 It is one thing to study war, and another to live the warrior's life. Telemann of Arcadia, mercenary of the 5th century BC. Professionals and amateurs. Aspiring artists defeated by resistance share one trait they all think like amateurs. They have not yet turned pro. The moment an artist turns pro is as epical as the birth of his first child. With one stroke everything changes. I can state absolutely that the term of my life can be divided into two parts before turning pro and after. To be clear, when I say professional I don't mean doctors and lawyers, those of the professions. I mean the professional as an ideal. The professional in contrast to the amateur. Consider the differences. The amateur plays for fun. The professional plays for keeps. To the amateur the game is his avocation. To the pro it's his vocation. The amateur plays part time, the professional full time. The amateur is a weekend warrior. The professional is there seven days a week. The word amateur comes from the Latin root meaning to love. The conventional interpretation is that the amateur pursues his calling out of love while the pro does it for money. Not the way I see it. In my view the amateur does not love the game enough if he did. He would not pursue it as a sideline distinct from his real vocation. The professional loves it so much he dedicates his life to it. He commits full time. That's what I mean when I say turning pro. Resistance hates it when we turn pro. A professional. Someone once asked Somerset mom if he wrote on a schedule or only when struck by inspiration. I write only when inspiration strikes he replied. Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o'clock sharp. That's a pro. In terms of resistance mom was saying I despise resistance. I will not let it phase me. I will sit down and do my work. Mom reckoned another deeper truth that by performing the mundane physical act of sitting down and starting to work. He set in motion a mysterious but infallible sequence of events that would produce inspiration as surely as if the goddess had synchronized her watch with his. He knew if he built it she would come. What a writer's day feels like. I wake up with a gnawing sensation of dissatisfaction. Already I feel fear. Already the loved ones around me are starting to fade. I interact. I'm present. But I'm not. I'm not thinking about the work. I've already consigned that to the muse. What I am aware of is resistance. I feel it in my guts. The utmost respect because I know it can defeat me on any given day as easily as the need for a drink can overcome an alcoholic. I go through the chores, the correspondence, the obligations of daily life. Again I'm there but not really. The clock is running in my head. I know I can indulge in daily crap for a little while. But I must cut it off when the bell rings. I'm keenly aware of the principle of priority which states A. You must know the difference between what is urgent and what is important. And B. You must do what's important first. What's important is the work. That's the game I have to suit up for. That's the field on which I have to leave everything I've got. Do I really believe that my work is crucial to the planet's survival? Of course not. But it's as important to me as catching that mouse is to the hawk circling outside my window. He's hungry. He needs a kill. So do I. I'm done with my chores now. It's time. I say my prayer and head out on a hunt. The sun isn't up yet. It's cold. The fields are sopping. Brambles scratch my ankles. Branches snap back in my face. The hill is a son of a bitch but what can you do? Set one foot in front of another and keep climbing. An hour passes. I'm warmer now. The pace has got my blood going. The years have taught me one skill, how to be miserable. I know how to shut up and keep humping. This is a great asset because it's human, the proper role for a mortal. It does not offend the gods but elicits their intercession. My bitching self is receding now. The instincts are taking over. Another hour passes. I turn the corner of a thicket and there he is, the nice, fat hair I knew would show up if I just kept plugging. Home from the hill I thank the immortals and offer up their portion of the kill. They brought it to me. They deserve their share. I am grateful. I joke with my kids beside the fire. They're happy. The old man has brought home the bacon. The old lady's happy. She's cooking it up. I'm happy. I've earned my keep on the planet, at least for this day. Resistance is not a factor now. I don't think of the hunt and I don't think of the office. The tension drains from my neck and back. What I feel and say and do this night will not be coming from any disowned or unresolved part of me, any part corrupted by resistance. I go to sleep content. But my final thought is of resistance. I will wake up with it tomorrow. Already, I am stealing myself. How to be miserable? In my younger days dodging the draft, I somehow wound up in the Marine Corps. There's a myth that marine training turns baby-faced recruits into bloodthirsty killers. Trust me, the Marine Corps is not that efficient. What it does teach, however, is a lot more useful. The Marine Corps teaches you how to be miserable. This is invaluable for an artist. Marines love to be miserable. Marines derive a perverse satisfaction in having colder chow, crappier equipment, and higher casualty rates than any outfit of dog faces, swab jockeys or flyboys, all of whom they despise. Why? Because these candy-asses don't know how to be miserable. The artist committing himself to his calling has volunteered for hell whether he knows it or not. He will be dining for the duration on a diet of isolation, rejection, self-doubt, despair, ridicule, contempt, and humiliation. The artist must be like that Marine. He has to know how to be miserable. He has to love being miserable. He has to take pride in being more miserable than any soldier or swabby or jet jockey. Because this is war, baby. And war is hell. We're all pros already. All of us are pros in one area, our jobs. We get a paycheck. We work for money. We are professionals. Now, are there principles we can take from what we're already successfully doing in our workday life and apply to our artistic aspirations? What exactly are the qualities that define us as professionals? One, we show up every day. We might do it only because we have to to keep from getting fired, but we do it. We show up every day. Two, we show up no matter what. In sickness and in health, come hell or high water, we stagger in to 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. 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. Four, 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 are part of the labor force. Five, the stakes for us are high and real. This is about survival, feeding our families, educating our children. It's about eating. Six, we accept remuneration for our labor. We're not here for fun. We work for money. Seven, we do not over-identify 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, over-identifies 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 its success and over-terrified of its failure. The amateur takes it so seriously. It paralyzes him. Eight, we master the technique of our jobs. Nine, we have a sense of humor about our jobs. Ten, we receive praise or blame in the real world. 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 over-identifies 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. The first professional writing job I ever had, after 17 years of trying, was on a movie called King Kong Lives. I and my partner at the time, Ron Shusett, a brilliant writer and producer who also did Alien in Total Recall, hammered out the screenplay for Dino de Laurentiis. We loved it, we were sure we had a hit. Even after we'd seen the finished film, we were certain it was a blockbuster. We invited everyone we knew to the premiere, even rented out the joint next door for a post-triumph blowout. Get there early, we warned our friends. The place will be mobbed. Nobody showed. There was only one guy in line beside our guests, and he was muttering something about spare change. In the theater, our friends endured the movie in mute, stupefaction. When the lights came up, they fled like cockroaches into the night. Next day came the review and variety. Ronald Shusett and Stephen Pressfield, we hope these are not their real names for their parents' sake. When the first week's grosses came in, the flick barely registered. Still I clung to hope, maybe it's only tanking in urban areas, maybe it's playing better in the burbs. I motored to an edge city multiplex, a youth man in the popcorn booth, how's King Kong Lives, I asked. He flashed, thumbs down, miss it, man, it sucks. I was crushed. Here I was, 42 years old. Divorced, childless, having given up all normal human pursuits to chase the dream of being a writer, now I've finally got my name on a big-time Hollywood production starring Linda Hamilton and what happens? I'm a loser, a phony, my life is worthless, and so am I. My friend Tony Keppelman snapped me out of it asking if I was going to quit, hell no. Then be happy, you're where you wanted to be, aren't you? So you're taking a few blows, that's the price for being in the arena and not on the sidelines, stop complaining and be grateful. That was when I realized I'd become a pro. I had not yet had a success, but I had had a real failure.