You’re supposed to starve. You’re supposed to treat poverty like a personality trait. And if you don’t, well, maybe you’re not a real artist.

Would you ever give that advice to somebody? Then why do we give it to ourselves?

Kern Carter spent some time in that trap, but found out for himself that it didn’t have to be that way. Lets dive into how he flipped the script and wrote his own future.

Making Money As A Writer

He told me he knew he wanted to be a writer at eight years old. Eight. Most of us were still trying to figure out how to ride a bike without crashing into a mailbox. Kern already had a direction. But life didn’t exactly roll out a red carpet for him.

He said, “I had a child when I was 18. I ended up dropping out of high school. Me and my daughter’s mother lived on our own.”

That’s not a poetic backstory. That’s survival. But Kern kept going. He said artists have this idea that being broke is some kind of rite of passage. Like you have to suffer to earn your place. Like you need to be homeless or writing novels in your car to prove you’re serious.

I’ve felt that. I think most creatives have. Kern had to unlearn that. He had to pull that belief out of his head like a splinter.

And then he got hit with a reality check from a professor who told him it would take five years to learn to write, five years to build readers, and five years before he’d make any money. Fifteen years. Not fifteen minutes or fifteen viral posts.

Fifteen years.

Most people would hear that and quit. Kern heard it and thought, “Okay. So this is the timeline.” It gave him permission to slow down. To stop expecting magic. To treat writing like a craft instead of a lottery ticket.

But the real turning point wasn’t the timeline. It was the moment he realized he could make money as a writer even if he wasn’t making money as an author.

He said, “Once I figured out how to make money as a writer, not as an author…”

That’s when everything shifted.

Copywriting Ghostwriting Websites Campaigns

He used the same skill he’d been sharpening since he was eight, but he used it in a way that paid the bills. And once the bills were paid, something interesting happened.

The writing got better.

He said it wasn’t an accident that he got published after he became financially secure. Because creativity doesn’t thrive in panic. It doesn’t bloom when you’re counting dollars and hoping your car doesn’t break down this month. It needs space to breath.

And once he had that space, the books came. He made a movie, and readers started discovering him. He sold fifteen thousand books in a year without a massive social following. Not because he suffered harder, but because he stopped believing he had to.

Take away:

“Commit. So every decision after that is easy.”

Commitment isn’t glamorous. It’s waking up early and saying no to the wrong opportunities. and choosing the long game when everyone else wants shortcuts.

That’s also the moment the starving artist myth loses its grip. Talking with Kern reminded me that the dream doesn’t change. The identity does.

If you’d like to catch the whole interview, check out my podcast. https://brentxp.podbean.com/e/lightminded-arts-33-writers-dont-make-money-he-made-hundreds-of-thousands-proving-them-wrong-kern-carter/?token=c729849361d493251c3d5f38094b8c09

If you’d like to learn more about Kern Carter, visit him at: https://www.kerncarter.com/

Art doesn’t always pay the rent. Daniel Rodgers traded his dream for the financial reality most of us have to deal with.

The thing is, he didn’t get stuck in a rut. He found an outlet for his creativity in his work, and later, focused that into art as he discovered his financial stability.

The Poor Years

He grew up sketching in the margins of his notebooks, chasing the kind of imagination that makes teachers sigh and parents worry. But when you’re born into poverty, passion isn’t a career path, it’s a luxury. So Daniel did what survival demanded: he traded art for a paycheck.

He was the first in his family to go to college. Debt already waited for him before graduation. So he typed “highest-paying degree” into Yahoo and landed on computer science. It wasn’t the life he imagined, but it was the one that paid the bills.

And yet, even inside the logic and code, he found something unexpected, creativity. Design pods, user experience, systems architecture, it was like art, hidden inside the science. He built programs at Microsoft and Google, but the artist in him never really left. It just learned to wear a badge.

Years later, his son Gavin picked up the pencil Daniel had put down. Born premature at two pounds, Gavin fought for his life in a NICU while Daniel read stories through the plastic walls of an incubator. That ritual of reading, imagining, and creating, became the heartbeat of their home. By seven, Gavin had written his first seven-chapter book. By nineteen, he’d published fifteen.

And Daniel? He became his son’s cover artist, watching the next generation do what he couldn’t. But the story doesn’t end with redemption. It ends with a warning.

Escape The Clock

Daniel wrote Escape the Clock because he saw the same trap catching every creative he knew: the belief that passion alone will save you. This is not true.

He spent twenty years learning finance the hard way, cycling through seven financial advisors, building spreadsheets, and realizing most of them were selling products, not wisdom. He discovered that ignorance isn’t just expensive, it’s predatory. The system is designed to keep you leveraged, distracted, and broke.

His solution was a program plan for your own life, a kind of blueprint corporations use to hit impossible goals. Because when you treat your creative career like a business, you stop being a starving artist and start being a working one.

Daniel’s book became a bestseller and won multiple awards, but the real win was time. Financial independence isn’t about money, it’s about reclaiming the hours you’ve been giving away. It’s about creating before fate forces your hand. Because if you wait too long, you’ll get the wake-up call every human eventually gets: the realization that time is the only currency that matters.

So here’s the truth Daniel learned the hard way, and the one most creatives avoid until it’s too late: Passion without a plan isn’t noble. It’s a trap.

If you want to make art for the rest of your life, you need to learn how to make money first.
Not because money defines you, but because it buys you the one thing your art can’t survive without: time.

LightMinded Arts — with Joseph Bolton

Sometimes the stories that mean the most get lost to us when we lose the only people who knew those stories. 

Joseph Bolton had to dig to find his family stories, and they turned into an obsession.

When he sat down with me for this episode of LightMinded Arts, he didn’t come in as “the guy with the illustrated book series” or “the retired space-operations officer.” He came in as someone who had lived long enough to understand the weight of the stories he never got to ask about, and the urgency of preserving the ones he still could.

From Paratrooper to Space Operations to… Folktales?

Joseph’s path is one of those zigzagging creative journeys that only makes sense in hindsight. He enlisted in the Army straight out of high school, became an airborne paratrooper, got pushed toward West Point, served as an infantry officer, and eventually ended up in space operations. Yep, actual space systems, satellites, classified missions, the whole thing.

Not exactly the résumé you expect from a guy writing magical, illustrated folktales.

For Joseph, that place didn’t reveal itself until 2013, when his younger brother died of ALS. Grief has a way of stripping your life down to the studs. For him, it cracked something open. He started writing a blog where he explored science, history, philosophy, whatever his mind needed to chew on.

And then he stumbled into something that changed everything.

The Ancestor Who Refused to Stay Quiet

Joseph had always been curious about his family’s roots in Quebec, but curiosity turned into obsession when he started digging deeper. DNA tests. Church records. Old documents. And then he found her.

A young woman living in Trois-Rivières in the 1600s. Married at 22. Two children. A Mohawk raid that killed her husband and kidnapped her children who she never saw again. Five years later, she remarried a French settler and rebuilt her life from scratch.

When she died, the pastor wrote a single line about her:

“She lived a full life of dignity, respect, and love.”

That sentence hit Joseph hard. Because you don’t get a line like that unless you earned it.

Why He Chose Folktales Instead of Historical Fiction

Most people in Joseph’s position would’ve written a straight historical novel. Names, dates, battles, marriages, the usual. But Joseph didn’t want to write a textbook. He wanted to write a myth.

He wanted to tell her story the way her descendants might have told it around a fire. With trickster animals. With magic. With the kind of symbolism that cultures use when the truth is too big for literal language.

So he built a world, part history, part imagination, and then he did something most writers would never dare: he illustrated almost every page.

Hundreds of illustrations. Multiple artists. Storyboards. French translations. Years of work.

This wasn’t a book project. It was a cinematic universe disguised as a folktale.

The Cost of Making Something That Big

Ambition costs money. And time. And sanity.

Joseph didn’t sugarcoat it. Hiring illustrators wasn’t cheap. Coordinating storyboards wasn’t quick. Translating the books into French wasn’t simple. And doing all of this while still working part-time as a teacher?

It’s the kind of project you only take on when you’re old enough to know what matters and young enough to still chase it.

But here’s the twist: Joseph doesn’t think younger creatives should wait. He thinks they should start small, collaborate with peers, build a portfolio, learn the craft. . . but start.

Because the only thing harder than creating something big is wishing you had started earlier.

The Moment That Almost Broke Him

Joseph’s moment came from a bookstore owner who looked at his book and said:

“I hope you had fun creating this, because it’s going to fail.”

Imagine hearing that after years of work. After hundreds of illustrations. After pouring your family’s history into a story that felt sacred.

Most people would’ve folded. Joseph didn’t. He kept going. He kept promoting. He kept showing up. The people who dismiss your work are never the ones you made it for.

The Creative Regret That Haunts Us All

“By the time you realize the questions you should’ve asked… the people who had the answers are gone.”

That’s the regret he carries, and it’s the regret he’s trying to save others from. Your creative life isn’t just about what you make. It’s about what you preserve. And if you’re a creative — especially one trying to build a life that pays, that’s the lesson hiding underneath all of this:

Your most valuable stories aren’t the ones you invent. They’re the ones you inherit.

Learn more about what Joseph is doing at: https://oldgrandmotherstree.com/

Catch the podcast at: https://brentxp.podbean.com/e/lightminded%e2%80%afarts%e2%80%af31%e2%80%af%e2%80%93%e2%80%afcreativity-regret-and-roots-with-joseph-bolton/?token=7b3cc03c84cf9e5b5cb8c081302b4e27

As an artist, do you ever feel like you’re playing truth or dare with your reputation and sanity? Did you really really sign up for this.

I’ve hit that moment more times than I want to admit. And talking with Justin reminded me that I’m not the only one.

The Struggling Artist Mindset

Justin said something that made me laugh because it was so familiar. That whole “I’m an artist, I need to suffer” thing. I’ve worn that badge before. Probably polished it a few times too. It feels noble. It feels like you’re proving something. But the longer I sit with it, the more it feels like a trap we build for ourselves.

Suffering doesn’t make you better. It just makes you tired. And tired creatives make strange choices. We’ve all been there. When you pour hours into something like a video audition, then find out no one even pressed play, you start wondering if you’re invisible or if you were never good enough to begin with. It’s worse than rejection.

And the thing is, you start shaping your whole identity around that feeling. You start thinking the pain is part of the process. Like if you’re not hurting, you’re not doing it right. Meanwhile, the people who aren’t buying into that mindset are quietly building careers while you’re over here trying to earn your suffering badge of honor. It’s wild how fast that belief can settle into your bones.

The people who shape you, for better or worse

Justin talked about teachers who didn’t help him grow. I’ve had a few of those. A bad teacher doesn’t just give bad notes. Sometimes they don’t even give you any notes at all.

And that silence can mess with you. You start filling in the blanks yourself, and the blanks are never kind. You start thinking, well, if they’re not saying anything, maybe I’m not worth saying anything about. Maybe I’m not worth the time. It’s strange how quickly you can internalize that. One vague comment from someone who barely knows you and suddenly you’re rewriting your whole creative identity around it.

Justin didn’t have some big Hollywood breakthrough where everything suddenly made sense. He started a podcast. He talked to people. He connected. He learned how to show up in a room without shrinking. He learned how to breathe when everything felt like it was falling apart.

That’s actually one of the things I really felt a kinship with. When I started my podcast and YouTube channel, I wanted it to be all me. But I found out that I couldn’t do it all alone. I got burned out and finding others like me, talking through their experiences, both the successes and failures, really helped me learn and grow and keep the dream alive.

And somewhere in all of that, you start realizing that the thing you thought you had to protect yourself from, the world, the industry, the rejection, whatever it is, isn’t actually the thing that breaks you. It’s the isolation. It’s the silence. It’s the belief that you have to figure it all out alone. Justin talked about how podcasting forced him to meet people. Forced him to talk. Forced him to be a human being again instead of a walking ball of ambition and anxiety. I get that more than I want to admit.

And that’s the thing I keep circling back to. He didn’t get better by hurting more. He got better by learning who he was and what he needed to stay in the game. He got better by being consistent. By being curious. By letting himself grow instead of collapse.

Where this leaves me

You need to survive long enough to make it. And survival looks a lot less dramatic than we pretend. It looks like stability. Let the dream be a dream again, not a dare. Letting it breathe a little. Do meditation if that helps. Find a tribe of like-minded friends to commiserate over and bolster with.

The dream doesn’t have to be this giant, fiery thing that consumes your whole life. It can be something you tend to little by little.

I used to watch a show called the Red Green Show. At the end of it, he always said, “I’m pulling for ya. We’re all in this together.”

Wise words.

And maybe that’s the real point here. Maybe the thing that keeps creatives broke isn’t the industry or the competition or the lack of opportunities. Maybe it’s the belief that we have to do it alone.

Maybe because I saw pieces of myself in Jeff Kikel’s story, or maybe because it reminded me how fragile the whole idea of “security” really is, but I felt an immediate kinship to this entrepreneur.

Luckily I never went through the same demoralizing treatment he received.

The Novelist Who Ended Up in Finance

Jeff told me he wanted to be a novelist when he was young. Not a financial planner (I was the opposite). He said, “I wanted to write novels. I thought I was going to be the next Hemingway.” And I could picture that version of him, probably with a stack of books on his nightstand and some half formed idea about what a writer’s life might look like.

Then life did what life does. It nudged him sideways. He drifted into advertising. Then into finance. Not because he planned it, but because the bills showed up first. But isn’t that how life goes?

Seven Tries and One Brutal Review

A lot of us who’ve started businesses have failed with at least one of them. He burned through seven of them. I’ve been there. Its hared when a business is threatening your very ability to pay for life’s necessities.

There’s one story though that I couldn’t help laughing at, though it was no laughing matter at the time. It was about this one performance review he experienced. It was the thing that actaully got him started on the path he’s on now.

His boss looked him in the eye and said, “You are the worst employee we’ve ever had.”

I had to laugh for a second because the way Jeff tells it, he wasn’t even surprised. He knew he didn’t fit the mold. He was too independent. Too willing to just go do things without asking permission. The exact traits that make someone a creator were the traits that made him a terrible employee.

Jumping Without a Net

He quit without a plan or parachute. Just a man who finally realized he couldn’t keep trying to fit into a system that didn’t want what he naturally brought to the table.

And the next few years were rough. He told me they almost lost their house. They burned through retirement savings. They lived in that tight, breathless space where you’re not sure if you’re building something or destroying everything.

But he didn’t go back. That part matters. He could have. He had the resume. He had the experience. But once you see the truth, it’s hard to unsee it. A job can fire you faster than you can save yourself.

A Bucket List in the Middle of Nowhere

Later in his journey, he ended up at a resort in California for a work event. Alone. No distractions. Just time. They handed him a bucket list journal. He didn’t plan to use it. But he did. And what came out surprised him.

He didn’t write down yachts or mansions. He wrote down experiences. Things that moved or flew or floated. A Lamborghini at the F1 track. A WWII bomber flight. A speedboat straight out of Miami Vice.

And he realized most of them cost about five hundred dollars. That number became a turning point. He asked himself, “What can I do to create five hundred dollars a month?”

The Five Hundred Dollar Shift

Jeff decided he would generate five hundred dollars a month and use it to check off one bucket list item every month for a year. Twelve months. Twelve experiences. Twelve reminders that he could create income on demand.

That year rewired him. It taught him something he didn’t learn in finance. Something he didn’t learn in corporate life. Something he didn’t learn in any of those seven failed businesses.

He learned how to make money. Not earn it. That skill became the foundation of his Freedom Day.

Where This Lands for Me

Talking with Jeff reminded me of something I keep relearning in my own life. The moment you stop trying to fit into a system that was never built for you is the moment you start building something real.

It doesn’t happen all at once. It doesn’t feel clean or cinematic. It feels like late nights and doubt and tiny sparks of clarity that show up when you least expect them.

Freedom doesn’t start with a giant leap. It starts with a small number that suddenly makes sense. Five hundred dollars. One experiment. One moment where you decide to create instead of wait.

Learn more about how Jeff’s Freedom Day Method can help you at: http://www.freedomdaymethod.com/

Check out the whole podcast at: https://brentxp.podbean.com/e/lightminded-arts-29-the-job-that-couldn-t-save-him-jeff-kikel/?token=d69449df8cdb4e31217ff1c888498ee1

And as always, if you want to support me and this channel, just check out my books and leave a review. 

I thought we’d talk about wizard schools and worldbuilding and maybe a little about Neil Gaiman sprinkled in for flavor. Instead, I walked away thinking about the one belief that I’ve been a proponent of over the last couple of years, but which Ryan challenged for me today.

It starts with a phrase we’ve all heard since we were kids.
Follow your dreams.

I used to love that line. It felt warm. Encouraging. Like a permission slip to go be the wild creative I always wanted to be. But when I asked Ryan about the worst advice he ever received, he didn’t even blink. He said it immediately. And then he explained why.

The Dream That Doesn’t Match Reality

Ryan grew up wanting to be everything. A zookeeper. A paleontologist. An astronaut. A Lego designer. Basically the entire cast of a children’s museum. And none of those dreams turned into the life he has now. He didn’t grow up thinking he’d be a teacher or a novelist. Those were accidental doors he walked through because life nudged him that way.

The dream you imagine is never the reality you get. Not even close. And if you cling to that one dream too tightly, you end up trying to force the world to match something that only ever existed in your head.

I’ve done that. I think most creatives have. You build this perfect picture of what your creative life is supposed to look like, and then you punish yourself when the real thing doesn’t line up. It’s wild how quickly a dream can turn into a cage.

When the Dream Starts Taking Instead of Giving

Ryan tried the full time artist life. Blacksmithing. Sculpting. Armor work. Costuming. The whole creative hustle. And he could do the work. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was everything around the work. The business. The sales. The pressure to say yes to every job because rent depended on it.

He told me it drained the joy right out of him. I could hear it in his voice. That quiet exhaustion creatives get when the thing they love starts feeling like a weight instead of a spark.

I’ve been there too. When your art becomes the thing that keeps the lights on, it stops being art. It becomes survival. And survival has a way of squeezing the magic out of everything.

The Year That Would Have Broken Anyone

And then he told me about the year everything fell apart. His father died. His grandmother died. His relationship ended. He was broke, working three jobs, and it was only March. I just sat there listening, feeling the heaviness of it.

He said it shut down his creativity for years. Not weeks. Not months. Years. And I get that. When life hits that hard, the creative part of you goes quiet.

The Pivot That Saved Him

What surprised me was what brought him back. It wasn’t doubling down on the dream. It wasn’t pushing harder. It wasn’t some dramatic comeback montage. It was teaching. A job he didn’t plan on. A job that gave him something he’d never had before. Stability.

A routine that didn’t drain him. A life that didn’t depend on his art to survive. And slowly, almost quietly, the creativity returned. Not because he forced it, but because he finally had room to breathe.

That part hit me. Stability fuels creativity. Chaos kills it. We don’t like admitting that because it feels unromantic. But it’s true.

Letting the Dream Evolve

Ryan said something near the end that I’ve been thinking about ever since. Have multiple dreams. Be willing to pivot. It sounds simple, but it’s not. It requires letting go of the version of yourself you thought you were supposed to become. It requires trusting that the creative life is bigger than any single dream.

And maybe that’s the real point. The dream isn’t the destination. It’s the fuel. It gets you moving, but it isn’t meant to trap you in one direction forever.

I think about that a lot. How many times I’ve held onto a dream long after it stopped fitting. How many times I’ve tried to force myself into a version of my creative life that didn’t match who I was becoming.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion here. I’m still sitting with it. Maybe the creative life isn’t about chasing one dream. Maybe it’s about building a life that can hold many. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s more than enough.

Learn More about Ryan AKA R.A. Consell at: https://stealingfromwizards.com/

For the full interview and more inspiration, check out the Light-Minded Arts podcast! https://brentxp.podbean.com/e/lightminded-arts-28-when-the-dream-stops-working/?token=2a842fa3881b762957fe704af9f36f34

Don’t forget to support me by buying and reviewing my books.

I’ve been thinking about this conversation ever since we wrapped it. When James Rollins joined me for LightMinded Arts, I didn’t want another surface‑level chat about craft or his characters. I wanted to dig into the part most people skip, the emotional and financial cost of living a creative life. What it actually takes to stay in the game once the dream starts paying the bills.

The Introvert Who Learned to Perform

Before he was a novelist, Rollins spent fifteen years as a veterinarian. He told me he chose that path because he liked animals more than people. I laughed, but he meant it (I totally understand this sentiment). Even then, he learned that success meant connecting with humans. “You’re half veterinarian, half psychologist,” he said. “You have to figure out who’s across that exam table.”

That skill carried into his writing career. He calls himself an introvert who learned to perform. “An extrovert leaves the stage energized,” he said. “An introvert gives everything out. We leave exhausted.” After forty‑five book tours, he’s mastered the act, but the cost never disappears. He can do it comfortably now, but it still drains him.

It reminded me how success doesn’t erase discomfort. It just teaches you how to manage it.

Building a Creative Life That Pays

Rollins didn’t leap blindly into writing. He built a bridge. While running his clinic, he joined a Sacramento writing group, submitting short stories and learning the craft piece by piece. “That critique group was my support system,” he said. “It gave me deadlines, feedback, and people who understood what I was trying to do.”

He wrote three double‑spaced pages a day, five days a week. Manageable. Sustainable. When his first book sold for a $25,000 advance, he didn’t quit his day job. He sold his clinic gradually, using the proceeds as a safety net while his royalties grew. “It was incremental,” he said. “I didn’t jump. I built a runway.”

That runway gave him freedom to write more, not less. It’s a model worth paying attention to. Stability isn’t the enemy of art. It’s the foundation.

The Business Behind the Books

Rollins has watched publishing evolve from snail‑mail queries to TikTok discovery. “Publishers now look for traction,” he said. “They’re watching who’s successful online.”

He’s also clear about marketing. “People don’t care about the book you’re promoting. They want to get to know you,” he said. “If I can sell myself, my books will sell.”

That line stuck with me. The creative hustle isn’t about shouting louder. It’s about showing up as yourself. He learned that lesson the hard way when his editor once told him Facebook was a flash in the pan. “That was the worst advice I ever got,” he said, laughing.

The Fear That Never Fully Leaves

Even after decades of success, Rollins admits the insecurity never disappears. He still keeps his veterinary license active, volunteering one Sunday a month to spay and neuter feral cats. “It’s not that I think I’ll need it,” he said, “but it’s a reminder that I can always fall back if everything collapses.”

The fear doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. “For the first five or six years after I sold my clinic, I was nervous,” he said. “Now, I’ve got enough nest eggs. But the uncertainty never fully goes away.”

I think that’s the part most creatives never talk about. The quiet fear that keeps you grounded. The one that whispers, don’t get too comfortable.

Where It Leaves Us

Rollins’ story isn’t about luck. It’s about structure, patience, and self‑awareness. He didn’t chase the dream recklessly. He engineered it. He built systems that protected his energy, his finances, and his identity.

Listening to him made me rethink what “making it” really means. Maybe it’s not about escaping fear or discomfort. Maybe it’s about learning to live with them and still create anyway.

That’s the hidden cost of creativity. You pay with energy, time, and vulnerability. But if you build the right foundation, you get to keep creating long after the fear stops feeling new.

Don’t forget to check out Jim’s latest books: https://jamesrollins.com/

Catch the whole interview on my podcast at: https://brentxp.podbean.com/e/lightminded-arts-27-financial-fallbacks-even-the-pros-have-them-with-james-rollins/?token=c1d0f9dcbce7bec1366d9dbe933461b8

If you like this content and want more, please visit my website and support me by purchasing and reviewing my books.

Some people build their lives like spreadsheets, color‑coded and laminated. Others sell their house, throw everything in storage, and fly to Sweden for a job they’re not qualified for because something deep inside says, “Go.” Sabine Hutchison is definitely the second kind.

And maybe that’s why her story stuck with me. It isn’t about luck or chaos. It’s about that moment every creative hits, the one where you have to decide whether to stay safe or choose yourself.

Listening to the Gut

When Sabine told me she packed up her life and flew to Sweden to work for David Copperfield, I laughed at first. It sounded wild.

We love to overthink. We spreadsheet our dreams until they stop breathing. I do this all the time. But Sabine reminded me that instincts aren’t mystical. They’re practical. They’re the part of you that knows the truth before your brain catches up.

She didn’t have a plan or a safety net. She had a moment. A choice. Stay safe or step into the unknown. And she moved. That one decision changed everything.

Creatives hit that crossroads constantly. Do I take the gig that scares me? Do I publish the thing that might flop? Do I move toward the life I want or stay in the one I know? Sabine’s answer was simple. Move. Even if you’re terrified. Especially if you’re terrified. Because staying still costs more than trying.

Reinvention as a Way of Life

Sabine’s career reads like a novel with too many plot twists to count. Chemistry. Hazardous waste. Touring with a magician. Moving to Germany for love. Starting at the bottom of a lab. Climbing into corporate leadership. Founding her own company. Writing a book. Building a global network for women.

Most of us panic if we change our Instagram bio twice in a year. Sabine changes her entire identity and keeps going. Her path proves that success doesn’t have to be straight. Creatives zigzag. We pivot. We burn things down and rebuild them better. We follow curiosity, not convention.

If your career looks like a tangled ball of yarn, you might be doing fine.

The Myth of Doing It Alone

We love the idea of the lone genius. The artist who disappears into the woods and comes back with a masterpiece. But Sabine’s story kills that myth in the best way.

When she moved to Germany, she had no network, no language, no credibility, no clue what she was doing. And she still built a career. She volunteered. She showed up. She asked for help. She built relationships on purpose — not in a slick networking‑event way, but in a “I want to contribute and learn” way.

Most creatives don’t need more talent. They need more people who know they exist. Visibility is a network effect. Opportunities flow through relationships. Money flows through people.

Trying to build a creative career without community is like running a marathon with one shoe.

The Power of Sponsors

Sabine made a distinction that stuck with me. Mentors give advice. Sponsors give access.

A mentor says, “Here’s how you could improve.” A sponsor says, “I told them to hire you.”

That difference matters. Creatives need people who say our names in rooms we’re not in. You don’t get those people by accident. You get them by showing up, contributing, and being someone worth betting on.

Story as Strategy

Sabine also talked about storytelling, not the kind we sell, but the kind we use to explain ourselves. Most creatives freeze when someone asks, “What’s your book about?” or “Why should I care?”

She keeps a notebook, her “Spotify playlist of herself,” full of wins, lessons, and moments worth remembering. Because when you practice your story, you can use it. And when you can use it, you can sell your art.

That hit me hard. If you can’t tell your story, no one else will either.

Pushing for Change

One moment in our conversation still makes me pause. Sabine told me about a female physician who was asked in a job interview, “Why are you so concerned about your salary? Doesn’t your husband earn enough?”

That was last year. Not decades ago.

It reminded me that the world doesn’t change just because the rules do. It changes because people push. Sabine pushes for women. You might push for artists. Someone else might push for indie creators or people who don’t fit the mold. The point is the same. Your voice matters, not just for your art but for the world you’re trying to build.

Where It Leaves Me

If I had to distill what Sabine taught me, it’s this. Creative careers are built on risk, connection, and story. Not talent or luck or waiting for permission.

She went from chemical disposal to touring with a magician to building a global network because she trusted her gut and kept reinventing herself.

And maybe that’s the takeaway for the rest of us. You don’t need a perfect plan. You just need to move.

Learn more about Sabine Hutchison: https://sabinehutchison.com/career-book/

Podcast: https://brentxp.podbean.com/e/lightminded-arts-26-reinvention-risk-and-the-lie-creatives-believe-wsabine-hutchison/?token=7cacdcc72656ef45c0c7f51dd89e9403

“I can’t keep living like this.”

When I sat down with dark romance author Bria Rose, that moment showed up in a way I didn’t expect. She didn’t describe it as a breakthrough or an awakening or a spiritual download. She called it her “villain era.”

Now, before you picture her swirling a cape and plotting revenge, let me clarify: she wasn’t talking about becoming a bad person. She was talking about finally stepping out of survival mode, the version of herself that was always hustling, always pleasing, always pushing through and stepping into the version that actually creates.

The Lie of the “Good Creative”

Most creatives are raised on a quiet little myth:
Be agreeable. Be grateful. Don’t rock the boat.

We’re taught to be the “good creative,” the one who says yes, who doesn’t ask for too much, who stays small so everyone else stays comfortable.

Bria grew up in the most literal version of that myth: Disney.
Her nursery was Disney. Her childhood was Disney. She even worked at Disney for seven years. She lived inside the brand of optimism, magic, and moral clarity.

But real creative life isn’t a theme park.
It’s messy.
It’s contradictory.
It’s full of moments where you have to choose between who you’ve been and who you’re becoming.

For Bria, that choice showed up the moment she realized she wasn’t living — she was surviving.

Survival Mode Is Not a Creative Strategy

When Bria talked about being in survival mode, she didn’t sugarcoat it:

“I was doing everything myself… super independent… always in that masculine, get-it-done energy.”

If you’ve ever tried to create while your nervous system is on fire, you know exactly what she means.
Survival mode feels productive, you’re always moving, always grinding, but it’s the kind of movement that keeps you in the same place.

You’re not building, you’re patching leaks. But there’s something even more to survival mode… Its expensive. I don’t just mean financially, but also emotionally, and creatively.

When you’re constantly bracing for impact, you don’t have the bandwidth to take risks, explore ideas, or follow the weird little impulses that lead to your best work.

You’re too busy trying not to drown.

The Snap — And Why It Matters

At some point, Bria hit the wall.
She told me:

“I’m probably the villain in somebody’s story… but I’m the hero of mine.”

That line stuck with me.

Because what she’s really saying is this:
There comes a moment when you stop performing the version of yourself other people expect, and start becoming the version that actually creates.

It’s not about being rebellious, or edgy, or “bad,”, its about allowing yourself to choose yourself. That choice can be uncomfortable, especially if you’ve been a people pleaser your whole life. It can even cost you relationships, expectations, and the illusion that you can make everyone happy.

But it gives you something you might desperately need: your voice.

The Creative Rebirth

Once Bria stepped out of survival mode, something wild happened.

The ideas didn’t trickle back, they flooded.

She wrote, experimented, and stopped apologizing for wanting a creative life that actually worked. She didn’t reinvent herself, really, rather she returned to herself, or at least the version of her that loved stories, that wanted to create worlds, and that wasn’t afraid to take up space.

That’s the real “villain era.”
Not darkness, clarity.

The Hidden Cost of Creative Dreams

People see Bria’s success, the special editions, the TV segment, the 30+ podcasts, the book deals, and assume it just… happened.

But behind the curtain?

It’s spreadsheets, cold emails, paying for editors, covers, marketing, and hoping the invoice doesn’t land the same week as rent. It’s sending 90 messages to subscription boxes and hearing back from maybe three.

Even something as simple as a book signing isn’t simple. You’re paying for travel, inventory, displays, and praying the bookstore doesn’t stick you in the corner behind the scented candles.

Creative dreams have a price tag. Not because the dream is flawed, but because the world doesn’t automatically make space for artists. We carve that space ourselves.

The Real Lesson in Bria’s Story

The point of Bria’s “villain era” isn’t that creatives should tap into their dark side. It’s that creatives need to stop shrinking.

They should stop apologizing, or waiting for permission. Stop trying to be the “good creative” who never asks for too much, because the truth is simple:

You can’t build a creative life while pretending you don’t want one.

Bria didn’t become a different person. She stopped hiding the person she already was.

If You’re a Creative Stuck in Survival Mode…

You don’t need a villain era, or to burn everything down. You especially don’t need to become someone else. You just need to stop treating your creative life like a side quest.

Make space for it. Protect it. Let it matter.

Because the moment you stop surviving and start creating, that’s the moment your real story begins.

If you’d like to learn more about Bria Rose, check out her website at:

https://authorbriarose.com

There are interviews that feel like interviews… and then there are interviews that feel like someone just handed you a flashlight and said, “Hey, you’ve been stumbling around in the dark—want to see where the walls actually are?”

My conversation with award-winning author Teri M. Brown was the second kind. And yes, I do plan on revisiting my conversation with her myself over the coming months to help me in my own efforts as an author! So Pay attention.

I brought her on Light-Minded Arts because she’s one of those rare creatives who has figured out both sides of the creative life: the soul-driven, character-obsessed writer and the business-savvy professional who actually sells books. Lots of them. Sustainably. Without losing her mind.

And honestly? I wanted to learn from her. I wanted other writers to learn from her. Because the struggling artist trap isn’t just about money—it’s about mindset, systems, and the courage to keep going even when your first attempts are “no good” (her words, not mine).

This blog is a breakdown of the biggest lessons she dropped—lessons that can help any creative stop flailing and start building something real.

1. Reinvention Isn’t a Luxury—It’s a Survival Skill

One of the first things Teri shared was her backstory. Everyone I’ve talked to has one, but hers gave her that motivation to keep going. I share this with you, only because it sets the frame for the marketing drive she created later.

She didn’t start writing novels until after escaping a 14-year emotionally abusive marriage. She’d been writing for small businesses, mostly practical, research-based nonfiction, but she’d never had the safety or confidence to write fiction.

Then she left.

And the words poured out.

Not perfect words. Not publishable words. But her words.

“My first manuscript was no good. My second manuscript was no good. But I wrote them.”

Because the struggling artist trap often begins with the belief that your early work must be brilliant. Teri’s early work wasn’t brilliant. It was practice. It was healing. It was the foundation for everything she’s built since.

Takeaway for creatives: Your first attempts aren’t supposed to be good. They’re supposed to get you to the next attempt.

2. Big, Bold Actions Change Your Identity

Teri and her new husband Bruce rode a tandem bicycle across the United States—from Oregon to Washington, D.C.

Let me repeat that: A woman who hadn’t been on a bike in 40 years rode across the entire country. And that experience rewired her brain.

“If I can do that, I can do anything I put my mind to.”

This wasn’t about fitness. It was about identity. She stopped seeing herself as someone who wanted to be an author and started seeing herself as someone capable of doing hard things.

Fourteen months later, her first novel was published.

Takeaway for creatives: Sometimes you need a big, unreasonable challenge to break the mental ceiling you’ve been living under. It doesn’t have to be a cross-country bike ride, but it has to be something that forces you to see yourself differently.

3. Writing the Book Is the Easy Part. Selling It Is the Job.

This is where I really got interested, because, I’m doing the writing, I’m publishing my books, but selling them is the hardest part.

When her first novel came out, she did what most new authors do:

She published it, and waited.

Nothing happened.

This is where many of us have been, and often still are. But Teri didn’t quit. She learned and built a system.

4. The Newsletter Is Your Lifeline (Not Optional)

Teri’s newsletter has 1,400 subscribers and a 70% open rate—numbers most authors would sacrifice a kidney for.

But she didn’t get there by accident.

She built it one person at a time:

• Every event she does includes a sign-up sheet. 
• Every craft fair. 
• Every library talk. 
• Every coffee shop appearance. 
• Every podcast interview. 

Did you catch that? Look at that list again. Are you doing these things? They might not sell a lot, and you might never break minimum wage, but there is something increadibly important about doing all these in-person events!

Its that list she gains, one person at a time. One PERSONAL connection at a time. And she emails them twice a month—consistently, for years.

One newsletter is book reviews (including mine, which was a fun surprise).
The other is updates, behind-the-scenes stories, personal notes, and engagement prompts.

She treats her readers like a community, not a sales funnel.

Takeaway for creatives: Do the little events as often as you can to build an email list. Then talk directly to your audience. If you don’t have an audience. All you have is hope. Hope doesn’t sell books.

5. Reviews Don’t Fall from the Sky—You Have to Ask

Teri has 511 reviews on Daughters of Green Mountain Gap and 238 on Sunflowers Beneath the Snow at the time of our interview.

These numbers matter. Amazon’s algorithm rewards books with reviews. Readers trust books with reviews. Reviews are the social proof that keeps a book alive.

But people don’t leave reviews naturally.

“They read your book, they liked your book, they told you they liked your book… and that’s the end of the story.”

So she asks. Repeatedly. Kindly. Strategically.

She includes review links in her newsletter.
She explains that reviews can be short.
She asks people in person.
She asks them to do it right now on their phones.

And it works.

Takeaway for creatives: If you’re not actively asking for reviews, you’re leaving your book to die quietly in the algorithmic wilderness.

6. In-Person Events Still Matter (Maybe More Than Ever)

We’ve already covered this a little, but it needs to be reiterated. Teri does:

• Library talks 
• Coffee shop events 
• Craft fairs 
• Local meet-the-author nights 
• Anything that gets her in front of real humans 

She doesn’t worry about turnout. If three people show up, that’s three new readers.

She also uses local Facebook groups to promote events—simple, free, effective. Often, all it takes, is calling up a place and asking. I’ve done this with book stores, and while those are good, you’re only getting passive visitors who need to be sold on you. Libraries and coffee shops often have email lists of their own that they use to advertise events. They do marketing for you, free, and so you already have an audience who came, just to see you talk.

Takeaway for creatives: Visibility isn’t just digital. If you want readers, go where readers physically are.

7. Paid Ads Can Work—But Only When the Foundation Is Solid

Teri didn’t touch paid ads until she already had:

• A strong newsletter 
• A consistent presence 
• Over 200 reviews
• A clear brand 
• A book that converts well 

Then she tried Facebook ads.

And they worked.

She tripled her investment. Her sales graph shot upward and stayed there. She sells about two books a day from that one campaign.

But she also shared a crucial insight:

“I’ve been told that if you don’t have at least 100 reviews, Facebook ads don’t work well.”

This tracks with what many marketers say: ads amplify what’s already working. They don’t fix what isn’t.

Takeaway for creatives: Ads are gasoline. They only help if your engine is already running.

8. Genre Isn’t a Prison—If Your Brand Is Clear

Often I’ve been worried that the common wisdom of “stick to one genre, or you’ll confuse your audience” was going to plague me, since I write what I want to write, and often in multiple genres, even blending them sometimes.

Teri wrote three historical fiction novels… and then wrote a modern, humorous contemporary novel. And her readers are excited for it.

Why?

Because she didn’t brand herself as a historical fiction author. She branded herself as a character-driven storyteller.

That’s the glue. That’s what readers follow. I’ve done something similar. Since I do write in multiple genres, I brand myself as a creator in the “clean fiction” space. My books aren’t squeaky clean, but they are for the most part PG or very mild PG-13, something most families are okay enjoying together.

Takeaway for creatives: Your genre can change. Your voice can’t. Build your brand around what makes your storytelling yours.

Final Thoughts: Teri’s Path Isn’t Magic—It’s Method

What struck me most about Teri is that nothing she does is mystical or unattainable.

She isn’t relying on luck or waiting for a viral moment. She isn’t hoping the universe notices her She’s building a career brick by brick:

• Write consistently 
• Show up in person 
• Build a newsletter 
• Engage your readers 
• Ask for reviews 
• Learn the business 
• Take bold risks 
• Keep going 

This is the opposite of the struggling artist trap. It’s the blueprint for escaping it.

And honestly? Talking to her made me rethink my own systems, my own habits, and the places where I’ve been relying on hope instead of structure.

If you’re a creative trying to build something sustainable, her example is a reminder that the path exists—and it’s walkable.

The only question is whether you’re willing to take the next step.

Check out Teri’s new book, Peg Unhinged today: https://www.amazon.com/Peg-Unhinged-Teri-M-Brown-ebook/dp/B0GTML786F/

Catch the whole podcast at: https://brentxp.podbean.com/e/no-one-is-coming-%e2%80%94-how-teri-m-brown-succeeded-in-marketing-her-creative-career/?token=3dc1a2ce83b5a72dd495c276b2555b60

Visit Teri M. Brown’s Website: https://www.terimbrown.com/