Sooner or later, I think all of us who are entrepreneurially inclined encounter the paradox of outsized ambition. Big dreams seem necessary to keep yourself mot

Sooner or later, I think all of us who are entrepreneurially inclined encounter the paradox of outsized ambition. Big dreams seem necessary to keep yourself motivated, and to overcome the crushing loneliness and uncertainty that comes with striking out on your own. But those same dreams can be convenient ways to avoid, defer, or will away present responsibility. Know that the world will never reward you for the thousands of great ideas you've come up with in your spare time. Those pipedreams will follow you to the grave, and no one will speak of them when you're no longer around to do so. But the world will reward you for the one idea you managed to bring to life. Maybe you won't strike gold, and maybe you won't become a "rock star" fixture on the scene of your choice. But you'll have created something real. You will have turned your time into great personal meaning, and, hopefully, into value for others. And, if nothing else, you'll have learned that becoming good at the task is more important than what started the task. (To your point, being an entrepreneur isn't about generating brilliant ideas; it's about being brilliant at implementing ideas). As an aspiring writer, I went through a solid portion of my twenties telling anyone who'd listen -- often women -- that I was a "writer." (I don't think I ever became cheesy enough to call myself an "artist," but that thought couldn't have been far from my mind at any moment). I enjoyed the status that this self-imposed job description bestowed upon me -- or, more accurately, upon my own self perception. But did I write a single work, significant or otherwise, in those ten years? No. Instead, I focused on my "day job," and continued to nurse the daydream. Maybe something about turning 30 brought things into focus for me. Maybe Steve Jobs's passing, coupled with his quotes about the clarifying force of mortality, lit a fire under my ass. Maybe a few choice words from an ex girlfriend provided a necessary reality check. And maybe the delayed realization that Hank Moody's story on "Californication" is meant to be a cautionary tale, and not an ideal, shocked me into submission to reality. I'm not sure. But now I'm actually writing shit. And it feels good. The world may never care about the product of my effort, but it sure as hell will never care about my idle fantasies and unrealized concepts.