“The two things that really make for good records are deadlines and small budgets. The things that make for bad records are no deadlines and endless budgets. ‘Cause you can piss around forever with that, you know?”
— Brian Eno
I work for myself, but not only for myself. There are times when a client is waiting, or a collaborator needs something delivered. But much of the time, no one is watching. No one is checking in to see now my mix is coming along, or whether I’ve drafted a newsletter for one month from now. And still, I give myself deadlines. These are not arbitrary marks on a calendar; they are dates I try to treat with the same seriousness I would give to any professional commitment. I don’t do this because I’m addicted to structure (though maybe I kind of am) or chasing some productivity high. I set them because, as Eno puts it, without a reason, “you can piss around forever.” I would simply never finish anything.
My friend Leah shared that Brian Eno quote with me recently and asked the question: How do we make deadlines real in creative work?
Leah is a musician. Like me, she works independently — no label, no contract, no one demanding she turn something in. So her deadlines have to begin as self-imposed.
As a frequent producer and collaborator on her music, I’ve often tried to impose artificial deadlines because it gives me a sense of control and certitude in my little corner of the work. A clear finish line feels comforting when you’re adjacent to someone else’s ambiguity. But, in truth, it’s never worked. The work only moves when the timeline aligns with something she believes in. The deadline has to feel real to her — and real doesn't always mean scheduled.
Ironically, in her day job, Leah is a creative producer of live shows. She’s more than capable of managing moving parts and delivering art on time. She knows — perhaps better than anyone — that you can’t really “piss around” when the show opens at 8:00 p.m. and the audience is in the venue.
Still, we both recognize: a live show is one thing. It exists in space and time for a finite number of people. It’s ephemeral, imperfect, living, situational. A recording, on the other hand, is permanent. It will, in theory, exist forever — frozen in a single form, available to anyone on the planet with an internet connection. That kind of permanence introduces a different kind of pressure. It tempts you to stall, to tweak, to delay release until some elusive perfection arrives.
Scaffolding for the Work to Stand On
But deadlines, when chosen well, are not constraints — they’re scaffolding. They hold the work while it’s taking shape. They help establish orientation and direction. A deadline says: this is where you're headed, even if you’re not yet sure how you’ll get there. In that sense, a deadline isn’t just a finish line — it’s a form of navigation. A way to shape your time rather than drift through it. This, in many ways, is what making time means: recognizing that time is not something you find, but something you give form to.
Too much freedom can paralyze. A blank timeline is as intimidating as a blank page. A well-placed deadline offers structure. Something to push against. A rhythm to move with.
In client work, deadlines shape scope and build trust. They say: I will show up when I said I would. I will meet this moment with care. Over time, this becomes a kind of contract — not just with others, but with yourself. In creative work especially, where the source material is often pulled from your own brain or lived experience, that small sense of control can be grounding. The deadline becomes a tether — something stable to hold onto in what is otherwise a diffuse and uncertain process.
In this newsletter, deadlines give form to something that might otherwise stay vague or half-finished. You’re reading this because of a deadline — not a hard one, not a corporate one, but a self-imposed one that still carries weight. It’s not about pressure, but rhythm. It’s a way of saying: this matters, and it’s time to share it.
Making Deadlines Real
So what gives a self-imposed deadline its gravity?
External Anchors — One of the simplest ways to make a deadline feel real is to tether it to someone else. A friend waiting on your demo. A collaborator expecting your half of the project. A quiet promise to your audience. Once the work is no longer just yours, the timeline shifts. It becomes shared. And in that shift, a new kind of accountability emerges.
Creative Ritual — A deadline becomes easier to meet when it becomes a rhythm. I post this newsletter on Wednesdays. That rhythm is now a given, not a debate. I don’t have to negotiate with myself every week about when to write — the calendar already decided. Over time, this kind of ritual creates its own momentum. The decision was made long ago, so now all that’s left is to honor it.
Ego — Meeting a deadline, especially one you’ve set yourself, isn’t about performance. It’s about respect. Respect for the process, for your past self who set the intention, and for the work itself. It requires humility — the willingness to treat a self-imposed timeline with the same seriousness you’d give to an external one. At some point, you stop waiting to feel perfectly ready and simply show up because you said you would. That’s not insecurity. That’s discipline.
Psychological Stakes — A deadline is a signal that the work matters — not in some abstract, idealized form, but in this version, today. You’re not just responding to urgency; you’re responding to meaning. The deadline becomes a way to affirm that the work deserves your time, your attention, and your presence — not someday, but now.
Letting Go — Deadlines help you release the work. At some point, you stop editing and decide: this is what I’ve made. You hit publish. You send the file. You walk off stage. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s ready enough to leave your hands. As Valéry said: Un poème n’est jamais terminé, seulement abandonné. A poem — a record, a newsletter — is never finished, only abandoned. The deadline marks the moment when you let it go.
Temporal Confidence — A deadline can be a small act of faith in time itself. You trust that showing up consistently — even under imperfect conditions — will move the work forward. You stop relying on flashes of inspiration and start building momentum. You learn to believe that things will take shape if you keep showing up. Not quickly, not always easily, but reliably. A deadline says: this is when I return to the work. And that repetition is what gives it form.
In the end, a deadline is not a punishment but a form of care. It creates structure around the creative process so that something—anything—can be made, shaped, and ultimately shared. It allows you to say, with intention: I want this work to exist in the world, not just in my head.
This is the part we rarely articulate: finishing something is not only about closure. It is also about self-trust. To meet a deadline, especially one of your own making, is to believe that your effort matters. That the time you gave was meaningful. That your current limitations do not disqualify the work from being worthy of release.
You do not need to be transcendent. You only need to be present. When you honor a deadline, you make space for completion. You accept that the work is as good as it can be—for now, with the time, focus, and tools available to you.
A deadline offers a moment of release. It allows you to draw a boundary around your effort and say: This is finished.
And for now, that is enough.