The Lie of Readiness & The Fire of Real Creation
Why Potential is a Trap, Perfection is an Illusion, and True Creativity Demands Letting Go
This weekend I had the pleasure of working with a couple of creatives trying to bring a project into the world. They’re brilliant. They’re talented. They were full of ideas and know-how.
And they also were totally paralyzed.
They believed that having talent, ideas, and knowledge meant they were already halfway there, when in truth, those things were just the tools—not the creation itself.
It’s so easy to build an entire cathedral of preparation but be afraid to lay the first stone.
It’s something I see all the time—the way people stockpile the necessary resources, the knowledge, the credentials, the networks, believing that if they just gather enough of them, the path forward will reveal itself. That readiness is something you can hoard like supplies for a long journey, and that once you have enough, movement will simply happen. But what most of us don’t realize until it’s too late—is that the stockpiling itself becomes the obstacle.
The deeply held idea that more preparation, more perfection, more certainty is needed, becomes the thing that keeps them from ever stepping forward.
And so they sit there, these two artists, with everything they need spread out in front of them. But instead of beginning, they spin. They loop through the same questions, the same doubts, the same cycle of second-guessing, because they’ve made the mistake of believing that the right materials are what create momentum. That success is a straight line from point A to point B, and all they need is the perfect map.
But there is no map. There never was. And the worst thing they can do is sit there waiting for one to appear.
Because at some point, you have to make peace with the fact that talent alone isn’t the thing that will save you. Knowledge isn’t the thing that will save you.
Being right, getting it right—none of it will deliver you from the necessity of beginning before you feel ready.
Because no one is ever ready. No one has ever actually known, beyond all doubt, that what they are making will work.
The difference between the ones who make something real and the ones who remain trapped in the dream of it is not a matter of talent or intelligence or even luck. It’s the willingness to move before certainty arrives. To stop hoarding readiness like a currency. To understand that all of these assets—the vision, the skill, the relationships—are not the thing itself. They are only ingredients, and until you are willing to light the fire and start, they are nothing more than potential.
And potential, if you’re not careful, can become its own kind of purgatory.
My father knew me like a man knows secondhand facts told to him over supper, nodding along. My mother fed him the details—how I sang well enough for choir, how I pulled off an A in history, how I had a knack for words. These were the bullet points of my existence, proof of some yet-untapped well of usefulness. And when I did something worth mentioning, my father would say the thing I dreaded most, more than silence, more than punishment, more than anything:
"You've got so much potential."
Because it meant he didn’t want me. Not really. He wanted the version of me that had been chiseled down into something presentable, something palatable. He wanted the boy I might become, the man who would make sense to him, someone polished and pointed in the right direction. He wanted me as a finished product, not as the mess of longing and half-formed thoughts that I was.
You’ve felt it too, maybe. The seduction of the future. The bribe of potential. That ache to be something more, something worthy. The unspoken promise that if you could just be better, just be different, then they would love you properly. Not as you are, but as they wish you to be. Surely you know what I mean.
Wear these clothes.
Fit in.
Cut your damn hair.
Look how nice you clean up.
Act this way, just so.
Speak with more confidence.
Have you thought about law school?
If only you liked—if only you tried—why don’t you?
Wouldn’t you, for me?
And in all of it, they missed you.
They missed the crooked lines of your thinking, the way you could stand in a room and feel the wind change before anyone else noticed. They missed the pull, the fire, the way words and images burned in you like a fever, restless and aching to get out.
They missed the fact that creation isn’t about potential—it’s about necessity. About hunger.
They wanted you disciplined. Contained. Poured into a mold. But you knew, even then, that anything worth making—anything worth being—comes from the place they wanted to snuff out.
They missed you.
And maybe you almost missed yourself too.
We spend a lifetime trying to get it right.
Learn the right lessons. Belong to the right group. Follow the correct sequence of steps as if life is some long, intricate dance that, if done properly, will guarantee a room full of applause at the end. We believe in this, even when we pretend we don’t.
That talent is the natural reward of discipline.
That creativity follows hard work.
That success—whatever version of it we’ve bought into—is earned by those who say the right things at the right time to the right people.
And so we practice. We measure. We look sideways to make sure we’re keeping pace. We polish up our words, our work, our faces so they will be seen by the gatekeepers in the way we hope to be seen. Some of us hold ourselves back until the moment feels perfect, which, of course, it never does. Others forge ahead, bullish, convinced that our persistence alone will turn the key. But always, always, there is the suspicion—just under the surface—that we are missing something vital, that someone else has found the secret and is keeping it to themselves.
Because the truth is, we were taught that life is a prize for the deserving, that creativity is the result of aligning ourselves with the proper tradition, that success is bestowed upon those who play the game correctly. And we believe it because, for a while, it seems to work.
Until it doesn’t.
Until we watch a man who has spent his whole life gripping the wheel find himself lost anyway. Until we see a brilliant artist fade into obscurity while a hack on social media becomes a legend.
Until we meet someone who walked into the world without asking permission, without following a single goddamn rule, and somehow, impossibly, they are free.
And that’s when the suspicion turns into something else. A slow, creeping awareness that maybe we were never meant to get it right. That maybe the pursuit of "right" was just a trick of the light, an illusion meant to keep us moving toward a future that doesn’t exist.
Maybe we deserve as much of life as we can take with our two hands and make our own. Maybe creativity is what’s left after the ego finally shuts up. And maybe success—if it’s anything worth having—isn’t given or earned, but simply stumbled into, the way you stumble into love, or grace, or the realization that you don’t have to spend another second trying to be anything other than what you already are.
In the most recent episode of The Creators Podcast, I talk about the dark force behind all creativity—The Duende. While its origins come from Spanish folklore, —it’s true in the way all folklore is true, not because it’s fact, but because it clings to the bones, in the blood, in the spaces between breath and silence.
Duende isn’t a concept you can diagram neatly or explain in a classroom. It’s a force, a presence. The dark twin of The Muse of inspiration. The thing that grabs you by the throat at night and shakes you awake.
In this most recent episode I talk about how Duende isn’t about talent or discipline or the polite refinements of craft. It’s about depth. About risk. About the part of you that’s willing to be lost in order to find something real. It’s about shattering the container and pouring out the content through jagged edges.
Lorca, who this podcast focusses on and the poet who named it best, said Duende rises from the wound, from the places where blood is closest to the surface. It doesn’t come when things are easy. It comes when you are wrecked, when you have nothing left but the need to say something true. It is not beauty; it is the shadow behind beauty. Not mastery, but completely letting go.
And that’s why it terrifies people.
Because Duende—real creativity— doesn’t ask you to be good. It doesn’t ask you to be your best self. It drags you down to where the ground gives way, where you can’t trust your footing, where there is nothing to hold onto but the thing inside you that is ancient and unshakable.
When I was younger, I didn’t have a name for it. I only knew that the best things I ever wrote, the ones that felt like they were alive when I read them back, didn’t come from effort or intellect but from something darker, something I didn’t entirely trust. The moments when I let myself fall in, let myself be taken under.
Not potential. Not polish. Not discipline.
But Duende. The force that tears you open so something real can come through.
This weekend, I watched it happen.
These two creatives, brilliant and capable, sitting there with everything they needed spread out in front of them, still waiting for the moment they would feel ready. But as we said, readiness is a lie. It’s a trick of the mind, postponing the real work. And once they saw it—once they understood that all their preparation, all their second-guessing, all their stockpiling of ideas and strategies was just a more sophisticated way of avoiding the plunge—they finally let go.
And that’s when it came.
Not the neat, well-mannered creativity they had been trying to summon—the one that behaves, that plays by the rules, that asks for permission before speaking. No, what showed up was wild. It had teeth. It moved in the dark corners of the room, waiting for them to stop trying to control it.
And when they did, something beautiful and true cracked open.
There was no more careful strategizing. No more waiting for the moment they’d feel safe enough to begin. There was only the work emerging not from effort but from necessity.
I saw it on their faces—the shift from fear to fire. The realization that this was what they had been looking for all along. Not mastery. Not approval. Not perfection.
Duende.
The dark river. The wild current. The thing that has teeth and claws and leaves marks. The holy unrest. The blood deep knowing…. The release of everything you tried to be in order to get it right—and the embodying of everything that was already there, aching to be set free.
The crack in the ice. The moment when the ground gives way beneath you, and instead of falling, you dive—headlong, unafraid, into the thing that has been calling you.
No map. No permission. No certainty.
Only this. The force that does not ask—it demands. The fire that does not warm—it consumes.
And in that moment, when you stop trying to shape it, when you let go of the need to control, to perfect, to be good—
That is when it finally takes hold.
That is when the real work begins.
And that’s the only thing worth chasing.
Not potential.
Just this: The imperfect, undeniable thing that wants to be made.
The real creative act of letting go.
In the coming weeks, I am opening up enrollment for my exclusive 1x1 Mentorship—a transformative container for both men and women who are ready to break through creative blocks and step into their fullest creative expression.
This mentorship is for those who feel the pull toward something greater—whether it’s a long-dormant artistic vision, a book waiting to be written, a podcast waiting to be heard, a love that needs to be pursued, or a bold idea that refuses to stay quiet.
It is for those who are ready to move beyond hesitation, doubt, and cycles of starting and stopping, and instead step fully into the work they are meant to create.
I have had the honor of working with directors of Fortune 500 companies, professional athletes, professors at major institutions, psychologists, bestselling authors, and social media mavens—individuals at the top of their fields who knew they had more to give, more to create, and more to express. I’ve also worked with every day individuals who were knew they had a spark they wanted to set on fire. People desperate for change—to make spirit into flesh, and change their world. Across industries, lifestyles and disciplines , the common thread remains the same: the longing to break free from stagnation and unlock something powerful, and undeniable.
This is deep, personal, intuitive work. My approach is not a formula or a one-size-fits-all strategy—it is an individualized journey designed to excavate your unique creative voice, dissolve resistance, and push you into the flow that has been waiting for you all along. It is a highly charged container with me by your side, as you excavate your own inner world, and creative spark.
If you feel the call—if something in you is stirring—Let’s step into the work together.
I am only accepting 3 individuals for Spring Enrollment.
This is NOT for everyone.
But for those who boldly want this opportunity, it could be the game changer you’re looking for.
Your breakthrough is waiting. Now’s your shot.
But hye—if full mentorship isn’t what you need right now—if you’re not looking for an overhaul but just a tune-up, have you considered The Creators Collective?
I designed this membership to remove the barriers between you and your creative work—whether that’s doubt, hesitation, or the belief that you need to be more ready before you begin.
Inside The Creators Collective, you get:
Exclusive LIVE classes every month, diving deep into creative mastery.
Instant access to 40+ hours of past teachings and countless prompts to unlock your flow.
A powerful community of fellow creators—people doing the work, making the leap, and showing up fully.
AND MUCH MORE
This isn’t just a membership—it’s a catalyst. A space to ignite your passion, unlock your purpose, and create the work that’s calling you.
Ready to step in? Let’s go.
Thank you so much for being a friend of the work I do in the world. Your readership, your support, and your presence in this creative space mean everything to me. Whether you’ve been following my work for years or you’re just stepping into this world, know that I see you—and I’m grateful for you.
Rainier