SPinning the M134: How Every Shot Counts

by Doc Ed Scholz

I realized it in the middle of chaos, the way you notice the spin of an M134 Minigun in slow motion—the barrels blurring, the rhythm relentless, every shot a pulse of intention. That’s what reputation feels like in creative work: a torrent of attempts, visible and loud, some hitting, some missing, all leaving traces you can’t ignore.

I have a client who’s talented—does musical acts for groups of a hundred, fans certainly, high energy—but he’s never known the joy of magnetic, crazy fame. Not the kind where the room itself seems to pulse with your presence.

I have. Back in university, I ran for class president. One thousand students, seven other candidates. Every day, three times a week, those students would chant my name: Ed, Ed, Ed, fists in the air, up and down, clapping, cheering, rhythm of my name filling the hall. At the beginning of every class, I would step up, address the audience briefly, and then let the professor take over. And I thought nothing of it. Just a little fun and games. But to feel that kind of attention, to have that room vibrating with your name—even in jest—is a strange, fantastic thrill. Magnetic. Electric. That’s the kind of presence that makes failure feel like an invisible cost rather than a threat. That’s the M134 firing at full tilt, and everyone notices.

I had another client once, bright, talented, terrified of long shots. “I don’t want to try,” they said. “It might destroy my reputation.”

I understood. Nobody wants to look foolish. Nobody wants failure flashing in public like a neon sign. But the irony struck me like the M134’s spin: failure doesn’t destroy reputation. Avoiding risk does.

I discovered this quietly, accidentally, while chasing an opportunity for a client. They didn’t even know it existed yet. Like firing blind, like tossing sparks into a dark room, hoping one would ignite. And then it became clear: the hits weren’t the only thing that mattered. Every shot that misses still counts. Every miss is a heartbeat, a signal that says: I’m here. I’m serious. That’s how reputation is built—not by waiting for the perfect moment, but by moving in motion while the world watches.

One of the clearest examples came from a film opportunity. LGBTQ-friendly, looking for music, connected to a foundation helping young artists. Perfect. Doors could have opened. Relationships could have formed. But my client didn’t have a SOCAN profile. I told them to get one. They didn’t. Opportunity froze. From their perspective, nothing happened. No embarrassment, no risk. But what really died was reputation in motion. Opportunity, patient and waiting, never met them. Even failure wouldn’t have hurt. Submitting, pitching, being politely rejected—that’s how you show up. Not acting? That’s invisible failure. Silent. Unseen. Devouring potential while the world moves on.

Nobody hits superstardom fully formed. Lady Gaga fell flat hundreds of times: signed and dropped by Def Jam, dozens of poorly attended gigs, dismissed as too weird, too unmarketable, reinventing herself after every rejection. Those failures didn’t hurt her—they built her. Persistence, resilience, willingness to show up—that’s what people noticed. That’s the M134 in action: hundreds of misses, one visible hit, and suddenly the hit looks inevitable because of all the groundwork behind it.

Every pitch, every attempt, every spark tossed into the dark became more than an attempt to succeed—it became evidence of seriousness, of presence. Reputation isn’t avoiding failure; it’s moving in motion. Some shots miss. Some hit. One hit can change everything. But the misses are never wasted. They build rhythm. They leave a trace. They announce you exist in a world that might otherwise never notice.

So if you’re worried about reputation, don’t stop taking shots. Fire in bursts. Miss publicly. Learn. Adapt. Keep going. Because in creative work, the alternative—never trying—is far worse than falling ever could be. Every failure leaves a mark, but invisibility leaves nothing at all. And that is the quiet death no one ever sees coming.