Durability is the real creative advantage

I hold a clear image in my head of the future I want: I’m 70-something, sitting at my desk before dawn, working on my best ideas.

In that vision, I haven’t stopped. I’ve become a master.

But last week, after spending an afternoon optimising my calendar, I realised I wouldn’t even make it to 40 at the rate I was going.

I had colour-coded time blocks alongside pomodoro timers. Squeezing output from every gap in the day. It feels efficient. It leaves no room to breathe.

Push productivity far enough and it stops sharpening.

It starts sanding down the edges. You stop feeling original.

The problem wasn’t effort. It was the metric. I didn’t have a clear definition of success, so I defaulted to the loudest one: output.

But success depends on what you’re trying to build.

In business, success is measured by profit: the money left over after expenses. But in a creative life, the costs are different.

You pay with your sleep, focus and attention.

And if you burn through all of that generating output, what is left to sustain the work?

Creative profit isn’t about income. It’s about durability.

Creative Profit = (Energy + Clarity) - (Daily Output)

It’s what remains after the work is done—the clarity, energy and desire to return again tomorrow.

More time doing nothing

The world’s most famous violins, made by Antonio Stradivari, sound incredible in part because of the “seasoned” wood.

Because of a mini ice age at the time, the trees grew very slowly. This created narrow, dense rings in the tree that were incredibly strong.

The wood was left to season in the air and mineral baths before it was ever carved. If dried too quickly, it would crack under the 50 pounds of pressure of the strings.

Because of this slow, laborious process, the wood became strong enough to handle the tension and vibration for centuries.

It wasn’t prepared to perform. It was prepared to endure.

The wood just sat. It became strong. Stable. Dependable.

In a sense, the quality of a Stradivarius comes from how much “nothing” the wood did before the first note was ever played.

Creative profit works the same way. Durability is built in silence.

Staying in the game

A long time horizon only matters if you preserve the energy required to stay in the game.

Simon Sinek describes the idea of the Infinite Game—where the goal isn’t to win, but to keep playing for as long as possible.

But you cannot keep playing if you burn out from forcing yourself to be productive.

Look at the artist Hokusai. You’ve likely seen his work, The Great Wave, one of the most famous paintings in history.

Even though he was a legend, he claimed that nothing he made before 70 was any good. He believed he wouldn’t understand art until he was 90, and that his work wouldn’t come to life until he was 110.

He saw it as a 100-year apprenticeship.

If I view my current work as practice for the masterpiece I’ll create at 70, the daily noise shrinks.

The real question isn’t how much I produced today. It’s whether I can produce again tomorrow.

This is where the real creative profit is made: in the stamina to keep going when everyone else has burned out.

To reach that future version of myself, I have to choose the craft over performance. A performer needs applause now. A craftsman protects the quality of the work.

Creative profit is what keeps the craftsman in the workshop.

So I’m enforcing a new set of rules to protect my own creative profits:

• Curiosity over clicks: Chasing views instead of wonder costs you your edge.
• Rest is an investment: Rest isn’t a perk to earn. It’s a deliberate requirement.
• Boredom is a superpower: Original ideas need silence and slowness to grow.
• Protect the artist: Health is a business expense; if you’re broken, the art stops.

The real metric isn’t views or uploads. It’s whether I can return to the desk tomorrow with clarity.

If I can return tomorrow, I can return next year. If I can return next year, I might make it to 70.

Still before dawn. Still working on my best ideas.

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