Today, I'm thrilled to be talking to Seth Godin, bestselling author of Permission Marketing, Tribes, and many others. Forbes calls Seth a “demigod on the web,” and when I'm feeling uninspired and creatively drained, I often read through Seth's blog and come away feeling refreshed and ready to create.
Seth Godin's most recent book, The Icarus Deception, is a dare to make art and share it with the world. I personally found The Icarus Deception a challenge to finish because I got so many new ideas for how to approach my writing that I had trouble sitting still to read.
Enjoy the interview!
JOE BUNTING
Seth, it's an honor to talk to you. Thank you for participating in this interview.
In The Icarus Deception, you say we have been taught to set our ambitions too low. What are healthy ambitions for writers? Should I want to get published by a major publisher, become a bestseller, and fly my private plane to book signings?
SETH GODIN
None of the above! If you want to write, write. Make a PDF and give it away. If it spreads, you'll have no trouble getting published. If it doesn't, you need to write more and write better.
Don't wait for others to pick you. Pick yourself.
JOE
Do you think everyone has a story to share with the world? Or is storytelling just for people with talent?
SETH
Of course we all have stories in us. But do we have the guts and the generosity to share them? I hope that over time, we will. The goal isn't to have everyone be touched by your story. It's to have the right people connect.
JOE
What if publishers reject my story?
SETH
You mean like Harry Potter and like The Confederacy of Dunces and like Purple Cow? Good for you.
Write more, write better, share often.
JOE
What if my audience doesn't care about my story?
SETH
Write more, write better, share often. It's entirely possibly you're not good. But the key word that's missing is, “yet.”
JOE
You say you don't believe in writers block. Can you talk about that?
SETH
Writer's block is the fear of being judged. We don't have trouble talking to a friend, because we know her and we trust her and the stakes are low. Writing can be that way if you let it.
JOE
What is the single most important thing I can do to become a successful writer? (My guess: “Make more art”?)
SETH
Yep.
And the second most important thing is to share it.
JOE
What are you working on next?
SETH
Breathing.
Last Thing
Thanks to Seth Godin, for his time and for challenging us to make good art and share it. As I read The Icarus Deception, I was deeply challenged to take more risks with my writing. I highly recommend it.
What art are you going to make? Who are you going to share it with?
PRACTICE
“If you want to write, write,” Seth says. So write. You might write:
- a story
- a poem
- an essay
- a song
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're time is up, share your writing here in the comments section. And if you share, be sure to give feedback to a few other writers.
Terrific! I’ve read his blog posts, too, and found them inspiring.
Agreed. He’s awesome. Thanks Christine.
Excellent and so interesting! I will be making more art now! Thanks Joe!
Do it. Thanks Marla.
Beautiful! So simple and direct: write more, share more to connect. Someone told me an artist does not hide a painting in a closet. Why do we hide our writing in a drawer? Sharing is the reason for writing.
Preach it, Eva.
Great post! Love Seth Godin! Story Cartel is closed to new authors. 🙁
If you sign up for updates, we’ll let you know when it’s open again. We’re just trying to make it better right now.
Our local library is having a poetry contest and I’m having trouble picking just two poems to enter! I have it narrowed down to five poems. Can you guys help me decide which two to enter? (Sorry for the long comment).
Fall
Crunch!
Swish!
Whoosh!
The sounds of fall fill my spirits with something warm,
Bouncy,
And delightful.
It feels like your first sip of apple cider,
On a crisp,
Fall day.
The smell of apples,
Rain,
And leaves on the ground enters my nose and into my heart.
The explosion of color on the trees look like fireworks that never quite
Fade away.
Then the leaves fall,
The scent disappears,
And I’m left with nothing but empty trees,
And a cold world.
The last yellow leaf flutters to the ground,
Like a dead bird that will never
Sing again.
Thunderstorm
Boom!
Crack!
Rumble!
Thunderstorms give me a thrill,
Not quite a leap,
But a chill.
Lightning strikes the sky,
Lighting up not only the world,
But my eyes.
Roll of thunder,
Hears my cries
For more.
Stuck inside for a whole day,
Is not what my sister would call a perfect way
To spend the weekend.
I ignore her and sigh,
I can’t understand why,
She doesn’t understand things as I do.
Can’t she see that the rain,
Isn’t just rain
But tears
Spilled by the whole world
Twice over?
It’s an end to the pain
That muddles the brain
With sadness
And darkness
And sorrow.
Rain helps the plants grow
I think it helps us grow,
Not only as people,
But as humans.
Why can’t she see
What I see?
Rain is a magical thing.
The Monster Under My Bed
I yawn and stretch and look around.
The world is quiet.
There is no sound.
But then I hear a growl below,
And with a startled jump I know,
That something green from toe to head,
Is lurking under my bed!
Slowly I lean down to see,
If this thing is scary and wants to eat me.
Then I think that I might be,
Overreacting and being silly.
This monster may not be so bad,
He might be the best friend that I never had!
He might want to eat cookies and play hide and seek,
This monster might be very meek.
But then the monster growls again,
And I jump and squeak and cover my head.
I take a deep breath and lean down and see,
That the monster isn’t a monster,
It’s just my silly puppy.
Sunflower
I look at sunflowers differently.
Most people appreciate the beauty of it,
Or how yellow it is.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love those things,
Too.
I just notice other things—
Different things—
As well.
Sunflowers represent the world,
To me,
And the problems that everyone has.
The black part of the sunflower represents
Problems,
Sadness,
And pain.
But to get past all of the hurt,
We need to notice the good in life.
That’s the yellow.
The yellow represents
Laughter,
Fun,
And love.
Together,
Life is beautiful.
And so is the sunflower.
For one must have pain and sadness in their life,
To be able to enjoy the beauty in life.
But why dwell on the black,
When one can enjoy the yellow?
Best Friends
What happened to us?
We used to be best friends.
Do you remember,
When we were younger,
And we gave each other necklaces and gifts.
Now we have drifted apart.
You went your way,
And I took mine.
I took the road less traveled,
While you hurried toward a busy street.
You took off,
Leaving behind,
Nothing.
You left for the so-called ‘popular’ kids.
Not me.
I stood up for what was right,
Even if it meant leaving an old best friend behind.
But then I ask myself,
Were we ever really best friends?
I think all these poems are excellent! I like “Fall” (first sip of cider!) and “Sunflowers” and Best Friends”. Simply and imaginatively expressed. Good luck with the contest.
Thank you for the feedback! 😀
I like Best Friends and The Monster Under the Bed. You have a good sense of meter and pacing in your poetry.
Thank you! I had a lot of fun with The Monster Under the Bed.
Sunflowers has an interesting poetic voice in that it delves the mind but for construction it has to be the more mature best friends. Reminds me of the struggles of youth. We’ve all been there!
Thanks for your input! 😀
I love the Monster Under the Bed! I could envision this as a fun picture book. I love the way you write your poetry/prose. It’s written in a friendly, conversational tone, and touches on real life experiences and thoughts that everyone can relate to!
Thank you so much! I love writing for kids (especially since I AM a kid!)
I particularly like The Monster Under The Bed and Best Friends. However, I feel the rhythm of the pieces needs more work. For instance, “Is lurking under my bed” might scan better as “Is lurking underneath my bed”, it’s just a thought.
Hmm that would probably work better. Thanks!
This is tough. The fall poem is good, but there are so many like it. I feel that the word ‘warm’ is wrong. Maybe something that connects the crispness of fall to the texture of a different food, like the crunch of the apple or even the smell and sound of popcorn fixed on an open fire. I think that would relay the warmth you are going for. I like the contrast in the Sunflower poem. I see things that way too. I hope you don’t mind the critique. I enjoyed reading your work.
No, I love critique! Thanks for the advice!
I liked friends best. But some of it is cliche, for example – I took the road less travelled. When writing poetry less is more. You need to leave space for the reader to imagine what might be there.
I’d suggest picking the one that resonates most with you emotionally, then go back and edit and re-edit until it’s like a singing bowl .. silent but ready to sound once someone strikes it.
I didn’t see that. Thanks for pointing that out!
I guess I can try. I’m not sure where I would share. Or why. Or how much editing. Or what I’m doing at all. But you asked for it. (Be warned there is profane language in here).
—
TG: Hey, Ivan? You there?
TG: I’m going to make a wild guess and say that you’re actually invisible right now, intentionally, because you never turn your goddamn phone off.
Ivan listened to the computer recite the incoming message. He hated that Gary was absolutely right.
TG: Which isn’t very fair because I don’t remember doing anything to piss you off.
TG: I mean if I did piss you off in some way and some form, I’m sorry, but I don’t really remember doing anything wrong, and I mean I haven’t really talked to you in a few days anyway so there’s a lot that can happen in that amount of time to piss you off.
TG: Like, I don’t know, the entire settlement turning into zombies except for you.
TG: Anyway.
TG: If you’re actually there and can actually hear this, I’m just going to go ahead and say stuff because this is actually really fucking important and my life actually depends on it.
TG: I remember, once upon a time, you wanted to escape with some other kids from your settlement, and, I don’t know, row back to the mainland or something crazy like that.
TG: And eventually you talked yourself out of it or whatever, or it just fell through because you got caught, I don’t really remember which, but the how and why isn’t really important right now.
TG: All I remember is that this whole plan thing was really elaborate and you had plans for how to integrate back into the mainland without being caught and sent back or whatever.
TG: So. This is really important.
TG: I need to know if you still have your mainland contacts of anyone willing to accept runaway teenagers.
TG: People who are okay with people of dubious legal status.
TG: I mean I would say that I haven’t done anything wrong, but you know.
TG: Zombies.
TG: They fuck everything up.
TG: Can you give me a hand here?
TG: This is kind of important.
Ivan though that he should probably turn off that chat client if he wasn’t going to answer it. Technically, he was not supposed to have it. Regulation did not want him to have contact with the outside world. There was supposed to be a client that only worked within the settlement, but nobody used it. Everyone passed around versions of software that was probably two versions out of date, but it was usually still somewhat supported, and so everyone managed.
However, having an illegal program be read out loud made it easier to catch. He had never heard of anyone who was actually caught, but still in the back of his head, he still wanted to turn it off in case anyone else heard.
It was always there, in the back of your head.
It wasn’t such a big deal to have the client, or this, or that, or anything like that, but if something actually did slip, the tons and tons of things you did and forgot about become immutable proof of your unworthiness because everyone knows you did them and there was no way to say otherwise.
TG: Ivan?
The client continued, after a span of a few minutes.
TG: Ivan.
TG: Oh my God I know you’re actually there.
TG: I just talked to Dawn, she said you left her in a huff.
TG: Shit.
TG: I just heard what happened.
TG: Dawn can be really dense sometimes but please answer me.
TG: This is a matter of life and death and I need you.
TG: Please please please answer.
All of the “please”s were read off in a monotone, the urgency lost. Ivan sat up on his bed, glancing over to the vague light of the computer screen. Why was that thing on in the first place? Oh, it was because it was always on. It was not like it was a two-way screen. He could actually turn the device off if he really wanted to.
TG: Please.
TG: Please.
TG: Please.
TG: Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase.
Ivan knew that the monotone begging would continue for a long, long time afterward if he just left the computer on. And, to be entirely honest, he had written off Gary at least a week ago. There was only so much a kid like him could do when zombies decided to overrun the town. In fact, he was surprised Gary had gotten that far.
And, as for the escape, no, he didn’t have any contacts. He had nothing. That plan had been completely wiped. He only vaguely remembered it, now that Gary had brought it up. Most of the memories of that year were foggy, actually. Two years ago, that year he actually had friends, and they did stuff together, finally culminating in lashing together rafts and hoarding supplies and making maps in some bizarre idea that they should and could run away.
It wasn’t like it was actually that bad here.
Ivan stood up, feet slapping against the linoleum floor as he walked up to the computer, finding the off button. There wasn’t even anything on there worth shutting down the computer properly. The device was full of chat logs and old homework, and not much else.
TG: Please.
TG: Please.
TG: This is a really stupid reason to not tell me anything.
TG: I know you’re mad and upset and whatever but again.
TG: You killed one friend, you don’t have to kill two.
TG: Please please please please please.
He pressed the button, and the light flickered out. And, for once in his life, Ivan was alone.
where is the delete button.
Haven’t been writing again. This interview with Mr. Godin couldn’t have come at a better time for me. Thank you for pressing me to write and for allowing me to share.
♫♫♫♫♫♫♫♫
I had the urge to listen to the same song on repeat tonight. It reminded me of a time when I was little and there was a record player in our house. We listened to nothing but vinyl. And my mother would slump over the record player, swaying with eyes closed to the same song over and over again. And when the song was done, she would grab the needle arm and force it back to the beginning, not taking care to lift the needle and avoid injury to the record.
When she was no longer able to stand, the record player stood alone. The record would be over, but still spinning as the needle thwumped over the final grooves repeatedly. The static thwump, thwump, thwump reverberated through our little house.
I think tonight I might’ve been where she once was, slumped over the music, hoping it would save me. So brokenhearted, so lost. Empty with nothing left to give. Torn and disheveled to the point I’m not sure I want to be seen in public ever again. Broken and shattered with no shard remains to gather at my feet.
Tonight, I’m pretty sure I know where my mother once was. I’m there now.
39.
I’m there.
The umbilical cord is never truly cut. We are tethered one to another for all time. Mom physically left this world when I was 6, but she never truly left me. She’s been here all along. I just had to find her.
Beautiful and sad. I truly hope this wasn’t based on a true story.
I really like the image of your mother slumped over the record player, disappearing into the music. Great imagery and interesting POV through the eyes of a six year old.
Thank you so much for the feedback!
It is based on truth. I wouldn’t be who I am today without it though…so I’m thankful. Thank you for your feedback!
Glad we timed the Godin interview well, Trish. 🙂
This was a very well done piece. I love the idea of the music connecting you to your mother. The umbilical cord metaphor was good, but I wonder if it would have been better without a metaphor at all. Could you make something in the music a metaphor? It seems surprising to go from music to medical, you know?
Thank you so much Joe. It’s amazing how music connects people…and I certainly cherish music for that reason. I appreciate your wonderful suggestion. I think using something in the music as a metaphor is a great way to go and I’m going to work on that. Thank you for your valuable feedback!
So poignant, the link between mother and daughter is so telling. Great stuff.
Thank you Steve. I appreciate your feedback.
Oh my,Trish. I love the spinning record illustration. I had to recheck who wrote this because I have a friend who also lost her mom at six. Although she writes, she doesn’t share your voice. Good practice. I wish you healing.
Thank you so much!
Trish,
The way you use the turntable analogy to spin us back with you to another time, then bring us right back to next to you and your pain is done masterfully. You touched me.
Thank you Audrey. If I write from the heart, it comes out right. Thanks so much for reading and replying.
My sister’s fingers are veined and bony. She can no longer hold the phone receiver in her hand and it slips through her curled grip as though greased with
butter. She apologizes and tries to cover her mouth with her other hand, hiding the lips and tongue that are also out of control. From her wheelchair it is a long reach down to pick up the phone, so I bend over and get it for her. It hurts my heart. My younger sister used to run marathons, climb mountains, compete on a diving team. She used to drive up to the resort on weekends and strap on her skis. No
fear! Skiing down hills fast was a thrill she looked forward to. Now I can
barely stand to see the person she is – and remember the person she was. In her dark room, surrounded by little cups of liquid and little bottles of pills, a tiny television screen flickering with old movies, reruns of sitcoms, Sunday night specials…. This is her world now. She’s too young to be trapped in a
shell of a body that has no more use for itself. A calcifying straightjacket
encasing a brain that still yearns, feels, thinks, remembers. I miss her so. The phone seems too heavy so I put it on the little stand in front of her chair and she looks up and says, “thank you”. How do you make small talk? How do you tell her you’re not brave enough to live the journey she’s living? Not brave enough or strong enough to find any kind of hope in that kind of existence? It’s a cruel disease that put her there, and a cruel disease that will keep her there the rest of her days. And yet she has hope and dreams, and looks forward to each day as though things would get better. It’s something I don’t understand. I hug her thin shoulders, skin over bone, no layer of fat in between. She takes a sip of her cocoa, now cold and congealed in the bottom of the mug. “Do you want a fresh cup of cocoa?” I ask, but she says, “no, I want to finish this first. Then maybe…” I don’t know what else to say. No where to sit in the room crowded with paper and clothing and plastic –wrapped spoons. Awkward I stand in the doorway and having
nothing else to say and feeling a bit sad, I turn to go. “Consider yourself hugged ,” my sister says cheerfully. She thinks of me, I know she does. And even though she has no recollection of what life outside her room is like, she worries about me. Worries about my life. I vow to visit more, take her out, spend more time, bring more gifts. But I know I won’t. Time stands still in this room, in this chair, in this body. I leave , grateful for sunshine.
This is very heart wrenching but does not feel trite. It’s raw enough to strike true. Are the sentence breaks intentional? If so it’s not clear whether this is poetry or prose. Although I’m not sure that matters, exactly.
I like the honesty here. I almost get the sense that the ill sister isn’t as sad as the healthy sister. I feel that maybe though she maybe in pain, she is reckoning with her full life- that she’s lived it her best. Maybe the utmost is on the other side. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.
I wrote this last week on my phone. I just spent the 15 min revising it. I’m still working out the kinks in this story, so it’s a little… yikes:
No one spoke.
All you could hear were quiet sobs and the wheat field’s gossip.
Everyone had fled. The whole market and their merchants.
Amara and I were in the middle of the group of gypsies watching the fire. She didn’t cry, just watched and watched and watched and watched. It looked as though she was trying not to blink an when she did, water would fall from her eyes. They weren’t tears, though, I knew.
Tragedy bored Amara. “Come,” she said finally.
“Where?”
“Story before bed.”
We kissed maman et papa goodnight and went into the woods behind the camp.
“I have no one, you know this, besides you all. You are my family and I’ve failed you as your sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“I left you all alone. I’m supposed to protect you.”
“No.”
“Yes! And this isn’t the first time. I had a brother, papa, and mother. They’re gone, all of them! My mother died after having my brother. My father grew drunk. He was dead before he was truly gone. I stole his knives soon after he left.
After I had to protect my brother. Nox was his name… Nox died because of me. I stole everything for us and we hid anywhere we could. It became a cycle. A habit. A nature for me. Then, Nox began to steal and I didn’t want that for him, exactly, but it had to be. If I were to ever get caught, killed, he had to take care of himself. I needed to know he could do that.”
She stopped and laid back into the ground for a minute.
“What happened?”
“Shh… there were gangs. Plenty on them, too many to be afraid of, but one terrified me. Police and prostitutes were dying like,” she snapped in rhythm. “I thought it would be best if we just left.
“There was a boat to France, the next week, so I noted it. The plan was simple: big crowd, pickpocket, we’re in. So, when the time came to get on the boat, I was fine. Everything was smooth. I got on and stood next to a family who looked like they could be mine. Nox, I had told him everything he had to do, but… I guess I never watched who I was taking from.
“When I looked out into the crowd, to where I had left Nox, there were men, about five. They had a full sack with them. I looked around for Nox, but he was nowhere to be found. He was in that sack, I just knew, knocked out. He tried stealing from them.
“Some of the men walked towards the boat and some went the other way with my brother.”
I stayed silent, not knowing what to say.
“I stayed locked up and away until we got to France. Once I was here, I was a ghost. You didn’t see me until I wanted you to see me. That is, of course, until I got pulled out of a chimney one night.” Amara smiled for the first time since she left.
I liked the confessional style but the plot and characters confused me a little at the beginning. By that I mean I assumed she kissed her mum and dad goodnight then she said they were dead. It takes a while to understand she’s not related,
Oh boy, I see what you mean. 🙁 Yeah she’s not blood related, just considers them family. I’ve gotta fix that.
Its a little confusing but I’d like to read more of this. Amara’s story sounds like it will be really interesting. .
She gazed down at her finger, still bound by the thin band of gold. She tilted her palm up and flexed her fingers as if admiring it. She was not. She was trying to picture it gone and wondering if the memory of it, a phantom, if you will, would still remain. It had been there for so many years and in it she had found pride and the security of belonging.
She moved her right hand over and allowed her middle finger and thumb to twist the ring in its place and then over the groves that it had created, up and down, twisting round and round all the time as if she were winding a clock.
Then she pulled and it slipped over her knuckles and she let it clang onto the floor beneath her. She didn’t look at the ring, she held her left hand up into the light and let her liberated finger feel the unaccustomed coolness of the air. She stretched each finger in turn, easing them back and forth, exercising them as if rehabilitating after a lengthy illness.
It really didn’t signify, after all.
I liked the juxtaposition of the narrator studying her ring against studying the ring not there. It gives tension and a sense of I wonder why to the writing.
Thank you very much for that comment. I’m glad it had that effect, it’s what I was going for!
I like the symbolism of this piece. It is a real reckoning with the most important human relationship. Maybe then, she can move on.
It reminds me of the Jackson Browne song, “In the Shape of a Heart.”
Thanks for you’re critique. You’re very polite. I will have to look that song up.
Sure. Thank you for saying that. I love Jackson Browne lyrics.
Kelly, you’ve magnified the moment wonderfully. I love the way the last line says “it really didn’t signify, after all.” Yet, clearly, she’s made a life changing decision.
Thank you, Audrey (lovely name, by the way). A very encouraging comment.
Feel this is a bit trite, but here goes.
She sat down to catch her breath. Alone, she listened intently for any sound that might come. There was only silence. The evening’s events had caught her completely by surprise. Why had he come to her door. They had been separated for a year now, couldn’t he take no for an answer? Obviously not as his yelling would seem to indicate. So why was he here now? The exchange between them had been intense and spiteful. She too had yelled, at the end, when he refused to go. So now what? Were they going to be locked into a slanging match forever?
Then she heard it, a faint crackling noise. She looked out the window. A small wisp of smoke rose from below. Hurriedly she donned her shoes and raced to the front door. She could see flames from the window beside the door. She went to open the door but the handle was red hot. Damn him, he had set fire to it. Now what? She was determined not to be trapped in his little game. She grabbed a towel from the kitchen and racing back to the door managed to open it by rapping the towel around the door knob. The door itself was fully alight and the porch with it. She was trapped after all.
The premise is a good one: a bad relationship turning violent and the opening paragaph leads us in well. the last few lines are a bit hurried, in my opinion. i think I’d like to know less about the action and more about her reaction (emotional) to the fire.
You’re right, I do tend in my writing to focus more on the action and less on the emotions behind and around it.
Will try better next time.
She wakes at a wee 3:14 am with her significant other sleeping soundly beside. She doesn’t rouse him because he works hard. It is an opportunity to pray, but she’s stymied with thoughts of a full schedule that has nothing to do with what she really wants to do, and that’s write something meaningful. She plans other projects also: fix a lamp for the guest room, finish knitting that scarf, line the vintage suitcase she found in a thrift store with new velvet. Oh who is she kidding? Just get to writing.
She has plenty to extrapolate but it is downright scary. She knows that good writing is what separates the real from the phony. She dons her robe and slippers and shuffles out to the dark living room for typing. Dang, her acrylics are too long for the jeyboard. Oh well, she’ll click through. What’s a typo here and there? At least it’s on paper.
Seth Godin makes an impression. She will continue to write honest. After all, who says she has to hit the submit button?
Who says we have to hit the submit button? I guess eventually we must though mustn’t we?
so, this is what I wrote in 15 mins. So refreshing, and I didn’t even know I was capable of doing it… http://sabrinadepestre.com/2013/02/10/be-direct/
A very impressive talk there with this great blogging virtuoso. I like it!