they didn’t love. I try to stay connected to my kid self.
Lindsey, Writer/Songwriter: It’s complicated! (groundbreaking, I know). I often don’t love my finished work, but writing, whether it’s a personal essay, a song about aliens and climate change, or even journal-screaming out my doubts on morning pages, makes me feel more expansive and in my purpose. But, for better or worse, when it’s a project that’s by me for me, how could it not? If it doesn’t, I’ve just been copying someone else.
Trace, Writer: On a more ethereal level, things feel done when there's nothing left to say. Tinkering feels like doubt sometimes, or second guessing, or even overthinking.
When do you know when to stop editing? When do you know when something is done?
Nick: It's nearing completion when I'm excited to share it.
Angella: I tinker forever but I'm a freak for a deadline. Usually I send a draft out to 3-5 trusted friends (if it's not on assignment) and get their insight. I don't know how, but I can just tell. I think having a foundation in journalism impressed on me a feeling that essays have expiration dates. I need to launch it out into the world as soon as I can. At the same time though, some essays take longer to cook. You have to be sensitive to what the essay needs. Writing is very much a time-based project and there's no true system that tells you when something is done. Intuition, mostly. There's no substitute for that.
Holly: I have learned that sometimes you can have a feeling of "sureness" and completion at the end of the project and sometimes it's a decision you have to make. I used to tinker with work for hours but I have learned to tune into my instincts more and trust them.
Shazia: I know something is done when it stops surprising me.
Thad: I try not to shoot for perfection. I try to connect to the feeling I’m trying to convey or create and if it matches up then I’m done. Even if there’s something I could change.
Lindsey: Does it feel good in my body when I read it back? Did I get rid of every unnecessary comma? Do I want to delete it because it feels whole and sharp and scares me at least a little? Then it’s probably done.
“I know something is done when it stops surprising me.”
How often do you think you achieve what you set out to, creatively?
Nick: Never.
Angella: I set zero expectations on myself other than a design, form, or set of constraints (see also: a deadline) and this allows the piece to transform however it wants. I betray the work when I get too attached to it and, because I write mostly short form essays, I can knock out a few pages of nonsense, rearrange it, iron it out, then let someone else take it from me and reimagine it. I find that whatever I don't get to use/cut something I really loved, I can usually find a place for it later. I rely heavily on editors and friends and I would be lost without them. I'm not ashamed of that. For me, it takes a village.
Holly: I often do, especially when I have time to do so. I think it's important to put your work down and go outside; change your perspective a bit if you have a creative block. I have learned that if you are putting pressure on yourself to force out "good" work, it comes out the other end lacking authenticity. Patience and trust in one's self are definitely assets in any creative field.
Alex: Occasionally, I'll write a sentence that captures a certain feeling I set out to express which satisfies something inside of me. A piece isn't right until I've felt that thing.
Shazia: If I make a plan ahead of time (in calendar form at least a month in advance), I almost always meet it. If I tell myself, “tomorrow I'll do this,” or “later today I'll write 2 poems and 500 words,” it never happens.
Thad: My hope is to be honest and vulnerable. Those are usually things that I can determine if they are happening or not. If I’ve tried to bypass those then I haven’t achieved my goal. So hopefully by the time I release something it’s what I hope to achieve.
If you feel that you haven’t achieved your creative vision, what drives you to keep going?
Nick: The possibly deluded belief that I'll stumble into the "right" thing soon enough.
Angella: Getting it wrong. The slog of revision. Molting creatively. Impressing an editor or a boy. The ex-boyfriends who condescendingly told me I was lazy and questioned my ability and need to write. Mostly the latter.
Holly: I like to think of a project as an exploration and see how far I can push it. There is a quote from Mad Men that stuck with me over the years about a good idea. Jon Hamm's character says to think about something deeply, and then forget it, and and idea will jump out in your face. I find that has never failed to work for me.
Shazia: The surprises! The secrets! The knowledge of the unconscious! The mystical belief that your work will touch someone in the same way that someone else's has touched you! But also geopolitics!
Lindsey: I’m reading Twyla Tharp’s The Creative Habit and recently underlined, “...better an imperfect dome in Florence than cathedrals in the clouds.” I mean, amen. As long as a project that’s done is “better” (aka closer to what was in my head) than the thing before it, that’s enough of an achievement to keep me stabbing at another blank page until something new shows up. Also, at the end of the day, I honestly just can’t imagine a life where I don't write. No matter how loud my doubt gets, the gut instinct to show up always wins out.
“Getting it wrong. The slog of revision. Molting creatively. Impressing an editor or a boy. The ex-boyfriends who condescendingly told me I was lazy and questioned my ability and need to write.”
Do you ever feel unhappy or embarrassed by your past work? Does your art have a shelf life to you?
Nick: Sure. I am hoping this new movie will be a success and if that is the case, I'm going to consider all the crap that led up to it time well spent in trial-and-error.
Angella: I'm extremely stubborn but adaptable and completely okay with failing in front of others. I have old pieces that reflect mindsets I grew out of and that's fine too. Every now and then, there's a thing I've made (so far) that has stood the test of time. But I think it's good to be embarrassed of old work. It shows you've grown. But I'd never want to dredge it up! Leave it back there!
Alex: The work is a tool of becoming; self-actualization. It exists because it has to, the work at that moment is vital, like a heartbeat, and it must get done, it gets done, and acts as a key to your next self. You might have to do a lot of it to keep progressing on the journey.
“It shows a lot of growth when you can look back at your old work and cringe a little. It means you’ve probably come a long way.”
Thad: Yes. My early work feels a little hokey. But my God I released the first songs I ever wrote. I was way into classic country music and I was singing with this false country twang in my voice that now feels like a put on. But I think it’s where I had to start.
Lindsey: If I bump into essays of mine from when I first started writing professionally, I definitely get a wave of UGH, THIS. IS. SHIT. But once that wave passes, who the fuck cares if it sucked and still sucks? I’ve gotten better because of all those essays and I’m still here writing. It’s fine.
“The surprises! The secrets! The knowledge of the unconscious! The mystical belief that your work will touch someone in the same way that someone else’s has touched you! But also geopolitics!”
Have you ever been in a situation where other people like your work but you’re no longer connected to it or identify with it? What does that feel like?
Nick: It makes me question their taste.
Angella: Once I finish a piece of writing, I no longer feel entirely connected to it. The process is the part I'm obsessed with even though it's basically self-imposed misery. When anyone connects with anything I've written I'm usually shocked but grateful. It was for them as much as it was for me. That's a fantastic feeling.
Holly: Definitely, I get a really positive response toward my old work from when I was just starting out. It may not speak to the kind of work I am doing now but I can still feel connected to my past self a little when it's mentioned. It kind of feels like someone playing an old song that I beat to death listening to too many times, but it's still a part of me and my past.
Lindsey: Honestly I just feel grateful every time I find out something of mine made someone feel something.
Trace: My most streamed song is maybe one of my top three least favorite songs. It feels like luck and it feels like a haze. I don't remember who I was when I wrote it. It’s strange.
How often are you creating work that you’re not necessarily proud of but just need to do for your profession or to get it done?
Nick: 100% of the time. It drives me because hating my work is not sustainable.
Holly: Quite often I will receive direction from an art director that I am not crazy about, but that's just part of the job. At the end of the day I usually still feel good putting my name on it and I am so grateful to be able to support myself from this work.
Alex: No, it services all the work. Going and getting a job does things to a person; it causes humility which allows a person to access an authentic self underneath ego and persona, and it causes flow, meaning money coming in. Money is energy and energy coming toward you is good. Keep the flow going while you keep writing shitty things while you write your non-shitty thing.
Shazia: I have done it once or twice, but I never want to do it again. I think about it often, and I know perfectionism has a bad rep, but I'd rather be happy and give my soul to my work than have something crappy and lukewarm circulate around just to meet the 24-hour news cycle.
Thad: I try to avoid this. Although I did write a jock rock song as a joke where I rap in the verses. It’s bad but it has been used in the World Series. It’s funny, which in a way was the point. I was trying to make my friends laugh. It came out under a different name.
Lindsey: I do a lot of punchy, shiny copywriting work to pay rent and depending on my mindset, it can either feel like letting my creativity chew on bubblegum and is surprisingly energizing, or SLOWLY RIPS MY SOUL OUT. Regardless, my “finish it” muscle gets stronger, so there’s value in that.
“I know perfectionism has a bad rep, but I’d rather be happy and give my soul to my work than have something crappy and lukewarm circulate around just to meet the 24-hour news cycle.”
Think of a piece of work you are proud of. What stands out about it?
Nick: My new script is a plan for a movie that only I could make. I've spent my career a closet oddball parading as adaptable. With this project, I am resolved to not chase trends or to worry about marketability. I am simply making the work that I want to see in the world. For better or worse, it feels good to follow my own thread. It's working because no one is commissioning me to do it. No one is tearing it down (yet). It's working because it's not a commercial.
Angella: I'm still obsessed with an essay I wrote for Real Life magazine about a town in California that burned to the ground in 2018. It was difficult to write, but the idea kept me up at night yet also gave me energy; writing it felt like touching a spark plug or soaking in an ancient mineral pool. The editors I worked with completely understood what I was attempting to do and shepherded me there. I was lucky to work with them (two smarter-than-god women, I might add). It broke something open for me creatively and professionally. In a way it's like I fell in love or witnessed a celestial event. My core is still rattling the idea around and expanding it. Forgive me for sounding like an obnoxious grad student—I am!
Holly: My recent assignment for The New Yorker about the new Polish IVF Law that limits single women from using their own frozen embryos. I focused on the visual metaphor of a woman with an empty keyhole inside of her and the government withholding that key, withholding access to her own body. I received quite a positive response from this work and a Polish woman even made a comment about how it really spoke to her feelings about the actions of her oppressive government. It felt really rewarding to try to access the emotion of a woman in this position and then have somebody in that exact situation feel like I correctly captured her feelings. To me, the most affirming component of this kind of work is having others connect to it deeply. I'm very grateful to receive responses like this.
“I am resolved to not chase trends or to worry about marketability. I am simply making the work that I want to see in the world. For better or worse, it feels good to follow my own thread.”
Alex: I made a short film called THREE WOMEN. I like how it was cast, how it was shot, how it was written, and how it was executed and performed by the actors. I like how the colorist colored the picture, how the composer did the music, and how the titles ended up. It's too long, but it's fine. It works as a sample of what I do as a filmmaker; it's at times indulgent, and that I don't like. It's okay, it's fine, its great, it's whatever.
Shazia: I really like my poem “Conspiracy of Love.” It scared the shit out of me when I wrote it because it's a poem that took on a life of its own. I remember that a woman I once worked with disparaged that poem, but I didn't feel anything because I had so much faith in it! The poem itself has really gone far; it was reprinted in the Festival of Literary Diversity program for 2019 and is being anthologized in Best Canadian Poetry 2019! But its initial publication is all due to D.W. Adams, who edits a small and scrappy journal called Train. He was very encouraging and was kind enough to ask me for work. Writing this poem was an experience of utter faith. It's one of the most honest things I've written and it makes me feel bigger than myself.
“It broke something open for me creatively and professionally. In a way it’s like I fell in love or witnessed a celestial event. My core is still rattling the idea around and expanding it.”
Thad: I think the album that I’m about to release is something I’m really proud of. I worked harder on the songs than anything I have ever worked on. I wanted to make an album with people that didn’t look, think, and believe like me in the hope that we could all make something beautiful together. It’s called If In Case You Feel The Same. I really love it and think it’s great!
Lindsey: I wasn’t kidding about that aliens and climate change song mentioned above. It’s called “Peach,” and I’m pumped/terrified to get it out into the world soon. I love it because after what felt like an eternal writer’s block, this weird, speculative fiction pop song showed up out of nowhere more or less complete in my head. I decided not to immediately disregard it as SO STUPID, BYE, collaborated with an awesome producer friend for the first time to learn from and see it through with, and love what a bizarre bop it’s evolved into. I think the biggest challenge for me creatively is not immediately judging and shutting down an idea when it shows up; I’m so glad I let this song’s freak flag fly.
Trace: I just released an EP. It took me two long years of fighting for the songs to get approved under a label, took a lot of money, and took a lot of faith and trust it was ever going to be released. So when it all came out, I felt a tangible weight lifted. It's a project I feel like I really involved myself in during every moment of the process. It stands out the most because I think it’s my actually, technically most excellent body of work and I've detached any expectation from it. It works because I'm already satisfied before the reactions, the plays, the feedback, the reviews. Hard place to be but I think seeing something in its pureness and entirety feels like an internal win. The external praises don't last as long.
Nada Alic is a Los Angeles-based editor, writer and content strategist with 9 years of professional experience. Currently, she's working on a collection of fiction. Previously, Nada was the Editorial Director for e-comm arts platform Society6. Before that, she was agency-side, managing editorial for Gap Inc. properties. She also built Etsy's first Canadian HQ, and has had work featured in VICE, Nasty Gal, Ephemera Mag, Time Out LA, Cool Hunting, and People of Print.
Header Illustration by WNW Member Holly Stapleton