
“Short-term pain has more impact on most people than long-term benefits do.”
—Seth Godin
(Book: The Dip)
a space to think together—on creativity, attention, and work that matters.

“Short-term pain has more impact on most people than long-term benefits do.”
—Seth Godin
(Book: The Dip)

There are three types of briefings:
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.
When limitations unleash creative freedom.
The ideal client’s brief feels like a guardrail. It always keeps the creator heading towards the right direction while leaving enough space to switch lanes and try alternate approaches.
It’s the perfect mix of creative freedom and joint goal alignment.
One of the most idea-sparking projects I had as an illustrator was the creation of a movie key art. The briefing was super clear in terms of aesthetics and the key elements, while it outlined three specific approaches I could explore visually. Just the right amount of limitation and impulses to generate dozens of ideas without losing myself in the process.
When too-tight reins eliminate passion and potential.
A too-narrow briefing feels like moving on tracks. There’s no space for serendipity, alternate perspectives, or novelty—in short, there is zero risk involved.
It’s hard to explore the unknown on already paved roads.
This approach of apparently “playing it safe” reduces positive tension and excitement within the process—an ultimate novelty-killing mindset.
Usually, in these rigid collaborations, everyone involved just seems to look forward to arriving instead of moving.
When absence of guidance becomes a creative nightmare.
The worst briefing sounds like this: “You have absolute creative freedom.” It’s like leaving someone in the desert without a map or compass and asking them to find the oasis.
This might be ok for open-ended, budget-free collaborations, but the moment money and time pressure are involved, chaos is inevitable.
It’s not a sign of trust or confidence —it’s negligent.
A collaboration that agrees on this sole rule is based on laziness from both sides—the client and the creator. Providing services naturally comes with expectations on both sides.
If there are no expectations articulated, how do we ever know we meet them? And how could we ever quote that?
The creative mind is a pro at building missing puzzle pieces.
But it needs to know in which picture it should be implemented in the end.
If the briefing is not good at the moment, try to make it through honest communication.
If you manage to set the guardrails and the goal together—great.
If not, say thank you for the request and decline.

“Most people will change their desires, even their values, before they will change their behaviours.”
—Blair Enns
(Book: The Win Without Pitching Manifesto)

The blank page is never empty—it’s filled with doubts and fears.
You are not alone.
The fear of the blank page is real. Anyone who has ever tried to manifest their inner world—ideas, visions, perspectives—knows it does exist.
But where does it come from? Why is it so mighty that it can hinder so many ideas from blooming and enriching the world?
Because every imagination carries expectation.
The moment we bring it on paper, we start comparing our creation with that internal image or with other people’s work.
We expect it to look alike—and that’s a battle we can’t win.
To beat the blank page, we must learn to meet our expectations with kindness and flexibility.
Because…
The image on paper will never overlap exactly with the one in our mind.
Never.
That’s not failure. That’s the game.
And we can choose to enjoy it—despite waves of frustration and anxiety during the whole process.
Let go of expectations, and flow will follow.
Start ugly. But start.

“I hate Plan B.”
Arnold Schwarzenegger once said this in a speech, and it hit me hard in the stomach during a time of doubts and vagueness. I knew exactly what he meant.
His message is clear: If you have a goal—go all in. No safety net. No compromises.
Sounds inspiring. And risky.
Continue reading “Plan B & Plan b”
“Most people want to be somebody, but nobody wants to become somebody.”
—Apache 207
(Track: “Geblitzt” from the album “Gartenstadt” — original German phrase: “Die meisten woll’n was sein, doch niemand will etwas werden.”)

There is only one way to create:
take action.
The journey of a creative mind is paved with obstacles and enemies that try to stop us from drawing the first line of a painting, writing the first sentence of a novel, or sketching out an innovative product we have in mind.
So many great ideas never saw the light of day because of these enemies. And they have names: procrastination, imposter syndrome, creative block—all part of a bigger monstrosity called resistance.
“Resistance is like the Alien or the Terminator or the shark in Jaws. It cannot be reasoned with.”
—Steven Pressfield (The War of Art)
After living a creative life for more than two decades, I have one bad news and three good news.
These wicked creatures do exist, and most of them will never vanish completely.
Don’t just accept their presence—embrace it. Use it. They are part of the creative adventure and seeds of growth. Train yourself to face them in eager anticipation.
Trying to dodge them would be like playing Super Mario or Zelda in a world without enemies—no fun at all.
And again, there is one single solution to beat them all: take action.
You’ll see that most of these enemies crumble the moment the pen tip hits the canvas.
And the best part is: the effort can be incredibly small.
Whenever I receive a new commission for an illustration project, I feel their presence. Procrastination will immediately try to convince me that cleaning the dishes is suddenly the most important thing.
Creative enemies will never go away—but you decide how to treat them.
Don’t allow them to breathe.
Next time you feel stuck, just do something—no matter how small. Create a folder structure on your computer. Draw the first sketch in seconds. Jot down your immediate thoughts.
The moment you make, you are already in the middle of the process.

Analog makes process tangible.
Digital makes it invisible.
A growing pile of drawings or filled notebooks becomes a physical trail—a reminder that we showed up.
In times of creative blocks and doubts this tangible proof serves in two ways:
When process casts shadows we realize the shape of our effort.

“Art suffers the moment other people pay for it.”
—Hugh MacLeod
(Book: Ignore Everybody: And 39 Other Keys to Creativity)

Sometimes I’m hired for my service. Sometimes for my expertise.
Here’s the difference:
When we offer services, we don’t just get paid by our clients for our work and solutions to their problems.
We are mainly getting paid for reliability. In a competitive market, this is our most important selling point.
Providing a service demands a certain level of availability and flexibility—these are parts of reliability.
No masterpiece serves the client if it’s not delivered on time, and if the client feels that they cannot rely on us, we will be replaced sooner or later.
When I started offering my illustration service, I was aware that ad agencies work fast and on short notice and that magazines have strict deadlines. These are mostly non-negotiable conditions.
It’s my job to align my schedule around the client’s schedule. Not the other way around.
Accepting these conditions is not only mandatory. More than that, we have to find joy in meeting expectations. Making collaboration as smooth and pleasant as possible for all parties should be taken as a personal matter.
Things change as soon as we get hired as super-specific experts.
We’ll become these experts when we invest significantly more time and effort in a chosen subject than others. We gain a unique perspective through experiences and knowledge.
Experts are hardly outperformed by the competition. Someone who is easily replaceable is most likely not an expert.
When I am invited by companies and universities to give talks and share my experience about creativity or how to establish a freelance business, for instance, I am not the service provider anymore. Then, I’m the expert.
The expert is treated and compensated differently because the expert provides unique and precious knowledge in a specific field.
The expert is asked for availability because expertise will always be demanded and appreciated in any field.

I’ve changed my mind about AI.
A few months ago, I read the statement: “AI is eating the world.”
Immediately, I had this image in my head—a robotic spider weaving a web around its prey, our world as we know it.
I don’t know why it popped up so quickly. Maybe because I was outside with my son that day, searching for insects. Maybe because of my lifelong fascination with spiders, which started with my first horror movie, Tarantula.
However, the real question I asked myself was:
Do I actually agree with this statement?
Short answer: no.
Continue reading “Is AI Eating the World?”
Our attention is a resource.
It drains throughout the day.
The question is:
How do we want to spend it?
If we reach for noise and distraction first thing in the morning, we’ve already wasted our best energy.
Attention is valuable because it’s limited. And recognizing that helps us prioritize.
Let’s choose to invest it where it counts.
Over-analyzing does exist. It’s when we go through our work again and again instead of taking action. When we go through all the possible consequences in our heads and find new reasons not to take that final step. It’s easier to chew on our dreams than to put them out there for the world to see.
Before I finally published my first website, my illustration portfolio, in 2016, years passed. One more project. Another typographic change there. Once more adjustment in the navigation menu. It didn’t want to end. And yet the site was already ready to go. Or maybe not?
Despite all the frustration, I always notice that constant revising and adapting are also advantageous: What I’m working on simply improves. In the phase that could be understood as over-analyzing, I feel like a sculptor who has put the rough tool aside and now has the fine tool in his hands.
And finally comes the point where there is nothing left to do. Where I realize that any further change won’t make any difference. And when that happens, then … then I go through everything again. In the process, I eventually hit a wall. Not a hard one. It is as soft as butter. It’s a wall of confidence. And when this happens, there is no way back.
Sometimes I wish I would do things more impulsively and faster. Not procrastinating, not thinking, not investing more time. But I also learned not to demonize over-analyzing and maybe even procrastination. Leonardo da Vinci’s words have helped me with this. Perhaps they’ll help you to deal with that guilty conscience the next time you procrastinate:
“Creativity sometimes requires going slowly, pausing, even procrastinating. That allows ideas to marinate.”
Leonardo da Vinci
A confident and decisive “no” can open many new doors for us. The more established and professional a freelancer becomes, the more a “no” becomes his daily tool in negotiations, briefings, or when an aunt’s acquaintance needs a logo for her flower store.
But let’s not use “no” lightly, just because we don’t feel like working at the moment or the client’s request doesn’t particularly appeal to us. Let us refuse if we have a good reason and if we invest the gained time in our personal development.
If we would use it to turn on the Playstation or Netflix, let’s negotiate until both sides have a good feeling and then get to work. Because every project is one more experience. No matter what it looks like in the end.
That is true in interpersonal relationships, but we can also adapt this in creative work. There is work where we forget everything around us, time, eating, sleeping – that’s what we call passion. We love what we do. For me, it’s drawing or playing soccer.
Between 2007 and 2013, I created hundreds of t-shirt graphics for fashion brands. I loved drawing and painting themes. Collages and photographic pieces I worked off relatively unemotionally. I was indifferent to them. On the other hand, I tried to dodge the task of designing typographic prints whenever I could. The development of statements, “catchy” wordings, as well as the design of the typeface was always incredibly awkward and tedious for me. It was like trying to fold up a gigantic road map. In short: I hated it.
But it turned out that, despite my frustration, I was able to create bestsellers. The aversion was constant, while the quality was increasing.
So just because we hate doing something, it doesn’t mean we’re not good at it. Quite the opposite. Our very dislike can bring a more sensitive view of things. It’s worth a try.