Rachel: Alright Justine, gut reaction. I say the book title Show Your Work!. What do you hear? Justine: I hear a manual for becoming an exhausting influencer. 'Day 37 of my juice cleanse, here's a picture of my kale. #blessed #hustle'. It sounds like a recipe for turning your life into one long, performative humblebrag. Rachel: Perfect. Because today we're talking about the exact opposite. We're diving into Show Your Work! by Austin Kleon, and it’s one of the most celebrated books on creativity for a reason. It actually won the Goodreads Choice Award for Best Business Book, which is fascinating because it reads more like an artist's survival guide. Justine: A business book? That’s surprising. I was picturing something purely for the artsy crowd. Rachel: Exactly. And what's so interesting about the author, Austin Kleon, is that he's not some lofty art theorist. He's worked as a librarian, a web designer, a copywriter. He’s a practitioner who figured this out from the trenches of the digital world. This book is his manifesto for sharing your work generously, not narcissistically. It’s about how to be findable, not how to be famous. Justine: Okay, ‘findable, not famous.’ I like that. You have my attention. That feels like a much healthier goal.

Rachel: It’s a total mindset shift. And it starts by tearing down one of the most damaging myths in our culture: the myth of the lone genius. You know the image—the tortured artist, locked away in an attic, emerging with a masterpiece. Justine: Oh, I know it well. It’s very romantic and also completely paralyzing. It makes you feel like if you aren't a misunderstood, once-in-a-generation talent, you shouldn't even bother starting. Rachel: Precisely. Kleon argues that this idea is not only wrong, it's destructive. He introduces a much better, more accurate concept from the musician Brian Eno: "scenius." Justine: Scenius? Like, S-C-E-N-I-U-S? Rachel: Exactly. It’s the idea that great ideas are often born from a scene, a community, an ecology of talent. It’s not about individual genius, but about the communal genius of a group of people supporting, challenging, and stealing from each other. Justine: That makes sense. You think of the Impressionists in Paris, or the writers of the Beat Generation. They were all feeding off each other. Rachel: Yes! And Kleon gives this fantastic example from the punk scene. In the 1970s, a young man named Bernard Sumner went to a Sex Pistols concert. The band was famously not very good, technically. They were raw, amateurish, and full of energy. Justine: I can picture it. Just pure, chaotic passion. Rachel: And Sumner watched them and had a revelation. He realized he didn't have to be a virtuoso to start a band. He just had to have something to say. That night, he went home and decided to form his own band. That band became New Order, one of the most influential bands of their era. The amateur enthusiasm of the Sex Pistols sparked a fire in him. That’s scenius in action. Justine: Wow. Okay, but that's music history. How does 'scenius' work for, say, a programmer or a writer working from home today? The 'scene' feels a lot more isolated now. Rachel: That’s the brilliant part. Kleon argues the internet is our modern-day scenius. It’s the network that allows us to find our people, our "knuckleballers" as he calls them, no matter where we are. And the way we participate is by shifting our focus from the final product to the ongoing process. Justine: Thinking process, not product. That’s one of the chapter titles, right? Rachel: It is. And the most powerful story he tells about this is about the film critic Roger Ebert. After battling cancer, Ebert lost his lower jaw and his ability to speak. His primary tool for his entire career was gone. Justine: That’s just devastating to imagine. A critic who can't speak. Rachel: But he didn't disappear. He started a blog. And on that blog, he didn't just write film reviews. He wrote about his childhood, his political views, his love for a good steak 'n shake, his thoughts on mortality. He shared his process of thinking and living. He opened himself up, and in doing so, he found a new voice—a written one that was arguably more powerful and reached more people than his spoken one ever had. He became a documentarian of his own life, and people connected with that deeply. Justine: So he wasn't just showing his work, he was showing his life. The process behind the person. That’s a whole other level of vulnerability. Rachel: It is. And it shows that you don't have to be a genius, you just have to be willing to share. Your process, your learning, your journey—that’s where the real connection happens.

Justine: Alright, I'm sold on the 'why.' The philosophy is liberating. But the 'how' still feels daunting. The idea of sharing 'something small every day' sounds exhausting, and frankly, a bit like the influencer lifestyle I was joking about. Rachel: I get that. It can sound like a chore. But Kleon’s approach is less about performance and more about documentation. It's about turning your daily work into a shareable artifact. He says you should "open up your cabinet of curiosities." Justine: A cabinet of curiosities? What does that even mean in a digital context? Rachel: Think of it as sharing your influences. What are you reading? What music are you listening to? What art inspires you? Who are your heroes? Sharing what you love is a generous act that gives people context for your own work. It’s not just about you, you, you. It’s about creating a rich world around your work that people can explore. You’re a curator of your own taste. Justine: I like that framing. It feels less like self-promotion and more like sharing a gift. But what about your own work? How do you make people care about a half-finished sketch or a messy first draft? Rachel: You tell a good story. This is maybe the most powerful tool in the book. Kleon cites this incredible experiment called "Significant Objects." Two writers, Joshua Glenn and Rob Walker, went to thrift stores and bought a bunch of worthless junk—a plastic horse, a weird-looking mug—for about a dollar each. Justine: Okay, I’m intrigued. Sounds like my apartment. Rachel: They then hired a bunch of talented writers to invent a compelling, fictional story for each object. They posted the objects on eBay, but instead of a normal description, they just posted the story. Justine: No way. What happened? Rachel: They sold $128 worth of trinkets for over $3,600. A little snow globe that cost a dollar sold for $59 because of its story. The story itself became the value. The lesson is that the narrative you wrap around your work has a huge effect on how people feel about it. Justine: That is wild. It proves that our brains are just wired for narrative. But this brings up a big fear for me, and I think for a lot of people. Where's the line between sharing and over-sharing? How do you do all this without becoming what Kleon calls 'human spam'? Rachel: That's the critical question. And he has a very simple, brilliant filter: the "So What?" test. Before you share anything, ask yourself, "Is this helpful or interesting to my audience?" If the answer is no, save it as a draft. It’s about generosity. Are you giving something of value, or are you just shouting into the void? Justine: The ‘So What?’ test. That’s a good, sharp tool. Rachel: And the other part of not being spam is to be a good citizen of your community first. Listen more than you talk. Be a fan before you ask for fans. If you want people to care about your work, you have to genuinely care about the work of others. It’s a two-way street. Some critics have said this advice can feel a bit basic, but honestly, it's the foundational stuff everyone forgets in the rush to get noticed.

Rachel: And being a good citizen of your community means you have to stick around, which is the final, and maybe hardest, part. It's not just about sharing; it's about surviving the consequences of sharing. Justine: You mean dealing with the comments section. The trolls. Rachel: Exactly. Kleon says you have to "learn to take a punch." When you put your work out there, you invite criticism. The trick is to know which punches to take. He talks about the "Vampire Test." Justine: The Vampire Test? Please tell me this involves garlic and wooden stakes. Rachel: Metaphorically, yes! It comes from a story about the sculptor Constantin Brancusi and Pablo Picasso. Picasso was known for being an energy vampire. People would spend a day with him and leave feeling completely drained, while Picasso would go off and paint all night, fueled by their energy. Brancusi saw this and simply refused to hang out with him. The test is: after an interaction with someone—or reading their feedback—do you feel energized or drained? If you feel drained, they're a vampire. Banish them. Justine: I love that. It’s such a clear way to protect your energy. Block, delete, move on. Don't feed the vampires. Rachel: And don't feed the trolls. But beyond defense, there's the offense of just keeping going. Kleon has this great concept he calls "chain-smoking" your projects. Justine: That sounds… unhealthy. Rachel: It’s a metaphor! He uses the example of Woody Allen, who, for over 40 years, would start writing his next movie script the very day he finished editing the last one. He used the energy and momentum from finishing one project to immediately light up the next. It prevents that dreaded "what now?" void that can kill a creative career. Justine: Okay, I can see the appeal of that momentum. But this idea of constantly working, 'chain-smoking' projects... doesn't that just lead to burnout? Where does rest fit into this philosophy of constant showing and doing? Rachel: That is the crucial counter-balance. You can't stick around if you burn out. And Kleon dedicates a whole section to the power of the sabbatical. He talks about the designer Stefan Sagmeister, who closes his entire successful studio for a full year every seven years. He says all the best ideas for the next seven years come from that one year of rest and exploration. Justine: A full year! That’s a dream for most people. It’s not very practical. Rachel: True. Which is why Kleon emphasizes that you can take practical, mini-sabbaticals. Your commute can be a sabbatical if you put your phone away and just read or think. A walk in the park at lunch. A weekend trip. The point is to build deliberate periods of disconnection into your life. His wife gave him the best advice: "If you never go to work, you never get to leave work." You have to create those boundaries to be able to stick around for the long haul.

Rachel: When you pull it all together, it’s really a three-part journey. First, you have to change your mindset from the 'lone genius' to the 'communal scenius.' That's the philosophical leap. Justine: Right, from private perfection to public process. Rachel: Then, you build a daily practice of generous sharing, using tools like the 'So What?' test and good storytelling to connect with people authentically. That’s the practical habit. Justine: And finally, you develop the emotional resilience to stick around for the long haul—learning to take a punch, avoiding vampires, and taking sabbaticals to recharge. That's the sustainable career. Rachel: Exactly. It’s a holistic system for a creative life in the modern world. It’s not just about one-off success; it’s about building something that lasts. Justine: The book ends with a simple call to action: start now. So, for everyone listening, what's one small thing from your process you could share today? It doesn't have to be a masterpiece. Rachel: That’s the whole point. It could be a photo of your messy desk, a line from a poem you're stuck on, a screenshot of code that finally works. Just a little glimpse behind the curtain. We'd love to see it. Share it with us and the Aibrary community online. Let's build our own little scenius. Justine: This is Aibrary, signing off.