Chris McCoy shares what he’s learned about process, persistence, and how not to panic when you think your work sucks
Multi-disciplinary storyteller Chris McCoy reflects on the “psychic violence of creation,” why revision is where the real art happens, and how to stay steady through the many highs and lows of making work that matters. In this edition of The Creative Wayfinder’s Compass, we go deep into process, persistence, and the strange joy of doing creative work for the long haul.
“You’re not a writer because you got published. You’re a writer because you write. You’re not an artist because you get paid to do it, you’re an artist because you make art. But don’t sell yourself short. Don’t work for rich people for free.”
Chris McCoy
Who are you and what do you create?
Christopher Scott McCoy. I am a writer, filmmaker, and musician. My day job is as a journalist for Contemporary Media, where I am the Film/TV Editor for the Memphis Flyer, and a writer at large for Memphis Magazine. I have written ten feature-length screenplays and a number of short films. I have produced and directed three feature length films with my production company, Oddly Buoyant Productions. I have been a musician since I was 10 years old, and have played bass in a number of bands for 35 years. My current musical project is called 1000 Lights, and we have two albums out. This Halloween, we will perform a live score for Nosferatu at the Crosstown Theater in Memphis. I have lost count of the number of music videos I have produced and directed. I am also a voice actor and player on the actual play TTRPG podcast Astronomica.
What first inspired you to pursue your creative path, and how has that inspiration evolved over time?
I don’t know. I’ve just always been this way. As a child, I was an avid reader, and I always wanted to be a writer myself. I think I was in the third grade when I first expressed an interest in writing. I have been fascinated with film since I saw Star Wars in 1977 at age 6. I was a creative writing major at Rhodes College, and when I graduated, I tried to make an independent film with a group of friends. That was my first screenplay, but the project fell apart.
Meanwhile, I was playing in bands and toured the Southeast in the early- to mid-1990s. I discovered digital filmmaking in 1998, with The Celebration, and my first film project premiered at Indie Memphis 2001. I was an actor, but transitioned into directing in 2004 with my first feature film, Automusik Can Do No Wrong. Since then, I have produced and directed two more films, the most notable being my 2012 documentary Antenna about the punk/New Wave/alternative music scene in Memphis from 1978-1996.
I have mostly pursued what I’m interested in and not worried so much about dedicating myself to one art form. There are commonalities in all creative processes, and I have taken lessons from music and applied them to film and writing, and vice versa.
Can you walk us through your creative process? Do you follow specific rituals or habits to get into the flow of your work?
When I was younger, I was a very intuitive, by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of artist. I now realize that was a mistake. I would have been much more productive had I paid more attention to process. Now, I believe that if you put a good process in place early on, you don’t have to worry about the outcome.
In a screenplay, for example, I start with vague ideas and images, possibly a scene or two, which I jot down. When I feel like it’s starting to get ripe, I will sit down and write out a treatment by hand in a notebook. This allows me to think about the beginning, middle, and end, and work out the major story beats. Then, I refine it into a more detailed treatment and outline by transferring it to a word processor. Only then, when I know all of the story beats, do I start writing scenes and dialogue. It’s like building a house: You start with the framing, add the ceiling, walls, and floors, then you decorate and furnish the interior.
Then, start revising. Writing is rewriting. Don’t be afraid to change things. It’s not a sign of weakness. There’s almost always a better version hiding out somewhere in your brain. You’ve just got to keep looking until you find it.
What themes, ideas, or emotions do you find yourself returning to in your work, and how have they shifted over time?
I don’t know that I have any! I’m about variety and novelty in my work. I try to let the piece make its own rules, then follow them. I once set out to write a neo-noir movie about dirt track car drivers committing insurance fraud, and ended up writing a sci-fi film about asteroid miners. I’m always for the little guy, the outsider, the underdog. I want my stories to come from a place of empathy and curiosity.
What’s been your biggest creative breakthrough, and how did it change the way you approach your art or writing?
Probably the development of digital filmmaking techniques. Before 1998, it was extremely difficult to make a movie unless you had a lot of capital. That changed with the advent of digital video photography and desktop nonlinear editing software. Now, the form has been democratized to some extent. An important lesson I have taken from filmmaking is how to do more with less.
How do you navigate periods of creative block or self-doubt, and what techniques have helped you push through?
Self-doubt is a constant for all artists. It’s never going to get better. Creating things is hard work. It’s going to hurt. I call this the “psychic violence of creation.” If you can’t come to terms with it, you should find something else to do with your time.
The most artistically and financially successful artists I know have the same emotions when they’re trying to start a project. You’re going to feel worthless and stupid. You will feel like you are an impostor, and fear that people are going to find out and ridicule you. So what? Everybody feels like that. That doesn’t mean it’s true.
In the moment, as you’re working, sometimes, you’re going to think your work sucks. Don’t listen to those voices in your head. You won’t know how good or bad it is for weeks or even months. Sometimes, the stuff you think sucks in the moment will seem great when you revisit it. Sometimes, the stuff you think is great will break down when you revisit it. It’s hard to tell in the moment. One consistent theme I’ve noticed in stories about people who wrote hit songs is that they thought the song was stupid when they first wrote it. Only once they saw how other people responded to it did they know they had something good.
Some of the best writing advice I ever got was, “Write the bad version.” Yes, there’s a great version in your head, but you don’t know how to get there just yet, so write the bad version. The important part is, just get something on the page. You can make it better on your next draft. Or maybe you’ll realize the “bad version” isn’t so bad after all.
The real artistry is in the revision process. First, you fill up the sandbox. Then, you can make sand castles.
How do feedback and criticism play a role in your process? How do you decide what advice to follow and what to set aside?
This is the most difficult part for beginning artists. You have to learn not to be precious with your work. Don’t be afraid to throw something away. Don’t be afraid to put it in a drawer and not look at it for ten years. And above all, don’t be afraid to change it. The first thoughts that come out of your head may not be the best version.
Don’t be afraid of other people’s opinions. Listen to them. But learn how to interpret a note.
First, be careful who you show it to. Make sure it’s someone who understands what it means that this is a work in progress. Realize that not everyone is a great communicator, so you might have to try to figure out what’s really bothering them when they say something vague like “it seems slow.”
Everybody’s going to have different opinions on your work. Sometimes, you gotta know when to ignore a note. Randy says he doesn’t like chocolate, but I’m making chocolate ice cream. You can’t please everybody. You shouldn’t even be trying.
When you have multiple people commenting on the same thing, you know where your problem is. Concentrate your efforts on the places where the data points converge. If five people mention the second act, even though they may say different things about it, you know something’s wrong with it. When the data points no longer converge — when you ask three people what’s wrong with it, and they say three different, seemingly minor things — that’s when you’re almost done.
How do you balance personal creative expression with the commercial or external demands of your work?
Poorly.
But seriously, I think it’s counterproductive to try to pander to the crowd. You have to seek your own vision, and then let the people decide what they like. You will naturally learn what works and what doesn’t, and adjust your course accordingly. But you can’t force it.
Once, I was in a recording studio, trying to perfect my fuzz bass sound. The producer, Doug Easley, tried to help me for a minute, but soon saw that I was obsessing. Finally, he said, “Get it where you want, then dial it back 10%.” It worked, and the more I thought about it, the more it resonated. Maybe the uncut, 100% me is too intense for the outside world. Dial it back a little bit, and people will get it. That’s probably not good advice for everyone, but it was for me.
What’s one of the most challenging projects you’ve worked on, and how did you overcome the difficulties you faced?
Antenna was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s a documentary film made from over 100 hours of archival footage, 1,000 still images, and 88 interviews, some of which were three hours long. The editing process alone took 18 months. I had a major falling out with my team, we ran out of money, and we had a catastrophic hard drive failure that threatened to derail the entire project. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.
I kept going from sheer stubbornness, at what I now realize was a great cost to my mental health. I felt like I was serving something bigger than myself. I think that’s the essence of art; a contribution to the collective consciousness. We do art because we have to. I don’t know how to stop.
You may have to sacrifice a lot of stuff for art, but don’t sacrifice yourself.
How do you stay motivated and disciplined, especially during times when inspiration is lacking or inconsistent?
I don’t believe in writer’s block. It’s a crisis of confidence on the part of the artist. Accept that you suck in the moment and do it anyway. Embrace the suck. Just put some garbage on the page and keep going. Eventually, you’ll do something good.
If you’re really not feeling it, work on something else. Even if nothing comes of it, you’re still exercising those creative muscles.
One way to find inspiration is to impose limitations on yourself. Figuring out how to get around and work within constraints helps spark creativity. “Write a song on a ukulele about horses” is an easier assignment than “Write a song about anything.” This is one of the reasons I like to make music videos. You have to make something that will fit the song. You have only a limited amount of time. You’re working with a musical artist with their own opinions. Figuring out how to get around your constraints will get your creative juices flowing.
What advice would you give to someone just starting out, or to an artist who’s struggling to find or trust their creative voice?
Just make something. Then make something else. Keep doing it until you get it right.
Define success for yourself. Don’t worry about the career implications. Most of that is beyond your control.
You’re not a writer because you got published. You’re a writer because you write. You’re not an artist because you get paid to do it, you’re an artist because you make art.
But don’t sell yourself short. Don’t work for rich people for free.
M.K. Hancock here. I couldn’t agree more with so many of the ideas here, especially that anyone tapping into their creativity is an artist. I want to thank you for reading this latest edition of “The Creative Wayfinder’s Compass.” I hope Chris McCoy’s words landed with you as much as they did for me. Whether it’s learning to write “the bad version,” letting your curiosity lead (but with some smart limits), or accepting that doubt is part of the gig, there’s something grounding and generous in how he approaches creative life.
Every interview here reminds me that no two paths look the same. But some things go a long way across disciplines, like discernment, honesty, work ethic, and humor. I’m always moved by how generous people are with their stories and within their creative practices. If you ever want to talk about yours, I’m just an email away.
Thanks for being here. Stay weird, stay kind, and keep making things. And if interviews like this are your thing, “The Creative Wayfinder’s Compass” is where I keep gathering them. My goal is to share an interview every month with someone with lived experience finding their own unique way.
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