Sticky Notes - Blink and you'll miss it.

The TL;DR...

For the next 24-hours, you can get your hands on these beauties (^^^) for $10 a pop. You can choose whatever manuscript tickles your fancy, here.

The Whole Story... 

I saw Lana Del Rey for the first time in Denver, Colorado playing a show at a venue I can't remember. She swept me off my feet –– as she did everyone that night –– and I instantly became a fan of both her and her work. 

Years later she'd put out an album that I consider to be one of the greatest of the past decade, Norman Fucking Rockwell.

There are no "skips", as they say.

On this album there is a song, also titled Norman fucking Rockwell –– although the "F" for whatever reason is lower-case –– where Lana writes of some young, moody poet putting her through hell.

Near the beginning of the song, she fires off a line that is an absolute dagger to any writer or creative that has ever struggled with any sort of self-belief or disappointment around where their career has landed... 

"Your poetry's bad and you blame the news but I can't change that and I can't change your mood..."

I'm not ashamed to say there are days that line hits a little too close to home for me; there are days that line breaks my heart.

When I started writing this piece, I didn't know where exactly I was going to land. I never know where I'm going to land when I start writing something. In fact, I'm deeply skeptical of any writer that claims they have the precognition to know where they're going to end up before they've even started. 

But, perhaps today of all days you need to hear something about self-belief (or maybe I need to hear something about self-belief).  

I wrote a line once that I feel sums up the rather volatile mood of a writer... 

"Some days, I feel like the tallest man on Earth. Other days, I feel like a bottle rocket sailing for the moon."

Self-belief to the writer, creative, entrepreneur, salesman and designer aren't unlike sex to a pair of lovers. Sex is a really very brilliant thing. It feels wonderful, doesn't it? But, as anyone who has ever been in any sort of serious relationship knows, sex can only carry you so far. 

Eventually, the two of you will have to talk to one another. You'll have to get serious and explore building a life together. You'll have to disagree with one another. You'll have to address the bulge underneath the dining room rug the two of you have been sweeping shit under.

And it's here where love starts happening, where the sex alone can no longer bear the weight of the relationship. 

Self-belief is sex to the creative and her vocation. 

It's a goddamn stunning thing to have. But, when it inevitably leaves for days and sometimes weeks at a time and you find yourself feeling like a bottle rocket sailing for the moon, this is where love can happen. This is where love can happen for your work as a writer or a creative or an entrepreneur.

You've got to write even if you can't find the words. You've got to create even if your muse is nowhere to be seen. You've got to keep building that business even though the bricks are feeling heavier than usual.

It's in these moments of waning self-belief where you have the chance to show yourself how much you love your craft. Love is writing the poetry even when you feel it's so bad that you can't blame the news. 

I'm twenty-eight. I have two books of poetry and prose out in this world. I have another three books coming out this year. And there are many days I genuinely question if any of it is any good. Regardless, I keep sitting down in this chair: writing, writing, writing. 

And, perhaps this is love. 

Life lessons and rantings aside, for the next 24-hours you can pick up my books for $10 a pop. If you're nursing a broken heart or are just a damn sap about young love and heartbreak, pick up a copy of After Her. If you're looking for short musings on life, work, luck, creativity and spirituality then you simply must read One Minute, Please? 

Cheers, 

Cole Schafer.

P.S. Tomorrow's email is going to blow your socks off harder than a pair of Gold Toe Dress Socks staring down the barrel of a Dyson. Stay tuned. 

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