Learning to navigate the ebb and flow of creative work

A creative project is seldom a linear start-to-finish.

Often, the process of creating something is festooned with periods of stillness, which greatly contrast flow-states of productivity we tend to expect ourselves to always be in.

This is a lesson I am living today.

I’ve always held a temperament of wanting to plan and be in control of what happens next. I’ve taken comfort in a linear method where I set a goal and implement the required steps to see it through. No pause. Keep moving.

This is the mindset I believed I needed to write a book.

“Books don’t write themselves,” I often said to myself. Keep showing up no matter what. It’s the only way to turn the dream of writing a book into a reality.

For a while, I had no trouble showing up. The work flowed and I immensely enjoyed the process. Everything seemed to be going according to plan.

Until I got to a point where I couldn’t continue the momentum.

My inner perfectionist rose to the surface, over-analysing every word I had lovingly written. Through the perfectionist’s glasses, my work looked painfully rudimentary and inadequate. Sentences had to be reworked. Sections had to be cut. Passages had to be added.

At first, I wholeheartedly embraced the role of being the devil’s-advocate editor. I was excited by the changes I believed needed to be made and I looked forward to how they would transform the book.

As I went through the motions of making changes, new challenges emerged.

The book I’m writing draws upon a lot of painful memories and trauma. Spinning up the first draft felt like therapy. I was able to see things differently as I processed through the creative outlet, and I felt relieved I was finally giving myself space to heal. But when it came to editing and restructuring, it felt akin to scratching scabs. I watched blood ooze from the wounds all over again.

I needed a break.

I needed to respect the grieving process in that it’s far from linear. I had to be gentle with myself and turn my attention to the energy healing path, which had been calling my name for quite some time.

The more I learn about energy healing, the more I realise that everything we do is, in some way, an energetic exchange.

There’s so much more to writing a book than merely confining oneself to the desk until finished. The intention we use to guide our actions seeps into our tone and rings loud and clear to the receiver.

I want to be mindful of my underlying motivations and ensure they’re for the highest good. I don’t want to risk setting up an ill-spirited exchange. I don’t want to push through with a project for the sake of “getting it done” or because I feel I must prove myself.

I want it to feel organic and I want people who read it to feel enlivened by it.

To set up this ideal exchange, a break is necessary. I need to focus on healing myself, be clear on what I want to say and how I want people to feel after reading it.

So, while I’m no longer entrenched in the word-writing weeds, I haven’t abandoned the project.

The project has just been left to simmer to allow the best flavour to emerge.