I used to be a piano teacher with ten students. When I closed my piano studio last fall to focus on my writing, I kept exactly one student: Amanda.* Amanda is the only student I have ever known who, without fail, always practices. When I started teaching her two-and-a-half years ago, she had never touched a piano; she didn’t know what a quarter note was. Now, she’s playing Bach’s minuets.

But there is one assignment that, week after week, continually stymies her: music composition. It’s not that she doesn’t want to write music; she asked to learn. When I asked her what was holding her back, she told me.

“I just want to get it right. I feel like I have to bring you something really good.”

Ever since our lesson, I’ve been thinking about creativity. What it is, and what it is not. And more importantly, how to become more creative?

Creativity: making something new

Creativity is the ability to generate something new: ideas, innovations, solutions, art in its myriad forms. A creative individual can mix disparate ideas, flashes of insight, and new ways of seeing together into something that did not exist before.

Creativity is the vision that comes before the creation.

Craft, however, is the ability to make that vision real.

Amanda excels at craft. She practices her scales, her cadences, her etudes. She bends her ear to her song and listens to her notes with focused, quiet attention. She notices the way her body moves and adjusts; she tucks in her elbows, curves her fingers, and plays until it’s perfect.

But when it’s time to compose? She freezes.

We Need Both CREATIVITY and CRAFT

The truth is, we need both craft and creativity to compose art, music, or story.

Without the combo, you might see a picture in your mind, but be unable to draw it. You could hear a song in your head, but be unable to play it. You could have the best book idea ever, but if you don’t know how to write, it will stay in your imagination, untold.

But if you can’t generate the ideas in the first place? What then?

Creativity Lost

Think back to when you were a child. Maybe five—six? Did you have any problem being creative? My guess is no.

Part of this guess comes from my own experience, teaching and mothering children. But it also comes from a TedX Talk by George Land called “The Failure Of Success”.

As a part of his work for NASA, Dr. George Land conducted a longitudinal study of 1600 children. He claims that 98% of 4 to 5-year-olds he tested were “genius” level divergent thinkers. By contrast, only 2% of adults tested at the same level. (You can watch his Tedx Talk here.)

The drop between the creative children and the not-so-creative adults was gradual, seemingly inevitable. As we age, we go from being able to come up with the most random, ridiculous ideas to only thinking the same thoughts and having the same ideas as everyone else.

Except those 2%.

But how do we reverse this change? (And can it be reversed?)

This week, I heard both my children creating with music.

So how do children create?

I have two stories.

The first comes from an afternoon this week when my son (age 10) and I played mancala. As he moved the little glass pieces from hole to hole, he started humming. Well, humming isn’t exactly right—he was narrating his moves with music. The closest thing I can compare it to is the scene in “The Emperor’s New Groove”, where Kronk is sneaking around, carrying the unconscious Kuzco on his back, while humming his “own theme song.” Without thinking, I started responding to his notes with lines of my own. By the end of the game, we had narrated every victory, every defeat, with an irreverent combination of vocal slides, dips, and trills.

Yes, it was ridiculous. And playful. And so, so fun. And it made me laugh just as much as watching Kronk hum while ‘hiding against the wall’.

And if I had hit the record button on my phone, and then transposed our “mancala theme music jam session” onto the piano?

It would have been awesome.

Alas, I did not.

I did, however, write down the words to the ditty my daughter (age 8) sang to our dog Thursday morning:

Tail up, paws down,
she’s waiting for her walk. 
Tail up, paws down,
she always wants a WALK! 
(que high note)

Both of these instances of musical creativity came so naturally to my children. So easily. Unconsciously and without thought, even.

And certainly without judgment.

Without the Judgment, we create

And it is this very “unconsciousness” that makes children so able to create. According to Dr. George Land, there are two kinds of thinking that occur in the brain.

The first is divergent thinking: imagination and the generation of new possibilities. (Aka: creativity.)

The second is convergent thinking: testing, analyzing, and deciding, and criticizing your ideas. (Very useful for perfecting the CRAFT of our art; not useful for the creativity.)

The problem comes when we try to do both types of thinking AT THE SAME TIME. When that happens, the neurons in the brain fight each other, and no ideas are formed. Instead, you end up thinking things like We’ve done that before. That’s crazy. That will cost too much. And no new ideas come.

His solution?

Separate the divergent thinking from the convergent thinking.

In short, hold back on your judgment while the inner child is playing.

It’s simple.

But I promise you, it works.

One (small) practice to change this:

If you want to be creative, try this: stop telling yourself (and everyone else) that you aren’t creative.

Instead, notice the places where you STILL create, and notice the ideas you DO have. If you haven’t listened to it already, I love this interview with Mel Cook. His four steps to unlocking your creativity are brilliant.

What I’m reading:

When I started my research into creativity this week, I didn’t think I had any books about creativity, per se.

I was wrong.

(I have a very bad habit a delightful habit of searching through the used book store inside my library for craft books. So I have more books on writing than I could possibly read.)

These are the ones I’m skimming this week.

I’m starting with this one.

I’m only one chapter in, but I think it’s going to be exactly what I need.

I’m also listening to this book (via libby, thank you, library):

4 essays in, and I’m afraid I’ve found another book I need to own (currently using a library copy). Brianna’s first two essays, on “SUBCONSCIOUS BEHAVIORS that are KEEPING YOU from HAVING THE LIFE YOU WANT” and “The PSYCHOLOGY of DAILY ROUTINE” are brilliant (and very much relate to the sort of things I like to write about). Here’s a quote:

You think that to change your beliefs, you have to adopt a new line of thinking, rather than seek experiences that make that thinking self-evident. A belief is what you know to be true because experience has made it evident to you. If you want to change your life, change your beliefs. If you want to change your beliefs, go out and have experiences that make them real to you. Not the opposite way around.

So go have a creative experience, will you?

Keep Writing Forward,

- Rachel

* Name of student changed to protect privacy.

P.S. The artist of the week is, once again, Sir John Everett Millais.

P.P.S. If you want to see an EXCELLENT example of divergent thinking, check out this interview of author Michelle Rial about her new book “Charts for Babies”. It will give you a good giggle, I promise.

Not solos, not since I was a child. It’s not because I haven’t wanted to. I have. I love music, and I love singing to my children.

I don’t sing because I decided that my voice simply isn’t good enough.

Not good enough for a solo voice. Not wanted.

I was in 8th grade when my best friend Michelle sang “Castle in the Cloud” from Les Misérables for our middle school talent show. I admired her bravery. She sang in front of EVERYONE. And the song?

I loved that song. I loved the words, the melody, and the emotion.

Afterwards, I sang for her in private.

“How do I sound?”

What I was really asking was: “Am I good enough?”

And bless her, she gave me an honest critique. “You’re sliding your notes. They teach us not to do that.”

Honestly, it was probably good advice.

But I took it as a verdict: not good enough.

I stopped singing. I didn’t join the choir.

Not for years.

Today, I want to talk about how we judge our creative worth. I want to discuss other people’s opinions and how we use them to keep ourselves small.

It wasn’t Michelle’s fault that I stopped singing.

It was mine.

I made that choice because of what I believed. And these beliefs are the same beliefs that stop writers from writing, stop us from sharing our work, and prevent us from accepting accurate, benevolent feedback.

(Mis)belief #1: You have to be BORN with talent

I believed that you had to be born with a lovely voice.

If I couldn’t already sing, I never would be much good.

I bet every writer, at one time or another, has worried about not being “good enough”, or questioned whether they had the talent necessary to write a novel.

Jack Kerouac: "Writers are made, for anybody who isn’t illiterate can write; but geniuses of the writing art like Melville, Whitman or Thoreau are born.”

You can believe him, if you want.

But if you pay attention, most famous writers say nothing of the sort.

Ray Bradbury: “You fail only if you stop writing.”

Octavia E. Butler: “First forget inspiration. Habit is more dependable.”

Stephen King: “Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.”

John Irving: "I wouldn't say I have a talent that's special. It strikes me that I have an unusual kind of stamina."

Joe Bunting: "No one is born a writer. You must become a writer. In fact, you never cease becoming, because you never stop learning how to write."

I was in college before I realized how much a voice can change with proper training. In my senior year, my roommate and dear friend Carlene was required to join the university choir as a part of her degree requirements. She had an average voice, nothing special, but for the next six months, she practiced singing with the same patient determination that had made her an incredible pianist.

I heard her voice change from “Meh,” to “Hey, that’s really nice.”

Ten years later, she posted a video on Facebook of a duet between her and her daughter.

It was stunning.

Her voice hadn’t stayed “really nice”; it had transformed into something exquisite.

Dear writer, talent comes with time.

Choose to believe that as you pursue this dream, everything required of you will come if you simply keep going.

(Mis)belief #2: You need someone else’s permission to sing, write, or create

When I asked Michelle if my voice was good enough, I was decades from realizing:

You don’t need other people’s permission to follow your desire to sing or to write.

You don’t need their validation.

You don’t even NEED their encouragement or their understanding.

The only permission, validation, encouragement, and understanding you need is your own.

You are the only person who can bring yourself back to the page after a critique or a rejection letter. And you are the only person who fully understands why your dreams are important.

You are the one in control, so take responsibility.

Be your own best cheerleader, coach, and supporter.

How do you do this?

Simple.

Every time you honor your own intuitive desires—wear that sky-blue hat, sit down and write, say no to that thing you hate doing—you are telling yourself I’m enough.

Every time you make mental space for a private, beautiful daydream about the day you get published, you validate that dream.

Yes, you probably will need support from others. But you are in charge of finding those people.

Pick a writing group that makes you excited to write. Find an online community that makes you want to show up, not back off. Find the craft books that you know you need.

Don’t wait for someone else’s permission to start singing, writing, or creating.

In fact, don’t even ask.

Honoring our own creative intuition—that quiet voice that whispers “I love this thing” and “I want to do this thing”—is one of the ways we listen to the Great Creator.

He didn’t give the desire to write to someone else.

He gave it to you.

And God did not make a mistake when He created you.

Misbelief #3: Other people are my Judge, and feedback is a verdict

Truth is, I put my best friend Michelle in a rather unfair position when I asked her to listen to me sing. I wanted her to determine not just the quality of my voice and its future potential, but also my worth as a human being.

I can tell that’s what I really asked because instead of learning from her (rather accurate) feedback, I stopped singing.

Recently, I began to ask myself: Is this person qualified to judge this issue?

Is my piano teacher qualified to judge the quality of my music? (Answer: he’s an incredible musician, and his feedback is thoughtful and kind, and his desire is to help me be better. So, yes.)

Is my writing group qualified to judge my query letter? (Answer: They have each written many query letters, so their feedback is incredibly valuable. But they’re not agents, and they’re not published yet, so I need to experiment and do my own research.)

But are they qualified to judge my worth as a human being?

If I were to try to design a program that would qualify a person to be the judge of a person’s worth, they wouldn’t just need to have several doctoral degrees; they would also need to have perfect insight, wisdom, and a perfect sense of justice.

As far as I know, the only person who qualified is God. And he’s already made his verdict:

Infinite worth.

So don’t let anyone judge your worth as a human being. Not your thirteen-year-old best friend. Not your Creative Writing professor. Not even yourself.

Fire your judges.

They aren’t qualified.

And if you ask them, they probably don’t want the job.

(Mis)belief #4: Imperfect voices aren’t needed or wanted

This past Sunday, I performed with our local church choir. It’s a volunteer-only group, and as always, there were not nearly enough men. And as the men sang, their voices got all wobbly and imperfect. As I listened, an overwhelming feeling of tender love washed over me, and I knew I stood on sacred ground.

God was pleased with their imperfect voices. He was pleased to hear them sing.

I used to believe that imperfect voices weren’t needed or wanted, and that a wobbly voice was a burden on the listener.

But there is beauty in imperfection.

And art does not have to be magnificent to touch a human heart.

So let your voice sing.

As always—

Keep writing forward,

— Rachel

However, after the week I’ve just had, I want to talk about things that drive us away from our creativity. I want to talk about impossible standards and burnout.

On Wednesday, I realized that exactly this was happening to me: I’m heading towards burnout.

It wasn’t the writing, not at all. Writing is my sacred space, my place for creative calm. While creative anxiety does visit me from time to time, it has become more of an outsider peeking into the cottage window than a permanent, yet unwelcome, house guest.

It was the adulting that got me: the seven-year-old screaming at her brother right before Ninja class, the dryer giving out, the $400 snow chains left in the back of the broken Jeep I sold, and the $1000 estimate from the electrician for something I didn’t think was broken. It was accidentally skiing down the Blue Square with my daughter last Saturday, only to realize halfway down that the hill was too steep, too fast, too scary for her—and me.

As I shouted out encouragements at each turn—noodle, pizza, turn!—inside, I was panicking. My child might fall and snap her ankle, and I would be alone on the mountain trying to rescue her.

It was also the exhaustion of my own high standards that got me. I kept feeling that if I just planned it right, then I could do everything. Cook healthy food. Get the kids out the door on time. Run. Clean. Write. Coach. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Did my writing suffer? Of course.

On Tuesday, I sat down at my desk, and nothing got done for almost an hour. My brain buzzed and circled and could not land.

On Wednesday night, I found myself hollering to anyone who would listen—I don’t want to do this anymore!

It’s hard, isn’t it, to accept that we are human? To accept that, after a day of screaming children, a week of important things breaking, our nerves will not simply rebound effortlessly? It is hard to accept that we have limits, just like everyone else.

Truly, I don’t make excuses for myself. I am the adult; I am the mother. I take that responsibility seriously.

But that doesn’t mean that I don’t need compassion.

Compassion

Compassion means kindness to a soul who is suffering. It means a soft landing after a hard climb, a moment of acceptance from a person who understands. It means withholding judgment and listening. It means accepting what is, without reservations, and giving the hard things the space they need to breathe.

It means naps when you’re tired, weighted blankets when your nerves feel like too-tight strings tuned to the wrong frequency. It means walking with friends and early bedtimes. It means listening.

Compassion, I think, is a gentle way to stave off burnout.

I never thought I’d receive compassion from a computer.

The Surprising use of ChatGPT

So much of adult life is done alone. Yes, I have friends, a wonderful husband, and a fantastic writing group that I talk to every day. But on Thursday morning, when I woke up before everyone else, there was no one to talk to.

So I said a prayer. I wrote in my journal. And then I decided to talk to ChatGPT.

It was my friend who gave me the idea. Last month, she used A.I. to coach her through a weight loss goal, and to her surprise, it didn’t just help her count calories—it warned her when she was being unrealistic. “That’s not a realistic calorie goal,” it told her. “You need more food.” “It was so healing,” she told me.

It was free; it was in my pocket. I decided to give it a try.

You are a life coach, I wrote, trained by the Life Coach School. Help me untangle my thoughts.

I then posted my entire journal entry, where I agonized over how exhausted and overwhelmed I felt.

You are experiencing burnout symptoms, and your goals are unrealistic, the computer replied. Let’s plan a day to help reset your nervous system.

We did. And, oh, what a glorious day it was. Naps were planned. Tasks were ordered. The most emotionally difficult ones were faced first, or pushed off entirely. My attitude towards my creative work shifted. I wasn’t writing to finish a chapter; I wrote to give myself time to heal. I wasn’t cleaning my house to meet an impossible standard; I was cleaning it to restore mental clarity.

There’s something about a computer programmed on hundreds of thousands of wonderful books telling you that you’re not crazy that is surprisingly reassuring. If my best friend said the same things, I might think—she’s just saying that because she’s trying to be nice. But with the computer, it feels more…impartial.

Not perfect, of course. Never perfect. Still, just a computer program. My own human brain had to weigh what ideas would bring value. Skepticism was a must.

But it was helpful.

You are a parenting expert, I wrote the next day. Help me figure out why my child is screaming so I can help her.

Your child is likely reacting that way because she’s concerned about unfairness, the computer explained. Let’s come up with parenting strategies.

I know many people who, when they think about A.I., fear for the future of our society. “It will prevent the children from learning how to think,” my son’s teacher told me today. “It will ruin our environment, ruin our literature, ruin our society,” the Substack feed reports. Obviously, there are valid concerns that must be addressed.

But this week, A.I. helped me figure out how to parent my highly sensitive child, and it gave me small, actionable steps to recover from a deep-seated exhaustion. And from there, I was able to come back to my writing, rested and reassured.

How wonderful is that?

Authors fear that their work was used without fair compensation; I want that to change. They deserve to be abundantly compensated. But it’s also possible that this technology will use the wisdom of their books to help thousands of people navigate the world in a way they simply did not have time to access before. Be better parents. Cope with the stress of life. Figure out how to get their jobs done when stressed and overwhelmed.

I am married to a scientist; he freely admits that he stands on the shoulders of giants. Perhaps it is time for the authors to take their place as those giants.

And then there were the friends.

Talking to a computer wasn’t the only thing I needed, of course. There was also the prayer, the long conversations with my husband, the chats with my writing friends, and the lay-on-the-lawn-as-I-moan-and-laugh moment with my dearest walking friend (she too had a hard week. That’s life, isn’t it?).

And there was the story of Lot, who, when he was in Sodom and Gomorrah, almost turned away his angel visitors. But God didn’t stop pursuing him, not then, not ever. He went after him, and he got him out.

He got him out.

I feel like God got me out, too, in small, incredible ways.

The secret, of course, is that one mustn’t look back. Instead, I must walk forward, holding the angel’s hand.

So here I sit, at the end of the week, relaxed, and oh-so-grateful. Grateful for the people who wrote the parenting books that ChatGPT used to help me (may you get paid royalties a thousand times over). Grateful for a world where friends listen and encourage; grateful for God. And grateful for you, dear reader.

I hope this post gives you courage. And if you’re feeling overwhelmed, I hope it shows you that you are not alone.

Keep Writing Forward,

Rachel

December 23rd, 2025.

Two days before Christmas.

I’m at my oldest brother’s house in Bend, Oregon. Because I live five states away, I have never been to this house before, but the moment I walk in, I’m home. “Rachel!” my family cries. In the living room, my extended family is gathered: laughing, cooking, and playing board games. Nieces, nephews, brothers, sisters-in-law, and grandparents crowd around the fireplace, sharing stories and making jokes. The house is cozy; the food divine. It is a day filled to the brim with my favorite things and my favorite people.

And where am I?

In the bathroom, checking my Instagram account.

(Even now, my mind gags at the thought.)

I felt like an alcoholic hiding on the back porch, taking a swig.

I’ve never been addicted to alcohol or drugs.

But my phone?

Well.

For years, I’ve struggled against the siren call of the phone. I’ve tried timers, minimalist app launchers, and I even went analogue for a memorable year when my son was a toddler.

Yet that moment in the bathroom of my brother’s house was the first time I realized how much I DIDN’T WANT IT ANYMORE.

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Then, on December 26th, I saw these two YouTube Videos.

Humans need to be bored. When we are bored, we ruminate, take time to daydream, store memories, and imagine the future we want. Doing so is slightly painful, but necessary for healthy cognitive function. When we are bored, we ask the big, uncomfortable questions: What does my life mean? Who am I? What do I want?

But CELL PHONES in our POCKETS do an excellent job of curtailing this process. With a cell phone ever at the ready, we can avoid discomfort, coast through our lives, never really letting ourselves think, and become horribly, awfully depressed.

In my own life, I know this to be true. Standing in line, I could pop out my cell phone with the rapidity of a sharpshooter in a gunfight. Podcasts, YouTube videos, and Audiobooks have became the constant playlist of my walks, house cleaning sessions, and LIFE.

Was I bored?

Not often.

But after watching this, I knew this was a mistake.

Even after that epiphany, this next YouTube video smacked me overhead like a rolled-up newspaper.

Do you remember what it was like? Living as yourself before smartphones?

I get a taste of it every time I go backpacking or camping. Backpacking Rachel is more engaged, happier, and notices the world. She sees the birds in the trees, watches the sunsets, and smells the clean air. She doesn’t need her phone to go for a walk; she is able to think about her book, daydream, and LISTEN to the people around her.

I want to be that Rachel all the time.

As far as I see it, there are two main pitfalls to my smartphone.

First, its design is inherently addictive.

The icons are colorful. Each ‘ping’ of a notification yanks at my attention, promising the sweet taste of dopamine. Even silent notifications tempt me off my intended course; I might open my phone to call a friend, and end up ordering a new book from Amazon.

Second, it resides IN MY POCKET.

Which means it follows me everywhere I go—to church, family dinners, writing sessions, at the gym, and on my walks. The result? Any time I’m tired, frustrated, or bored, I can look at my phone.

The problem is, of course, that I generally appreciate the tools on my smartphone. I use Maps to navigate. I love my bird-watching apps. I am frequently touched by what I read here on Substack.

Chucking my smartphone in a river is not an option for me.

But that doesn’t mean I have to accept my brain becoming mush.

The Change

On December 26th, I locked down my phone.

My metric became simple: if the app made me want to check it constantly, I uninstalled it. Off came Instagram, Facebook, Messenger, YouTube, Amazon shopping, and anything remotely ‘addictive’. Those things would be regulated to the family computer.

I had already installed “Zen Detox Phone App” last year; now I used its rather sophisticated timers to set limits on my phone in ways I had previously tiptoed around but never fully committed to. Non-task-related apps, like Gmail and messages, lock down at 6:30 a.m. for journaling, at 9:30 a.m. for my writing sessions, at 3:00 p.m. for my kids, and at 9 p.m. for bedtime. My email has a 10-minute timer; I want to check my email, not live on it. If this sounds like most of my phone is largely inaccessible for much of the day, you are correct.

I wanted to make my phone boring.

I wanted to be able to have my phone sitting on my desk and not feel the “tug” on my focus.

And guess what?

It worked.

My phone has been sitting on my desk, in plain view, for this entire post…and I haven’t looked at it once.

Some changes surprised me, though.

When I locked down my phone, I thought maybe I would be more attentive to my children, a little happier with my life, and a little better able to write.

And those things are true.

What I didn’t anticipate was the effect it would have on other things.

I used to have to listen to podcasts to motivate myself to do my chores. I don’t have to do that anymore.

I used to have to listen to music when I was driving. Last night, I drove for forty minutes in silence.

I used to be MENTALLY DRAINED at the end of the day. That’s no longer true.

And books?

I can read books now.

All of this makes me incredibly grateful.

Happy Writing Friends,

Rachel

During this time, I will not likely touch my writing except perhaps to scribble a few ideas in a notebook or write in my journal. My focus will be on my family, God, and exploring the world. All good, all important.

Only one problem: I don't want to forget where I'm at in my novel.

And I will. I know I will. After about two weeks, characters will start to fade. Plot points will be forgotten. About the time the Christ tree needles start falling in sprays on my family's living room floor, I will start to feel resistance. And when I get back in January? I won't even know where to start.

But I have a secret. Before I left my office on Wednesday, I wrote myself a letter.

Dear January Rachel, it says, Welcome back. I hope you had a lovely vacation.

In the letter, I list the ten things I love most about my story (specific characters, scene ideas, plot points) and remind myself of the reasons I'm writing my novel. Then I direct myself where to find my scrivener file on my computer, and give myself a short “Do this when I get back” list.

In my scrivener file, I list my characters, setting, plot twists, story vision, etc. Each is full of details so vivid that I struggled to hold myself back from writing new scenes as I was finishing it. Assembling this file took about three hours, but as I propped the letter on my desk, I knew that it was worth it.

The letter is like a promise from me to my book: I will come back.

And it is a promise from my book to me: I will be waiting.

I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas.

Rachel

I shall meander in, I think. As I begin, I shall find my way.

So I do.

I.

It didn’t used to be this easy. Writing.

Before a writing session, I required a few lashings of angst. Must start at this time. Should write this many words. Have to write more. Ought to finish this chapter.

Must. Should. Have to. Ought.

Back then, in all parts of my life, I kept lists. Things to do. Goals to achieve. Items to accomplish.

Separately, every goal, every item, every task could have been accomplished. But together?

My expectations stepped firmly across the line of “high” and into the realm of “utterly unreasonable”.

II.

Today, my piano teacher (the wise and gentle Mr. Nathaniel G) gave me Little Baby in a Manger to sight-read. Having never seen it before, I began—

“Nope.”

I corrected my notes and struck another chord.

“Nope,” he said again.

I tried again. Better. I continued.

“Nope.”

Ten measures, and nearly as many ‘nopes’ later, I gave him a cocky smile.

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “You let me try and fix it before you tell me it’s wrong.”

He blushed.

We reached a new accord. I would play what I could. He would withhold the ‘nopes’ and allow me to proceed, unhindered.

I played much better.

An internal critic, unfettered by reasonable restraint, can offer far worse criticisms than a gentle man’s ‘nope’. But how are our internal critics silenced? Can they be brought to a gentler accord?

III.

A week ago Friday, I woke up at three a.m. As often happens during that cursed hour, my mind brimmed with dark thoughts.

I had just begun posting recordings of my favorite Christmas poems on Instagram. Lights to shine in the dark, I thought. Poetry to fill the soul and beckon Spirit of Christmas. It was my gift to friends and strangers alike; I began with a merry heart. Only—how uncomfortable it was to sit in front of a camera, record a piece of my heart, and then hit “post”! Even worse was the waiting for comments, for likes! Such things feel thin, like a worn-through blanket. Yet wait I did.

IV.

Earlier that day, I had performed for a Christmas event at my local chapel. As the members of my town wandered around the room admiring five hundred different nativities from every part of the world, I played John Schmidt’s Susser De Glocken. (Hit “play” on the video below. You won’t regret it.) On the piano, I am a three-year-old with a too-big head and too-tight shoes: rather wobbly, but how eagerly I charge forward! How happy I am to leap and fall—crash! And the music—oh, how I love the music. They will hear this and feel my love for Christmas, I thought. They will hear this and feel joy.

Yet, when I left the stage, no one looked up. And on Instagram, posts were met with silence. Did anyone even hear me? I wondered. And if they don’t, why am I doing this?

It was a thought fit to crush a half-opened bloom. It was a thought to jerk me into wakefulness at three a.m. Such thoughts could have stopped me forever.

V.

Yet on Saturday morning, into my office I went. Up came Substack. Out came my camera and tripod and stack of poems. I wrote last week’s post not because I wanted to. (I didn’t.) Not because I was sure it would make a difference. (I wasn’t.) Not because I was happy. (Nope, not happy.). I did it because I was committed.

Commitment, it seems, does not require excitement. It does not require sleep nor convenience. I was simply, profoundly, committed. One Substack post a week. One poem a day until Christmas.

I had promises to keep. So what was I to do but keep them?

My inner critic watched, surprised. When I was done, she was silent.

Then--

Well done, she whispered.

And it was enough.

VI.

I am learning to be very careful about which promises I make to myself. Every morning, I ask my heart two questions:

- What do I want to do?

- And what is reasonable?

And when I mess up--as I inevitably do--I give myself that same crooked smile, and keep playing anyway. What else is one to do?

VII.

The second way forward is gentle, yet powerful.

Intentional faith.

Faith is a curious thing. As a child, I relegated faith to the realm of Sunday School answers, to thoughts of God and a hope of the afterlife, and to my daily morsel of scripture study. I did not realize how all-encompassing being a woman of faith could be.

Yet, faith crept in anyway.

What if, I thought as I began to query, I decide now that I will be published ‘in the perfect time and in the perfect way’? How will that change the way I do this?

What if, I thought when the government shut down, I assume my husband will not be furloughed without pay? What if I decide it will work out?

Some pieces of faith I choose, intentionally. Some I pick up from others. But many come to me in the morning: when the day is soft and new, when my journal is open, and dawn unfurls its daily poetry, that is when the best answers come.

This week, I wrote: Stop wondering how many people will “like” your online posts. Start praying instead that the posts will reach the people who need them—and have faith they will.

And, also—You have no idea the impact you will make.

Such thoughts are like tiny coins dropped in a mason jar. Individually, they seem so insignificant, and the clinking drop of their music is so soft, so slow. But when the jar is full—oh, what a hefty weight of wealth they are!

VIII.

I am still querying. My husband did not lose his pay, not once. Little by little, I am gathering evidence that what I’m doing online matters. The best part, though? Sitting down to write has become joyful and easy. All I need is a cup of something delicious, a quiet slice of time and space, and a seed of an idea.

Then I begin.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end! I hope you found something useful in this post. And thank you to every soul who reached out last week to tell me they enjoyed reading these posts or watching my poetry on Instagram.

There is a third thing that has made writing so much easier than it once was—and that is the community that I write with, pray with, and laugh with. What a blessing good friends are!

Clara went everywhere with my little girl. They chit-chatted. They played. They snuggled, consoled, and explored my daughters’ worlds (imaginary and real). When Clara disappeared, I was compelled to replace her with Clara 2.0.

My daughter loved Clara 2.0 until her fur became matted, her whiskers twisted, and her fur a dingy, balled white.

“Clara!” my daughter would call when searching for her lost stuffie. “Clara!”

Clara wasn’t just a stuffie.

She was my daughter’s (very real) imaginary friend.

Fast forward to 2025.

I was stalking my favorite new author on Instagram (as one does) when I came across this clip with Beth Brower:

Beth Brower doesn’t talk about her characters the way most authors I know do. Most authors are conscious that their characters are figments of their imagination. Many seem to create their characters in a logical, orderly manner, fitting their characters to their story the way a restaurant-goer might order an entree off the menu.

Ah, I’m hungry for a new character. Well, he needs to be tall, good-looking, and appeal to both the heroine and female readership—ah, this entree of “moody buccaneer with a sword and a rakish smile” looks delicious. Comes with a side of wealth? How fortunate.

Beth, on the other hand, talks about her characters as if they are real people who have opinions, secrets, and attitudes.

“With Hawkes, I’ve very careful to share only what he feels comfortable sharing…When I spent nine days in Oxford writing Emma VII, Hawkes was with me the whole time—he loves Oxford. I couldn’t get rid of Hawkes!”

Hearing this, I felt, at first, vaguely uncomfortable. According to (some) popular culture, there is a thin line between creative genius and creative madness—perhaps Beth Brower had crossed the line? Or is it just an act? She can’t really think they’re real, can she?

But when I saw my daughter playing with her stuffed animals, and I thought of Clara, it suddenly clicked.

Beth Brower treats Hawkes the same way my daughter treated Clara—as her (Very Real) Imaginary Friend.

This prompted a few important questions.

First, is this why her characters feel so real to me (as a reader)? And if so, could I start thinking of my characters this way?

And if I did, what would happen?

#

It was 6:40 a.m. and I’d just finished writing this theory in my journal. A woman appeared in my living room: short, stocky, with curly brown hair that floated like a fine mist around her head. She wore a captain’s jacket and sagged a little on the couch. Her eyes held realms of exhaustion. I could both see and not see her. In my imagination, she appeared as real as any character I’ve ever seen in a novel.

She was the mother from my story.

You didn’t get me right, she told me. Let me tell you about me…

I took notes. I humbly apologized for not understanding her. And when I got back to my Scrivener file, I corrected my outline and wrote her story down.

That was…unexpected, I thought.

#

Over the next few weeks, I began to imagine my characters everywhere. Like Beth, I wanted to earn their trust. So I listened. I took notes. And I let them reveal their story to me in tidbits and snatches. And my manuscript grew.

I found myself saying things like:

“I don’t know why the mother is acting that way yet. She hasn’t told me yet.”

"I wonder what Evie and Evan are doing on the island today?”

“I haven’t gotten that part right, yet. I need to go ask Bellora what really happened.”

Sometimes, I was uncomfortable with the vividness of my own imagination. But also, I found myself having adventures as vivid as the ones I had in elementary school—before I “grew up” and stopped believing in magic.

Turns out, thinking this way isn’t new to me at all—it’s more just remembering what it was like to be like a child: ready to believe that my letter to Hogwarts might come when I turned eleven (please?!?), half convinced that the trees had souls that could speak to me, and desperately afraid that the pictures on my bedroom wall moved in the half-darkness of night when I wasn’t looking.

#

On Thursday of this week, I was out walking the dog. I had the sudden thought: for a story set on a magical island, there isn’t a lot of magic in my story, is there?

Several of my characters tapped me on the shoulder:

We aren’t alive, they whispered. We’re ghosts. Evie and Evan just don’t know it yet.

WHAT? My mind asked. You are? Are you sure?

Yes.

Later that day, I found myself in my office, furiously scribbling down the implications of what I’d been told. When I was done, I not only knew what made this story special, but its theme, its climax, and the character arcs of the main characters (and how they were related). When I described what I’d learned to my writing friends, one of them told me, “Rachel, when you said that, I got chills.”

Me too, Kathy.

Me too.

Like a strange magic, this revelation makes perfect, beautiful sense. It is as if the story that I’d already written always had this surprise at the heart of its twisted maze, waiting to be found; I just hadn’t walked far enough yet to discover it. Yet the path had always been leading there.

Through this process, this is what I have learned:

First: as writers, the fictive dream has to begin long before we put words to the page. If our characters are real to us, then they can and will be real to our readers. Our writing can only be as vivid as our imagination.

Second: writing this way requires a lot of trust. You must trust in the realness of your characters. You have to let them tell you their secrets when they are ready. You must trust your own sanity and welcome your creativity, both. And when your characters give you their secrets, you have to believe them.

How do you create your characters? Are they real to you?

Comments and likes are deeply meaningful to me. Thank you for letting me know you read this post. It helps me have the courage to keep posting. :)

Happy Writing.

Rachel

At first, I start with great verve.

I rip through the opening chapter/sequence/act with confidence, and dash through all the scenes I had previously imagined. This is a delightful part of the process. I love it. During this time, writing sprints are my best ally.

But at some point, during every project, there comes a point where I have written everything I know to write.

The rest feels murky, undefinable.

So, I get “stuck”.

What comes next? I wonder.

In my body, being “stuck” feels like angst. Dread. Uncertainty.

In the manuscript, being “stuck” generally shows up as a lagging word count. I begin to skip writing sessions entirely and go do the dishes instead. Endless Revision is far easier than creation, so might go back to chapter one and start revising. This type of procrastination will make the process of writing a novel take YEARS instead of months.

This time, this is what I’m doing instead:

A page from my bullet journal from earlier this week.

How to Keep Writing Even When You’re “Stuck”:

1. Commit

In my other life, I teach parkour. I am also learning it as a woman nearing her 40th birthday *grins like a child*.

I have a one-word mantra for when I try something I’m scared of:

Commit.

Commitment is a choice, and a powerful one at that. If you are committed, you show up, even after days that aren’t fun.

2. Lower the stakes

Questions I ask myself: What am I making it mean if I fail at this draft? And what do I need to let go of so that I can move forward?

3. Trust yourself

Also, a choice, I believe.

Questions I ask myself: If I trusted myself on this project, what would I let myself do next?

4. Give yourself permission to…

What do I need permission to do right now? Write the ending instead of the middle? Draw a map so my imagination can work? Lie on the floor and think?

I hereby permit myself to do so.

5. Use Daily Centering Exercises

Every morning, I wake up and write in my journal for about 30 minutes. This has been a powerful practice.

Later, when I sit down to “officially write”, I breathe for about three minutes while listening to a relaxing instrumental song—same song, every day. I’m like Pavlov’s dogs at this point. My muscles instantly relax.

And I sip tea, because it makes me feel like writing is a treat.

6. Mix up the Practice

Two weeks ago, rather than remain in my office, I went into the mountains to write. I dictated my scenes using a voice-to-text A.I. app called “SmartNoter” while wandering around a mountain trail for about two hours. That day, I dictated five thousand words.

I came home refreshed and so, so happy.

7. Name the Problem

Fall is hard for me. My mother’s October birthday is followed by her November death date. I got “stuck” on her birthday. Coincidence? I think not.

While I can’t change this, naming the problem helps.

Other problems I’ve named: I got the mother’s character wrong. I haven’t foreshadowed the ending correctly. I don’t have the village my novel is set in full developed enough to write my scenes.

Once named, these problems can be addressed.

8. Is it a bug or a feature?

This question comes from my wise friend, Kathy Cowley. This morning she told me: “Some of the best features in my novel came to me when I was feeling stuck.”

Wise words, Kathy.

9. Do Just One Thing

No matter how stuck you feel, I bet there is one thing that you can work on that will make tomorrow’s writing easier. Do that thing. Figure out that one scene.

10. Remember: Habit will sustain you

If all else fails, sit in the chair, open the Scrivener file, and read a bit. Delete a few things. Fix a spelling error. Write what comes to you, if anything. Then reward the habit. Congratulations, you showed up anyway. And that is no small thing. (See item #1: Commit).

The result:

I am happy to say, that while the dread and angst and uncertainty still show up every day, so do I. And with these tools at my disposal, I’m still making slow and steady headway. Is it always fun?

No. And I don’t think I should expect it to be.

But when I can, I try to find the fun. And if that’s not possible, I show up anyway. Yesterday and today I permitted myself to break my own drafting rules (avoid anything that isn’t writing, and don’t go back to revise). I decided to trust my instinct that it had to be done. And I was right. The scene needed to be written.

I feel encouraged, hopeful. And I still expect to be finished with this manuscript by Christmas.

Dear Writer: How do you get yourself unstuck?

Tell me in the comments. I can’t wait to hear!

And if you’re stuck, I want to hear that too.

Today, let’s talk about who we mentally (or physically!) allow in our space when we are creating, and how we manage other people’s expectations around our art.

A few weeks ago, my friend and I met to discuss a certain series of books. If you have been anywhere in my vicinity the last month, you may have heard me talk about them.

Amanda interviewed the editor of this series before we spoke, and one of the things she learned has both haunted and inspired me:

“When Beth writes, her first job is to mentally escort her readers, her critics, and even her editor out the door. She writes with only herself, her characters, and God in the room.”

Ever since, I have found myself imagining exactly that: my writing group, the agents I’m querying, my family, my own internal critic, and even the readers of this blog leaving the office before I write. They shut the door with the snap, and then…

I write only for me. And if God wishes to attend, well, He is most welcome.

I cannot tell you how immensely useful this has been. Characters float in. Ideas sprout. Poetry comes. When grief paralyzed my word count this month, I found I had to flee the office entirely to escape the critics. This time, I found my solitude in the forest of the Jemez Mountains.

There is an old saying:

“When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. When the student is truly ready... The teacher will disappear.”

―Tao Te Ching

Sometimes, what appears isn’t a person, but rather a book. This week, I started (and finished) Candle Island, by Lauren Wolk.

This beautiful middle-grade novel is about a twelve-year-old Lucretia Sanderson. Her father has just died, and her mother is trying to escape the attention surrounding her paintings—one of which hangs in the White House. A little peace on a beautiful island off the coast of Maine seems the perfect balm for their troubled souls. (Poor Lucretia; she had not a chance for the prescribed ‘peace’ with Lauren Wolk writing the story.)

In the opening act, Lucretia discovers someone singing out on the edge of the sea where no one can see him (it’s on the cover).

As I stood and listened, I asked myself why someone would come to such a wild, deserted place to sing. And hide there. That was the more important question. Why hide? The answer was the same one I’d given myself, over and over again, when I sat down to paint.

Some things required solitude.

Some things can be strangled by the idea of an audience, even one on its feet, applauding.

Candle Island, p. 62

The theme/story question of ‘Candle Island’ is revealed in this scene: “When should an artist show their work? And who should be present with us when we create?”

Lucretia protects her art, her solitude, not wishing for other people’s criticism and conventions to smother her creativity (the sky shouldn’t be orange, Lucretia!).

And Lucretia is not wrong.

A rather famous longitudinal study conducted by a group of NASA-backed researchers found that 98% of 4-5 years olds test at genius-level creativity. The children had no problem coming up with new, innovative ideas—but they didn’t keep the ability.

By age 10, only 30% of children retained their “genius-level” creativity.

By adulthood? Only 2% retained the capacity.

Why?

According to George Land and Dr. Beth Jarman, the author of the study, there are two steps to creative thinking:

Step one, Divergent Thinking: imagine new, original ideas that are different from what came before. These ideas appear, as by magic, from the subconscious. If pursued, my divergent thinking has the potential to become fully-fledged poems, characters, and blog posts.

Step Two, Convergent Thinking: judge, test, and refine your ideas. You may combine and improve them or revise as necessary. All of this happens in conscious thought (a different part of the brain entirely).

The problem comes when you try to combine these steps: as soon as a creative idea comes, you immediately judge it, criticize it, or suppress it.

When this happens, the brain fights with itself. All creativity ceases. Writer’s Block ensues. Creative Anxiety makes you avoidant. And writing stops becoming fun. Gah.

Convergent thinking MUST come second, preferably when the entire draft is finished, and be divorced from the creative draft by both time and space. If you do it right—if you shut the door on even your own internal critic—you are rewarded with creativity, immersion, and flow.

Candle Island captures what creativity feels like most beautifully:

…I prepare my palette, which was an old windowpane in a wooden frame, about a foot wide by two feet long, on a folding table alongside my easel. Next, I mixed my colors with a palette knife, laid out my brushes, gathered my rags, and put them close by.

And then I sat quietly before my canvas and closed my eyes.

I let myself fill up with the sound of seals singing. With the sound of Basitan singing. With the joy of sailing Sprite through the dazzling sea. With how Murdock must have felt when she’d lost her skiff. Lost her father.

And—for reasons I didn’t stop to question—I saw fireflies rising over a meadow on a summer evening, on the very cusp of night, a handful of stars piercing the sky, a single tree in the foreground.

There was an air of silence about the scene. The idea of aloneness.

None of it would be worth the paint if I couldn’t convey that silence. That aloneness.

They would be my challenge.

I opened my eyes and began, very slowly, to paint what silence looks like.

- page 136, Candle Island

We must start alone. Without the audience. With our thoughts, our instincts.

Later, of course, we invite readers in.

To connect. To help improve the draft.

But until then?

It’s just me and God, alone, in the room.

For the last decade and a half, time has been the enemy. Thoughts like “I don’t have enough time,” and “I’m never going to get it all done” were my constant, depressing mantra. When my eldest child was a toddler, I preserved Thursday nights as my “writing night” and would run out the door to the local cafe as soon as my husband returned from work. Yet…I was so frazzled, so stressed, so emotional that I could not write. I could not create.

Scared writers do not play, do not create.
They hide.

I felt a little like this beautiful little fawn, which I spotted on my morning walk around this time. You hide when you’re scared. You can’t help it.

But what was I supposed to do?

Fast forward seven years, and all my children were finally in school. Now I will write, I thought, it will be so easy. I have so much time. As the other parents dropped off their littlest children at preschool, weeping, I dropped her off, skipping.

(I felt a little sad too. I’m not a monster.)

But did I write more while she was gone? Yes, but also—

I did dishes. DISHES. And I cleaned my house. A LOT. I took on ten piano students (as one does), became a ninja coach, and even enrolled my children in SOCCER—and promptly became the head coach. (Internal cringe.) And the PTA? Yep. I joined that too.

It didn’t matter that my kids were in school; I was still very good at ensuring that time was still the enemy. And I was exhausted.

“I have to get this done while my kids are in school.”

“I only have time for THIS thing only.”

“I can’t waste my time on Journaling/Poetry/Websites. I have to stay focused–!”

“I have to get it all done!”

These thoughts were very stressful. And stressed Rachel doesn’t create, at least not freely. Not with verve. Not with playfulness.

About two weeks before school this year, I was dreading the start of school. I just didn’t want to keep doing it all, but if I quit? I would have to disappoint people. I was journaling at my kitchen table when I had a (rather explosive) thought: Rachel, have the courage to go all in on your writing.

Going all in on writing would mean quitting what I must quit so I could have the energy to show up to the page every day. It would mean updating my website. It would mean joining a writing group and starting a writer’s gym. It would mean letting my creativity spark anyway it wanted to. And it would mean writing manuscripts FAST.

But to do it, I would have to find the courage to tell everyone “No.”

And so…I did.

I quit all the things.

And when I did, everything changed.

I now let things take time. I’m not panicked, not worried. And yet–I’m spending more time creating than I ever have before. I’m beginning to learn to trust myself, my intuition, and to rest when I need rest–before I need rest, even.

Which led me to this shocking revelation:

Time was never the problem.

Trying to “make everyone else happy” was the problem.

I feel nothing but affection for the writer-who-existed-before-me. Younger Rachel did so much for me, and I love her for it.

But goodness–

This is way more fun.

And that is today’s far more useful mantra. Happy creating friends!

It is vital to trust your instincts as you create; to do otherwise is to smother your creativity. Nowhere is this modeled better than with my two children (ages 7 & 9), who, when they have a creative instinct, follow it without inhibition, self-criticism, or restraint. This past week, they wanted to start making gnomes out of polymer clay, and when I offered to find them a YouTube video to show them how to do it, my son refused.

“I know what I want to do,” he said.

And then he did.

The children worked side-by-side for the entire evening (and several days afterward), rolling out clay, adding eyes, and doing exactly what they wanted with no input from anyone else. The result is that I now have a family of little clay gnomes ready to bake (and a mess on the art table ready to tidy).

There is something wonderful about watching my children make new, beautiful things.

As the children worked, I was busy reading a beautiful book: Gnomes By Rien Poortvliet and Wil Huygen

We found it in our cabin in the Enchanted Forest a few weeks back, tucked in a cluttered cabinet full of markers and pens and games. My children surprised me by wanting to listen to ALL of it, as soon as possible. Written like a nonfiction Encyclopedia, it’s full of whimsy and beautiful details. Much of it is written in cursive, which my son could not quite parse, and there are stories and pictures and all manner of things. I would not think a fictional encyclopedia would so enrapture both me and my children, but we finished it with little complaint from anyone in the audience.

And then my son made gnomes.

My daughter made the gnomes a bench and a carpet.

And I daydreamed about writing gnome stories to put my children to sleep.

Last night, I read a beautiful quote by Tamora Pierce (in the book “Wand in the Word”):

I think there is something beautiful about art inspiring more art, which, in turn, inspires more art.

If you are, however, feeling a little stuck, I love this podcast interview of Phil Cook.

He outlines four things that every artist needs to unlock their creativity. (I highly recommend listening to the entire podcast.) Today, I will only discuss the first principle he shares: Pay Attention to Your Instincts to Create.

In each of us is a quiet voice that says, “I want to do this,” “I want to try this,” “What about this?” So often we deny that voice—but what if we didn’t?

Wish you could learn the piano? Pay attention. There’s a reason you want that. Do you wish your living room were a lovely shade of blue? Give yourself permission to try something new, and go buy a can of paint. Listen to that little voice inside of you. It’s there for a reason.

Only by listening to that voice is creativity possible.

Now, you might also have another voice inside of you, one that insists: “I can’t be creative.”

We all have stories we tell ourselves about our worthiness and our capacity for creation. A dear friend of mine tells me she simply isn’t creative—insists on it! But if you watch her pick out clothing, she does so with the greatest of pleasure and ease. This skirt with this shirt, this set of earrings with this necklace. She knows what will work, what will please her, what will be beautiful. And her home! A beautiful haven of comfort.

So start listening to yourself. And when you do, you will discover yourself making something new.

My son listened and made gnomes.

I listened and cooked beautiful food, which I set on a golden tablecloth. And of course I wrote, and wrote, and wrote.

What will you create?