Alright. Hey. Yeah, you. The one with the “award-nominated multidisciplinary creative” in your Instagram bio. Sit down. I need to talk to you about something that’s been making me irrationally angry for like fifteen years.
Your bio. Your artist statement. The little block of text under your name that you spent four hours on and somehow still makes you sound like a sentient LinkedIn post.
I see this everywhere. Authors. Painters. Poets. Musicians. You people make art. You crawl into the dark corners of your own brain, you bleed onto the page or the canvas or the goddamn microphone stand, you create things that make strangers feel less alone. And then you turn around and describe yourself like you’re applying for a mid-level management job at a company that manufactures industrial adhesives.
“Jane is passionate about leveraging creative synergies to help people achieve their storytelling goals.”
What does that even mean? Are you a writer or a HR department? Did you sell your soul to a keyword generator in 2014 and never ask for it back?
I’m gonna help you unf*ck this. And yeah, it’s gonna sting a little. That’s the point.
First: Stop saying “passionate about.”
Just stop. Delete it from your vocabulary. Burn it in a small ceremonial fire.
Everyone is passionate. The guy who yells at his TV about fantasy football is passionate. The woman who runs a feral cat rescue out of her bathroom is passionate. You are not special because you have feelings about your work. You’re supposed to have feelings about your work. That’s literally the bare minimum.
“Passionate about helping people achieve their creative potential.”
No. That’s what a guidance counselor says. That’s what a scented candle says. That’s what a LinkedIn influencer says right before they try to sell you a course on “manifesting abundance.”
Here’s what you actually mean: “I like making things and I hope people don’t hate them.” That’s honest. That’s human. Start there.
Second: Stop describing your process like it’s a corporate mission statement.
You know what I’m talking about.
“Utilizing a trauma-informed, intersectional lens, my work seeks to disrupt hegemonic narratives and create brave spaces for marginalized voices.”
Okay. Slow down, Foucault. Take a breath. You painted a picture of a sad dog. Or you wrote a poem about your hometown. Or you made a zine about why rent is too high. All of that is valid. All of that is good. But you don’t need to dress it up in language that requires a PhD and a Xanax to decode.
The problem is fear. You’re afraid that if you just say what you actually do, it won’t sound important enough. So you hide behind the big words. You think “accessible” means “dumb.” It doesn’t. It means you’re not a pretentious asshole.
What you actually do vs. what you think you’re supposed to say.
Let me give you some before and afters. Brace yourself. This is gonna hit close to home.
Before (Author version):
“Marcus is a passionate storyteller dedicated to crafting immersive speculative fiction that explores the complexities of human connection in an increasingly digital landscape.”
After (the real version):
“Marcus writes weird sci-fi about lonely people and the robots who tolerate them.”
See? That’s better. That’s interesting. That makes me want to read it. The first one made me want to take a nap on a concrete floor.
Before (Painter version):
“Using a dynamic interplay of color and form, my work investigates the liminal spaces between memory and loss, inviting viewers into a dialogue about impermanence.”
After (the real version):
“I paint the things you thought you forgot. Mostly diners, old motels, and your grandmother’s kitchen.”
Jesus. That’s gorgeous. And it took twelve words. The first one took forty and said absolutely nothing.
Before (Musician version):
“A genre-defying artist blending folk, electronica, and ambient textures, committed to authentic emotional expression and sonic exploration.”
After (the real version):
“Sad songs for people who can’t sleep. I play guitar and I have opinions about it.”
I would go to that show. I would buy the T-shirt. I would stand in the back and nod at you approvingly.
Third: Here’s the actual formula. Steal it. I don’t care.
You need three things. That’s it.
- What you actually make. Not the genre. Not the theoretical framework. The thing. Books. Paintings. Songs. Poems. Zines. Pottery that looks like angry faces. I don’t care. Say the noun.
- Who it’s for. Not “everyone.” Everyone is not your audience. Your audience is people who feel a specific way. Tired parents. Anxious millennials. People who miss their dead dog. People who are still mad about something that happened in high school. Get specific.
- Why it’s not boring. This is the fun part. This is where your personality shows up. You’re weird. I know you’re weird. Everyone who makes art is at least a little weird. Let that weirdness breathe.
Example template:
“[Name] makes [thing] for [specific weirdos]. [One sentence that shows your actual voice.]”
That’s it. That’s the whole thing. You don’t need “passionate.” You don’t need “leverage.” You don’t need “synergy.” Those are corporate ghosts. Exorcise them.
Before and after that’ll really make you cringe.
Before: “Kai is a queer, non-binary interdisciplinary artist working at the intersection of performance, installation, and social practice. Their practice interrogates systems of power through a lens of radical vulnerability.”
After: “Kai makes weird performance art about the stuff nobody wants to say out loud. They once spent three hours sitting in a gallery eating grapes and staring at people. It was about capitalism. Or maybe anxiety. Even they’re not sure.”
See? Now I like Kai. Now I want to know what happens next. Now I’m curious instead of bored.
Before: “Award-winning author of speculative fiction, Elena’s work has been described as ‘haunting’ and ‘lyrical.’ She holds an MFA from somewhere you’ve heard of and lives in Brooklyn with her cat.”
After: “Elena writes ghost stories for people who don’t believe in ghosts but wish they did. Her cat is an asshole and her MFA is gathering dust. The awards were nice. She’s still anxious.”
That’s a person. That’s a human being with flaws and opinions and a specific point of view. The first one was a Wikipedia page written by a committee of cowards.
Look, here’s the real talk.
Nobody reads a bio and thinks, “Wow, they said ‘passionate’ three times, they must be good.” No. They skim your bio looking for one of two things: a reason to trust you, or a reason to laugh at you. Don’t give them the second one.
Your art is interesting. You are interesting. But you’ve been trained by years of Instagram hustle culture and grant applications and “elevator pitches” to sand down every interesting edge until you sound like a chatbot designed by a marketing intern.
Stop that. Right now. Go rewrite your bio. Be honest. Be weird. Be specific. Use the word “f*ck” if you want to. I give you permission.
And if you write “passionate about storytelling” one more time, I’m gonna show up at your house and replace all your coffee with decaf.
You’ve been warned.
Now go make something ugly and honest.
I grace the internet here twice a week at least, with strategies & advice for the creatives who hate to market, or the creatives who just want to market effectively. It’s ideas, tools, strategies to make you a successful marketer so you can spend more time being creative. That’s what we need right now: less marketers and more creatives. You can subscribe to the blog and get notifications (that magic box below – no spam), and/or you can do me a solid and buy me a coffee for being here for over two years giving away my pearls of wisdom. Yeah, I’m selling at you, right now.
I’ve distilled my marketing guidance into a handy book which will help you kick start your marketing, get marketing more effectively, thus leaving you more time to be creative, which is the whole point. You can find it here.
Digital Marketing for Creatives 
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