You Made a Thing. Now You’re Hiding Behind the Couch. Let’s Talk About That.

Hey. Yeah, you. The one with the finished manuscript in a drawer. The painting facing the wall. The album recorded on a laptop that nobody’s heard except your cat.

I see you.

You’re not lazy. You’re not untalented. You’re terrified. And I respect that more than you know, because I spent the first ten years of my career being a walking anxiety attack..

Here’s the secret nobody tells you about sharing your work: It never stops being scary. Not really. Robin Williams would famously be backstage, Robin Williams, pacing and muttering “I forgot how to be funny” five minutes before walking out to a sold-out crowd.

The difference between you and Robin Williams isn’t the fear. It’s that he walked through it anyway.

So let’s talk about why you’re hiding. And more importantly, how to stop.

The Lie You Believe (And I Believed Too)

You think if you share your work and people don’t like it, that means you are unlikeable.

I get it. When you pour yourself into a novel or a song or a photograph, it stops being “a thing you made” and starts being “a piece of your actual soul.” So when someone says “eh, not for me,” your brain hears “you are garbage and should never speak again.”

Here’s the truth, and it hurts a little: Your work is not you. It’s something you did. There’s a difference.

Your painting isn’t your worth. Your poem isn’t your resume. Your song isn’t your eulogy. It’s just… stuff you made. And some of it will land. Some of it won’t. Neither one says anything about your value as a human being.

I know you don’t believe me yet. That’s fine. Just file it away.

The Real Reason You’re Not Sharing (It’s Not What You Think)

You tell yourself: “I’ll share it when it’s perfect.”

Nonsense.

“Perfect” is not a destination. It’s a cage. It’s the thing you hide behind so you never have to feel the terrifying rush of someone actually looking at your work.

You’re not protecting your art. You’re protecting your ego. And your ego is a coward. Trust me.

The truth? Your work is never going to be perfect. Ever. Hamlet has plot holes. Starry Night has weird perspective. Your favorite album has a song you skip.

Done is better than perfect. Always.

Strategies for the Terrified (From a Professional Worrier)

Okay, let’s get practical. Because I can hear you thinking, “Yeah yeah, Andy, nice speech, but I’m still not posting my painting on Instagram.”

Fine. Start smaller.

Strategy 1: The One-Person Show

Share your work with exactly one human. Not the internet. Not your mother (she’s contractually obligated to love it). One person whose opinion you trust and who won’t lie to you.

Say: “I made this. I’m scared. Can you just look at it and tell me one thing you notice? Not whether it’s good. Just one thing you notice.”

That’s it. No judgment. No “what do you think?” Just observation. It lowers the stakes from “my entire future as an artist” to “hey, look at this thing.”

Do that three times. Different people. See what happens.

Strategy 2: The Burner Account

Here’s a trick from the comedian playbook. Make a fake name. A throwaway Instagram. A Reddit account with no connection to your real face. Post your work there.

Nobody knows it’s you. Nobody can hurt the real you. You’re a ghost. A art-ghost.

See what happens. Maybe two people like it. Maybe nobody does. Either way, you didn’t die. Your house didn’t burn down. The world kept spinning.

Once you survive that, and you will, the real account feels a little less like defusing a bomb.

Strategy 3: The Five-Minute Rule

Set a timer. Five minutes. Post your work somewhere, anywhere, even a private Discord server. Then close the laptop. Walk away. Make coffee. Touch grass. Do not refresh. Do not check notifications.

For five minutes, you are not allowed to look.

After five minutes, you can look. But here’s the rule: you are only allowed to look for facts, not feelings. “Three people liked it” is a fact. “They probably hated it and liked it out of pity” is a feeling. You don’t get feelings. Just facts.

You’ll be shocked how often the facts are fine and the feelings are liars.

What Happens When You Finally Share

I’ll tell you what happens. Three things.

Some people won’t care. This feels bad for about four seconds. Then you realize: they didn’t care before either. Nothing changed. You’re fine.
Some people will hate it. This feels bad for about four hours. Then you realize: those people were never going to be your audience anyway. You’re not making work for people who hate vulnerability. You’re making it for the ones who need it.
Some people will feel less alone. This feels like nothing else on earth. A stranger writes you an email saying “your poem made me cry because I finally felt seen.” A friend says “I didn’t know I needed to hear that.” A random follower shares your painting and says “this is exactly how I feel right now.”

That third thing? That’s why you make art. Not for the applause. Not for the sales. For that one person who was hiding behind their couch, and your work reached out its hand and said “come out. it’s okay.”

You can’t give them that if you never share.

The Bottom Line (The Part Where I Shove You Gently Off the Cliff)

Look. You’re going to feel scared. That’s not a bug. That’s a feature. The fear means you care. The fear means it matters.

The goal isn’t to stop being afraid. The goal is to be afraid and do it anyway.

Start tiny. One person. One burner account. Five minutes. Just get the thing out of the drawer and into the light. Even a little bit of light.

Because here’s the worst-case scenario: you share it, nobody cares, you feel embarrassed for a day, and then you make something better.

Here’s the best-case scenario: you change someone’s life. Including your own.

I know which one I’m betting on.

Now go post the damn thing. I’ll wait.

Now, my book “Digital Marketing for Creatives“… Alright. Listen. I get it. You just heard “digital marketing for creatives” and your soul left your body. You think it’s gonna be a bunch of jargon-filled nonsense written by some guy in a blazer who’s never had a real creative block in his life. Someone who uses words like “leverage” and “synergy.” I hate that guy too.

But here’s the thing. You made something beautiful. A painting, a book, a song, whatever. And right now, it’s sitting on your hard drive or in a drawer, collecting digital dust. Why? Because you refuse to learn the one skill that actually gets eyes on the work. Not the talent. You’ve got that. The waving your arms around part. The part where you say “hey, look at this thing I did” without feeling like a used car salesman.

So I wrote this book. Digital Marketing for Creatives. And I promise you, there is no blazer. There is no “synergy.” There is just a practical, slightly cranky, honest guide for people who hate selling but need to eat. It’s for the poet who wants to be read. The illustrator who wants to be paid. The musician who’s tired of playing to three people and a barista.

You don’t have to become an influencer. You don’t have to dance on TikTok. You just have to learn the difference between begging and inviting. And this book is the door. Buy it. Read it. Then go make the thing you’re supposed to make, and let the rest of us see it. You owe us that much.

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