A Kick-Ass Ass Kicking

My original plan was to drive into the woods, spend one day with Dana the Artist and spend the rest of the time bored out of my skull in some divey roadside motel. I was going to relax, take it easy and meditate in order for the secrets of the universe to bubble up from my placid consciousness.

None of this happened.

Instead, I spent the whole time with Dana, getting my ass kicked all over the interior of BC. Dana the Artist brand Ass-Kicking takes two forms. The first is 'Let's spend twelve hours bashing through the wilderness.' The second is 'Quit effin' crying and start effin' working.' Only she doesn't drop the F-bomb as regularly as I do. Instead, her speech is peppered with French words that she no longer remembers the English for. Which is way more charming than swearing like a trucker.

So. There I was, hoping to be coddled and spoiled – and I did get spoiled because Dana is one of the most generous people I've ever met – when I had unknowingly walked into Artist Boot Camp. In which failure was not an option.

It was like trudging through the galaxy to find Yoda and Yoda feeding you a delicious meal and then whooping you into submission in a light saber session. Which, if you are Luke Skywalker, you know is good for you.

It's not that you are a masochist or anything. It's just that you suddenly realize that your self-indulgent Victorian histrionics aren't serving you. And the only thing that will serve you is to get fucking writing.

A pithy example: "I was going to bet you five grand I could write a bestseller before you could."

I mean, she was playing hard ball from the moment I walked in. And if you know me, you know that sometimes, I like it rough.

My favourite dance teacher, the uptight British man who inspired me to become a contemporary dancer, taught his class exactly like boot camp. Every class involved sit-ups and push-ups. He wanted us fit and strong and ready to perform. Or else. Sure, it was about physical stamina for a physical art form, but it was also about an attitude of diligence and respect for ourselves as artists. He wanted us to be great and wasn't going to settle for anything less.

Tough love is one of my favourite kinds of love. And again, I swear, I'm not a regular member of some S&M Eat-Me-Beat-Me club. I just dig getting my ego kicked around for my own good. Tough love takes balls. It takes courage to deliver and courage to receive. If properly executed, it can be the catalyst that takes you to the next level. It can be the door to great success.

One night, when I was training for Ironman, I decided that staying up drinking until 3 am was excellent preparation for a three-hour bike ride. The next day, I got up just in time to eat a few grapes before my coach picked me up. I was impossibly hung-over. I probably reeked of booze. And I expected seven grapes to fuel a ride in which I'd burn 1,700 calories.

Coach Ross was not amused.

And I finally got it. I am responsible for myself and my choices have consequences. Today's three-hour ride started yesterday with my decisions about food, water and sleep. And my rock star lifestyle was not behaviour befitting a soldier.

Neither is laying on the couch, reading self-help books and crying all day. Or whatever I've been doing for the past two months.

The only way out is through. The only way to be an artist is to make art. The only way to live your dreams is to wake up every morning and LIVE THEM for God's sake. It's about action. It's about movement. It's about hard effing work in the name of your Big Exciting Dream. Which no one is going to give you, but you.