When American writer Robert Caro walks down Fifth Avenue in his hometown of New York City on his way to work, he doesn’t have an earpiece in, nor is he looking at his phone. His head is held high, his mind deeply engaged in thought, so by the time he arrives at his destination, he is ready to work. Each step the 89-year-old takes is filled with purpose and excitement.

Before a concert, Bruce Springsteen gathers his band to give a pep talk. Sometimes it’s playful, other times spiritual, but his aim is always the same: he wants each show to be the best performance of his over 50-year career. When Pablo Picasso entered his painting studio, he wore a well-worn jumpsuit, signaling to his mind that he was ready to create. Picasso wasn’t there to produce his next masterpiece—he was simply there to work.

Caro needs to write every day, or he’d go crazy. Springsteen needs to perform live, or his life would feel incomplete. Picasso needed to paint, to brush the canvas, or he wouldn’t feel worthy. And all three share a common trait: they’re always striving to improve from the day before.

In his book The War of Art, author Steven Pressfield discusses the importance of having “territories” in our lives—those spaces that drive us to be our best. When we have a territory or something we truly love, we do the work for the love of the work itself. Pressfield encourages us to ask ourselves: Are you chasing validation in the form of money or fame? Or are you serving your “muse,” your creative inspiration? Are you showing up to improve every single day? Will you step into your territory to work whether people notice or not?

As Pressfield puts it, “Ask yourself: If I were the last person on earth, would I still do it?”

For Caro, Springsteen, and Picasso, the answer is unquestionably yes.

Pressfield explains that in the animal kingdom, individuals define themselves in one of two ways: by their rank within a hierarchy (like a hen in a pecking order or a wolf in a pack) or by their connection to a territory (a home base, a hunting ground, or a turf). Artists, he argues, must define themselves by territory—a psychological one rather than a physical one—not by hierarchy.

For instance, when true artists feel anxious, they don’t seek reassurance from friends in a hierarchical way. Instead, they retreat to their studio, their territory, and lose themselves in what they love. They find stability not through external validation but by immersing themselves in their craft.

Real artists would create even if they were the last person on Earth. They don’t need external approval; they only need their territory.

Some might say, “We’re not artists; we’re just doing our jobs.” But when we devalue our work, we lower our standards, showing up only to put in the hours without striving for improvement. Pressfield’s idea isn’t limited to art—it applies to every line of work. When we’re not striving to be our best, we become stagnant. We settle, ultimately serving someone else’s standards instead of our own.

When we have a territory—a place we go because the process itself is exhilarating—we become the best version of ourselves. We care about nothing more than the quality of our work.

Do you have a territory? Would you do what you do if you were the last person on Earth? Would you continue if you won the lottery? Serious questions that demand serious answers.

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