Hierarchy vs. Territory (and why My Score is a dojo)

In The War of Art, Steven Pressfield warns artists against defining themselves hierarchically—constantly looking up and down, measuring success by comparison, and evaluating every move by the attention it draws. It’s a trap. And I’ve stepped in it more than once.

In a hierarchy, worth is measured vertically. Someone is above you, someone is below. Every decision, every gesture becomes a calculation: Will this raise my status? Will they approve?

It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s subtle—checking who else is tagged in a post, wondering why someone else got the gig, feeling like your inbox defines your momentum. In a hierarchy, we stop looking inward and start looking upward—to see what we’re missing—and downward, to reassure ourselves we’re at least ahead of someone.

And the trap is: even when you climb a little, the goalposts move. Recognition lasts a day. Envy returns tomorrow. You shift the target. You invent new comparisons where you obviously come out on top—because it’s unbearable otherwise.

The Hierarchy Always Scrolls

For me, it often happened on social media—especially during dry spells. When I haven’t had work in a while and someone else posts a photo from the studio I almost worked at, celebrating the job I lost. Not because I failed. Not because they beat me. Just… because that’s how things shook out.

It’s brutal—if you play the short game.

But over time, I’ve learned to zoom out. If I define my worth by a single project, or my place in the ecosystem this month, I’m guaranteed to ride the highs and crash with the lows.

If, instead, I look at my life as the game—like Cal Newport’s slow productivity, or Bill Gates’ reminder that we overestimate what we can do in a day and underestimate what we can do in a year—then I’m okay. The long game is less thrilling, but it’s also less cruel.

The Territory doesn’t Scroll. It Waits.

A territory, as Pressfield defines it, is personal. It’s the space you return to, not to win, but to work. It doesn’t care about your résumé. It only cares if you show up.

I do.

My mornings aren’t a curated collage of incense, journaling, and matcha meditation. But the way I step into my workspace each day is consistent. The rhythm, the order, the sense of entering my room. My dojo.

This is where I fight resistance. Not others. Just my own will to avoid the work.

Neil Gaiman has a garden pavilion where he allows himself only two things: 1) write or 2) do nothing. That’s it. That’s territorial thinking. No emails. No phone. No “quick” admin tasks. Just presence—or honest emptiness. That structure isn’t punishment. It’s trust. Trust that if you stay long enough, the work will meet you there.

I’ve come to see my own studio the same way. Some mornings I stare at a single voicing for minutes. Other days I sprint through three pages. But the rule is the same: show up. Do the work. Or do nothing. Just don’t fake it.

Progress without Permission

Some days I don’t have client work. That doesn’t mean I don’t work. I train. I practice orchestration by hand. I refine my templates. I rebuild articulation galleries. I engrave a score no one will see—just to make it better.

That’s the quiet power of a territory: It returns exactly what you put in. Not more. Not less. No applause. No punishment. Just a

Ego is the Voice of Hierarchy

Ego tells me: You don’t need to do anything today. There’s no deadline.

But if I listened to that voice, I’d never do anything until the last minute. And everything would crumble.

And the moment I take the bait—choose to skip the work—it comes right back with a sneer: Well, of course you’re not getting better. Or worse: Obviously others get the job. You’re not even working.

Ego also says: This isn’t as good as your last arrangement.

And I have to talk back: Not every piece has to be a masterpiece. But this one deserves to be good.

That’s not humility. That’s responsibility.

It’s not about me. It’s about the work.

If I were the last person on earth, would I still do this?

Yes. I’d still build the crescendo carefully. I’d still voice the woodwinds just right. I’d still notate those pesky aleatoric boxes.

Because these things bring me back to center.

That’s my territory.