I’m finishing up a crime novel I’ve been working on for nearly a year. I’ve never had so much fun and have felt more connected to creating this fictitious world than any other piece. I love the lead character— she’s smarter than I am, she’s cooler than I am, and I’m thrilled about all the hell I put her through in 200+ pages. I’m nearing the finish line, so naturally I think, “What happens now? I’ll find a publisher or self-publish, and then what? Is anyone going to care?”

No. Nobody will give a shit. Really. They don’t give a shit about my novel, or your painting, or the song you wrote. They don’t give a shit about your kid’s soccer game, your dance recital, your latest film, or your sister’s amazing wedding. Ten years ago, this would have devastated me. Today, it brings me magnificent freedom. Let me explain.

All my life, I’ve craved expression. The desire to create, imagine, and connect has had various outlets over the years. Once upon a time, I wanted to be an actor.

Once I found acting, I couldn’t get enough. I devoted years of study. I dreamed of great roles, I read countless plays, took notes, analyzed performances. I loved the work and knew I’d be a professional actor for the rest of my life, whether I ever made a dime.

Then I quit. I stopped cold turkey.

Why? Why would I deprive myself of the thing I loved the most? Because of fear. I became obsessed with achieving greatness. I would not tolerate mediocrity. I wanted to be great, and I wanted you to think I was great. This was the fastest, deadliest way to crush an artistic life.

Jim, my acting teacher in graduate school, said, “You’re not coming into class like an actor. You’re coming in like a student.”

I couldn’t hear him. I didn’t know how to do it differently. He meant all of my scene work, all my performances, had a looking-over-the-shoulder vibe. I never stopped taking my own artistic temperature. Every choice I made had a hidden agenda: “How was that? Was that great?”

Whether or not you knew it, you all lived in my head. You were my built-in audience, waiting for me to become famous, or to do a play, tv show, or movie where I knocked it out of the park. Daniel Day Who? you’d say. I wanted my acting to stop you in your tracks.

It didn’t. So I quit.

I never allowed myself to make mistakes. No mistakes = no risks. No risks in art = safe, meh work. Easy one-way ticket to the very place I feared: Mediocreville.

Funny thing, though. You can shut down a creative life, but creativity won’t shut down. It can lie dormant, but eventually it will creep back up. It’s Whack-A-Mole. You can beat it down over here, but it will pop up again over there. That’s what it did with me. I hadn’t written since college, but with some encouragement from my friend Chris, I wrote again.

Writing sent those same sparks in me acting had. I read, analyzed, and obsessed over screenplays, novels, and television scripts, I copied my favorite writers’ styles, I wrote in several formats, listened to podcasts, and I went to hundreds of Q&As to hear writers talk about their process.

Then the haunting feeling crept up again— I have to show everyone I can do this. Next thing I knew, I was starting projects without finishing them, I was turning down writing jobs I thought beneath my skill, and I felt shame IT hadn’t happened yet. (You know IT: the brass ring, job, artwork, paycheck or accolade that Proves We’re Capable.)

Again, I tried to prove my artistic worth to all of you. I hadn’t learned my lesson with acting. Again, I was about to kill my writing— another fledgling creative outlet.

It didn’t happen though. I realized something that gave me an inner strength to complete my projects and continue to learn. I allowed myself to make mistakes, take risks with my writing, and failed in spectacular ways to become better at my craft.

What was the realization? That none of you gave a shit. Oh, you cared about me. But you didn’t care about my creative work. Your approval, adoration, and expectations were all a lie I’d created in my head.

I realized it was all nonsense. I’m not sure what happened, but one day I got it. Maybe because I reversed roles with you all. I became aware— I’m not disappointed you haven’t become first violinist for the L.A. Phil. I don’t care you haven’t published any of your poetry. I couldn’t care less that your kid isn’t the best third baseman in the Tri-state area. I love you. I want you to be happy.

So I knew none of you were waiting for me to write powerful television like David Simon. None of you wondered why I’m not as prolific as Stephen King. None of you were waiting for me to become the next J. K. Rowling and bust out my Harry Potter.

We’re just happy to be together, and we want each other to be happy. How do we get to happy? Irrelevant. Writing makes me happy, so you’re happy I write. Writing doesn’t actually make me happy. Having written makes me happy, but that’s for another post.

You have a passion project and I have mine. Nobody will ever care about my passion project as deeply as I do. That’s why it’s my passion project.

Isn’t that beautiful freedom? No one is keeping score. They don’t care. We’re off the hook! We can do whatever the hell we want! 

If nobody cares, what’s the point? Why not just quit? Sure, we can do that. As my mentor Bob says, “Quitting is always an option. It’s really easy. People do it all the time.” Or…

If no one’s watching, if no one’s keeping score, can you imagine the amazing things we can create? Wow. I say it’s worth it Creating like nobody’s watching? Working and playing like nothing’s at stake? What would that feel like?

Let’s do it. I’ll finish my crime novel. You paint your painting. Write your song. Cheer your head off at your kid’s soccer game. Have your dance recital, Direct and act in your latest film. Celebrate your sister’s amazing wedding.

Do it all. Rejoice in nobody giving a shit about the results. And let’s see what happens.