Let’s Talk Creative Slumps

In every person’s life, there is a current that runs a course through and around the interior mind and the exterior events that make up the day-to-day. That current is the impulse to create. Some seasons we are more aware of it than in others, and the form of our individual creations need not and should not look the same. 

What a wonder it is that we have music-makers and culinary experts and people who craft quietly at their homes. We have tech designers and fashion trend-setters and community builders. Every medium and material you could imagine sparks curiosity and ideas from one person to the next. 

Is that not such a gift to humanity?

The gift that was given to me, specifically, was the impulse to write. To take characters and worlds I’ve developed in my head and give them a place to live and play on paper. Or even the under-developed things, those fragmented scenes and themes bouncing around my head that don’t leave so demand my attention. 

Reading has a lovely way of fueling my writing. I tend to collect quotes that I return to from time to time when my desire to create needs inspiration or guidance. Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet (1929) is one of those that I pulled quite a few nuggets of wisdom from when I read it in the spring of 2020. It was as if Rilke had not originally doled out advice to an aspiring poet and Austrian soldier but rather to me, speaking directly to my worries and questions. If that’s not a sign of a good book, I don’t know what is.

In one of his letters, he addresses whether the young man’s poems are “good,” as that’s a concern of the soldier’s. Publishers have nothing but rejection, comparing the poems to other’s is defeating, and the young man can’t seem to find solid ground to view his work from.

Rilke says no, give up such subjectivity and outward vision. “Good” writing is not the objective nor the way to a fruitful writing life. Rilke suggests, if you’re looking for feedback to justify your writing, you must turn your gaze inward. 

He says, “Go within. Search for the cause, find the impetus that bids you write. Put it to this test: Does it stretch out its roots in the deepest place of your heart? [...] Above all, in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? Dig deep into yourself for a true answer. And if it should ring its assent, if you can confidently meet this serious question with a simple, ‘I must,’ then build your life upon it.”

I am most restless and my most irritating self when I’m not regularly engaging with my faith and my writing. These are the things most deeply rooted in my heart, and I’m reflecting on it today because I know the world gives those who create abundant opportunities to be told your craft is not good enough. Or perhaps there have been no opportunities for it to even be considered and given the attention you strive for. 

As Rilke said, seeking that outward validation of what you produce cannot be the standard by which you decide whether or not you should create at all.

I have a spreadsheet for each of my manuscripts to track which agents I’ve queried for representation, and it’s meant to be color-coded to denote what the outcomes are. Right now, it’s different shades of red, depending upon if I never heard back at all, if I received a gentle let-down email, or if someone requested more pages to read yet, ultimately, said no. In a more hopeful world, there would be a light shade of green for at least one agent, indicating there’s active interest and consideration. A girl can and will dream. 

I’d be lying to claim I enjoy this piece of being a writer. Rejection, quite simply, never feels good.

Still, I write. Still, I’m currently querying more agents and sitting down every day to meet my word goal. Because what’s so deeply rooted in my heart would not let me rest, if I let it wither.

In the grand scheme of things, I’m still relatively young, and there’s not an expiration date on when one of my works could be published. That’s one of my favorite aspects of this field. Someone could look at an author fresh out of undergrad and be encouraged, thinking, “That could be me.” Just as you, a writer who’s faced countless dead ends, could look at a weathered soul whose debut novel comes out when they’re seventy, thinking, “That could be me, too.”

Possibility exists when you’re a creator. Everything in its time, no? I keep reminding myself that Bilbo Baggins was fifty when he wished Gandalf a “Good morning” and adventure ensued. Reading Mo Rocca’s Roctogenarians: Late in Life Debuts, Comebacks, and Triumphs (2024) is a testament to the truth that it’s never too late for a dream to be fulfilled, and, if you’re in need of that encouragement, I highly recommend you read it.

I also believe it’s important to know and embrace what’s rooted in your heart on days like these. Days that are full of trouble and in a world that gives us plenty to scream and rage at. The world has enough anger and injustice to go around. What it needs is more joy. It needs beauty. What people need are things that bring them rest so they can not be defeated by the world.

There is courage in pressing on in your craft, even when it may seem you’re writing into the void or feel unseen. Not everyone’s going to “get” your art. Chances aren’t on sale at the store. Courage, bravery, determination are all friends to hold onto. You gotta have a little fire, even if you’re the only one sitting around it.

There’s a snippet of truth I’d like to share from Madeline Miller’s Circe (2018), and it’s from a chapter when the titular character has a significant interaction with the great inventor from mythology, Daedalus. He’s approaching her in an amorous way, and Circe is surprised he would make such a bold move. Not because she dislikes him (quite the contrary, actually) but because that’s not how he’d come across up until then.

Circe realizes, though, that it makes absolute sense because Daedalus is not a meek, pitiful creature of a man. He carries himself with subtlety and quiet ambition. He’s the brain behind masterful works. After all, she says, “Timidity creates nothing.”

Timidity. Creates. Nothing.

To embark on a project takes some sort of ego, some voice within you stating that you can, indeed, do the thing you’re envisioning. It doesn’t say you’ll perfect it first go. It doesn’t say everyone else will praise your genius. It’s simple boldness that says, I can and I will.

You need that strength to carry momentum when it seems like the well of creativity has dried up or a piece of feedback knocks you down or you realize halfway through pivoting is necessary. 

You are allowed to be unafraid and daring. You can start any time, and you can take your time. Seek out your roots and don’t be surprised when they find you first.

Happy writing—happy creating—friends.

Catch you next week!