Putting “passionate” on a resumé is like including Microsoft Word in the list of software you know.
In job interviews, being “passionate” distinguishes you from your peers as much as the fact that you’ve got a pulse. Sure, it checks a box, but does it make you special?
Offering passion as a professional qualification is like when reality TV contestants are asked why they should be spared elimination, and they say they want it more than other contestants. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was a “wanting it” competition.
. . . .
Being passionate about something—whether it’s design, drag, baking while being delightfully British—is not the same thing as being skilled at it.
. . . .
The value of a design is not in how the designer feels about it. Passion doesn’t always translate to quality.
. . . .
My problem with passion is not that people care about their work. I care about my work. But how we signal how passionate we are about design — late nights, burn out, becoming more brand than human—is toxic.
Link to the rest at Medium
From Chuck Wendig:
The act creates momentum. Writing begets writing begets writing.
The lack of act has its own momentum, too — don’t write today, and tomorrow you wonder if this is really who you are, if this is what you’re meant to do, and so the next day you think it’s just not happening, the Muse isn’t there, the inspiration hasn’t lit a fire under your ass yet, the rats don’t feel like they’re gnawing at you and oh, hey, other writers — well, they’re all talented and driven and they’d never think of sitting down and not writing and maybe that’s who you are, not a writer but rather, Not A Writer, and so the gap in your effort cracks and pops and widens like a broken jaw, a yawning mouth, and soon all you see is the broken teeth of your efforts, broken dreams there in the dark of the mind and the back of the throat, and what you Want to do is lost beneath the illusion of what you Didn’t — or what you Can’t — do.
We fight that inertia, we fight the fear and the doubt by writing.
The words you write right now are words you can fix later.
The words you don’t write today are a curse, a hex, a black hole painted white.
You think that forcing it is counterproductive, that it means nothing, that you’ll just spit mud and blood onto the paper — and you might be right, but you might be wrong. Might be gold in them thar hills, might be a cure for what ails you in those droplets of blood. You don’t know. You can’t know. You’re you — your own worst judge, your own enemy, your greatest hater.
If you’re dying in the snow, no matter how much it hurts, you’ve gotta get up and walk.
Link to the rest at Terrible Minds