Sketch writing is a crash course in clarity, precision, and impact. In a sketch, every word counts. Every line of dialogue needs to drive the story forward, reveal something about the characters, or set up the next laugh. There is no room for fluff. That discipline taught me to think critically about what I wanted to say and how to say it as efficiently as possible.

When I was a kid, I wrote a book about myself as a grown-up art dealer. I lived in Manhattan, drove a Porsche, and wore a suit. Not a cartoon suit, an Armani one. (I didn’t know what Armani was, but the name sounded like something someone important would whisper behind velvet ropes.) I have no idea where this idea came from.

In the profession of writing, success stories often seem to follow a similar arc, drafts, rejection slips, and finally, publication. This pattern has led to the belief that failure is a crucial part of the journey to becoming a successful writer. But is that really the case? The truth may be a little more complex than the popular “fail to succeed” advice suggests.

If you don’t think content creation is art, you’re either not paying attention or you’re still living in 1995, clinging to the idea that "art" requires an easel, a chisel, or a degree in French Impressionism.

Most people want their writing to be good, tight, polished, perfect. They tweak sentences, delete entire paragraphs, and stare at the blinking cursor waiting for divine intervention. The result? A lot of wasted time and, more often than not, no writing at all. Perfectionism isn’t a high standard. It’s self-sabotage.

As a writer, I used to think discomfort meant I was doing something wrong. If a scene made me squirm or hesitate, I’d backpedal. I’d edit out the awkward line, rewrite the confrontation, dodge the risky choice. I didn’t want to “get it wrong.” I wanted it to flow. I wanted it to feel easy. But characters don’t grow in ease. They grow in unease.