(The Nature and Value of Loneliness for Writers.)

This playbook for my life felt both restrictive and safe. To achieve the ideals of traditional womanhood in evangelical purity culture, I twisted my unruly self into submission, making my body and voice, dreams and ambitions, smaller. This practice may not have fed my creative life, but it did teach me something about working within constraint.

And constraint, as long as there’s still room to breathe, can be exactly what a creative needs.

Take, for example, constraint’s seeming opposite: boundless freedom. I know a bit about that, too. No one’s life can be reduced down to a single narrative, after all. As an amateur writer, it was startling to discover that one of the worst things for my practice and productivity was total freedom. I think of my first summer out of graduate school, a teaching position secure for the fall, and living comfortably (though not well) off of my savings and my husband’s salary. We were renters with no children or pets. Our parents were healthy, occupied, and elsewhere. And my summer days were long stretches filled with few commitments: just me, my notebook, and a pen.

What could I create in those months filled with so much uninterrupted writing time?

As it turns out, not much. Each day, I labored over paragraphs, only to delete them. I tinkered over the structure of individual sentences. What was I writing about? I was bound to discover it in-process. This endeavor felt pure, like I was a true artist. I paused during my mornings to read novels for inspiration. I took long, mid-day runs in hopes that the muse would meet me on the trail. I recovered from those runs on the couch, television on. The day would end, and it would be time to make dinner for my husband who had been hard at work all day. I swallowed shame when I considered how little I had to show after my own day of supposed writing work.

When I began teaching in the fall, I didn’t even have a complete, revised creative piece to show for it. It seemed clear to me then: I was not a writer. I refused to fool myself. If this was how unproductive I was after such an indulgent few months (and truly—I was ashamed at the extent of my own leisure), writing was clearly not the life path for me.

And so, this not-writer threw herself full force into teaching writing. I developed creative prompts and assignments. I scaffolded activities. I mentored students individually. I was quite productive, busy all the time, and even though I would not yet be able to apply it to my own practice, I learned that students produced their strongest work while working within constraints.

Yes—seasoned teachers know this. I never told a student to just write a research paper. I gave them a thematic umbrella. A sample organizational structure. I showed them models, and then I had them really rip those models to pieces. We looked at every stage of a piece of writing. The title—how long is it? The intro—does the writer address the reader? Does the first line make someone laugh or wonder? Is the argument made right up front, or does it take a few paragraphs before it is introduced? And so on—I taught students to deconstruct. Together, we looked at transitions and observed how the writer was moving from one idea to another. And how they kept the reader’s attention and focus along the way.

And then I told my students—okay, class. For homework, go do those things! Follow the constraints you just observed. But, you know, follow them your way. Creatively.

To give my students complete and total freedom would not just have been overwhelming—it would have resulted in poor work. True creativity did not come from totally eschewing constraints, I realized. It came from deconstructing the ones that were present—and then inviting surprise and play within those lines.

Around this same time, I encountered additional constraint in my personal life, too. It wasn’t until my schedule became less free that I found room to move on the page. I gave birth to a baby, and I began incorporating short, 10-minute daily journaling into my morning routine—just to keep my own sanity. And then, I gave birth to another baby. With this additional responsibility, I felt compelled to compose full essays. Then the pandemic happened. Trapped in my home with two toddlers and unstable childcare, my increased constraints resulted in finding the space to write an entire book.

It may seem counterintuitive, but my voice didn’t emerge in the midst of total freedom. I found it as my life became more squeezed, more full of responsibility. Time is slippery, and the creative life is not subject to basic math. Anyone who has ever worked a fixed 9-5 job knows that more time does not equal more productivity.

Of course, there has to be some time. No one can create without a bit of margin. Still, writers need something to rub up against. Friction, tension. Maybe that’s a baby or five. Maybe that’s a bustling medical practice.

Maybe that’s marriage and motherhood.

Most of my writerly obsessions are about the push and pull between freedom and constraint. The constraints of traditional marriage and motherhood could work for me—if I wanted them to—as long as I had room to play. In knowing my expected script—one of helpful submission—I could learn to subvert it, both in my personal life and on the page.

Maybe marriage and motherhood wasn’t a constraint I wanted to impose upon my life. That would be okay—but, I realized as I grew older, that there was no place I could flee to where I would not have to follow some sort of script. In deconstructing my upbringing, I began to see that every societal role included some kind of script. As a teacher, for instance, I followed a script. I worked within the scope of my institution. That involved expectations and rules, hierarchy and submission. It wasn’t like girls in evangelical purity culture were the only ones expected to follow a playbook.

Wouldn’t it be lovely, though, to find a space where I would not be boxed in? At times, I fantasized about total deconstruction. What if I tore it all down? I wanted wide open spaces, fresh air, and room to breathe.

But no enclosure wouldn’t mean absolute freedom. It would simply mean being unhoused. We all know that a home is preferable to none at all—the question was simply, what kind of home did I want to live in?

This is what I learned about myself and creative constraints. It’s not my box that limits me, but the quality of the space inside it. When a place feels imbued with grace and forgiveness, rather than discipline and punishment, art can emerge. This is true no matter the limits a person finds themself up again. Limits, after all, aren’t fundamentally restrictive. Sometimes they can be the very place we go to find tension.

Check out Anna Rollins’ Famished here:

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(7 Easy Ways to Stay Present and Boost Creativity.)

The good news? You can flip the script with positive affirmations.

Why Writer’s Block Feels So Heavy

Writer’s block usually comes from what’s happening in your mind, not from a lack of talent. Common reasons include:

• Doubting yourself and your abilities.
• Wanting it perfect on the first try.
• Worrying about what others will think.
• Feeling tired or burned out.

When your thoughts spiral out of control, it’s hard to create. But just as negative talk holds you back, positive talk can push you forward.

How Affirmations Help You Write Again

Affirmations are simple, powerful statements you repeat to yourself. They help replace negative thoughts with encouraging ones. By saying or writing them, you remind yourself that you’re capable and creative.

Affirmations can:

• Boost your confidence.
• Help you relax about perfection.
• Keep you consistent.
• Build trust in your own writing process.

Affirmations to Try When You’re Stuck

Here are some easy ones you can use anytime:

• “My words matter.”
• “Every draft moves me forward.”
• “I am a writer, and writers write.”
• “It doesn’t have to be perfect to be powerful.”
• “I trust the process.”
• “Ideas flow when I give myself space.”
• “My voice is important.”
• “I can start small and build from there.”
• “Writing is progress, not pressure.”
• “Tomorrow is another chance to keep going.”

Tips for Using Affirmations

To really make affirmations work, try these steps:

• Start your writing session with one or two affirmations.
• Keep them visible. Write them on sticky notes, in your journal, or save them on your phone.
• Repeat them daily. Even when writing feels easy, they help keep you grounded.
• Pair them with action. Do a quick freewrite, jot down messy notes, or set a timer for 10 minutes of writing.

Writer’s block doesn’t mean you’re not creative. It just means your inner critic got a little too loud. With positive self-talk and affirmations, you can quiet that voice and remind yourself why you love writing in the first place. The more you practice, the easier it becomes to break through the block and get back to telling your stories.

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(Overcoming the Pressure to Be Flawless.)

Why Physical Health Matters for Writers

Sitting in front of a screen or notebook for long stretches can take a toll. Fatigue, headaches, stiff muscles, and even brain fog can creep in when physical health is neglected. And when the body is tired, the mind is often the first thing to suffer.

When writers take care of themselves physically, they often notice:

• Clearer mental focus: Regular exercise and proper rest help eliminate the foggy thinking that makes writing feel like wading through quicksand.
• More consistent energy levels: Eating balanced meals and staying hydrated can keep energy steady throughout the day.
• Better moods: Movement and sunlight boost serotonin and dopamine, both of which can inspire a more positive outlook—and possibly better story ideas.

Exercise: A Writer’s Best Friend

Exercise doesn’t have to mean spending hours at the gym. The best routines for writers are ones that break up sedentary work and keep blood flowing to the brain.

Here are some easy, realistic ways to stay active:

• Take a brisk walk before or after a writing session.
• Stretch every hour at your desk—shoulder rolls, neck stretches, and wrist circles can make a big difference.
• Try yoga or Pilates, both of which improve posture and relieve tension.
• Do short bursts of bodyweight exercises (squats, lunges, push-ups) during writing breaks.

Not only does exercise benefit physical health, but it also stimulates creativity. Many writers say their best ideas come while walking or moving around.

Sleep: The Secret Weapon for Creativity

It’s tempting to stay up late working on a plot twist or editing session, but sacrificing sleep can backfire. Lack of rest dulls memory, slows reaction times, and can make even a simple paragraph feel like a mountain to climb.

To get better sleep, writers can:

• Set a consistent bedtime and wake-up schedule, even on weekends.
• Create a relaxing wind-down routine—read a book (for fun!), sip herbal tea, or practice gentle stretches.
• Keep devices out of the bedroom. Blue light from screens disrupts sleep patterns.

Well-rested writers tend to work faster and with more clarity, which means they’re less likely to burn out.

Building Healthy Habits Into a Writing Life

The trick is to start small. Adding one or two healthy habits can snowball into a better routine that feels natural and sustainable.

• Drink a glass of water before morning coffee.
• Walk around the block after lunch instead of heading straight back to the desk.
• Schedule writing sessions with breaks built in.
• Keep healthy snacks nearby—nuts, fruit, or yogurt instead of chips or candy.

The Bottom Line

Writers thrive when they take care of their bodies as well as their minds. By moving more, sleeping well, and nourishing themselves with healthy choices, they can unlock more energy, sharper focus, and that creative spark they’re always chasing.

Because when the body feels good, the words tend to flow.

The post The Connection Between Physical Health and Mental Well-Being for Writers appeared first on Writer's Digest.

Writing my first novel, The Spectacle, I became fascinated by this romantic ideal of the hungry artist and how it dovetails with a shiny American myth of the pioneer-entrepreneur who rises to riches, partly because I myself was trying to succeed as a writer. In reality, there’s always someone else standing behind the heroic figure, pushing them up when they stagger.  

In The Spectacle, Ingrid, an assistant, acquires power in selecting hot new artists for her boss’s gallery, though she longs for fame herself. She gets a masochistic thrill out of watching her painter friend Simone blaze into celebrity while her own dream withers. We often get stable jobs tangentially associated with the creative work we really crave, only to be taken further and further away from that beautiful promise. 

Working in the art world in my 20s, I saw dozens of artists flash into sudden fame, like a supernova, before disappearing into the ether. Hundreds more tried for applications that were rejected. Only a few achieved that steady recognition, let alone a historic stardom, which all artists secretly hope for. What is that spark, like a match igniting, that makes someone’s work unforgettable? Does the meritocracy really exist? The waters of class, gender, and race are muddy; but for an artist, it’s not always helpful to dwell on them. What powers can we give ourselves for the best chance, regardless of life’s quicksand? Here are three things I saw in the artists who succeeded. 

Talent 

At the beginning of The Odyssey, Homer prays to the elusive muse of poetry to make his tale come alive. He is only a vessel for genius; she is the one singing, he tells us. 

Similarly, in Blonde, Joyce Carol Oates’ postmodern masterpiece, the Playwright urges his brilliant but fragile actress wife to ‘retain the edge of something raw and unexplored in your character … What if a hummingbird becomes conscious of its beating wings, could it fly? If we become conscious of every word, could we speak?’  

The greatest artists I’ve known explore creation as an act of play, instinct, and even blindness through which the unconscious can speak. This is a hard task in a world structured around tight schedules and computerized data, which plague our conscious selves with insecurity. Doubt pushes us down, telling us this line, this plot, this brushstroke is not right. This can be helpful in perfecting a work. But we often forget, in rigid day jobs, how the unconscious is constantly at work, absorbing our memories to create an emotional response to our time.  

Art, books, and movies are essentially social in that they rely on a shared network of cultural references with the reader; it’s a delight to recognize your deep-seated fears and hopes in a favorite book. I firmly believe that you must set your unconscious free to produce the most fiery and creative work. But it is also true, as Nietzsche says, that artistic originality can only occur after deep study. Seek out the muse and sharpen your instincts: by looking and reading widely, not just in your given genre but in every possible discipline that might connect to it: art, religion, psychology, forensic textbooks to learn about crime if you’re writing a thriller, tabloids. The search can be illogical; trust your gut.  

Self-promotion 

The work is what counts. To achieve success for most people, however, requires a whole separate field of external striving, because we depend on an industry of people to put our work in the public eye. The successful artist has connections or gets them by relentlessly seeking them out.  

The people I knew insinuated themselves into the art world, either by acquiring mentors through MFA programs, or by nurturing useful friendships for years in hopes of an eventual benefit. They showed their work online, to possible clients, asked for favors, messaged people on Instagram, and visited the gallerists in person (once they knew them) to strike up a good relationship.  

A lucky break often comes from being inside a community: other writers, artists, editors, journalists, or agents who like you and want to help.  

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Time & Discipline 

It’s not all talent and ruthless self-promotion, though these can get you very far. Those artists I mentioned earlier who flared out early? Often, they had some combination of talent, luck, and self-promotion, but they weren’t able to fission it together with the uranium of time-discipline to ascend to the next level.  

I understand: You get home exhausted and want to kick your feet up and watch The Real Housewives. Me too. Most of us have to slave away our daylight hours in order to produce our most precious stuff in the silent darkness. Unfortunately, being a workhorse is the only thing that creates lasting success for most people.  

Mold your life around your project. Read two to four hours a day to build that base structure of knowledge, and write, write, write every day. Complete the project, then the next project, and keep sending it out. Cut out everything else to give birth to these babies. That means not going to that dinner, not trying to get that promotion, leaving nights and weekends to write, and carving out extra time—from your work, your family, your hobbies—to dream about what the next project should be.  

This is your life. Now do it.  

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A * means this is the website’s first appearance on the WD list. All listings within each category are alphabetically arranged.

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(The Emotional Toll of Writing.)

That’s why setting boundaries isn’t just a luxury—it’s a survival skill.

Why Writers Need Boundaries

Boundaries help protect energy, creativity, and mental health. Without them, authors can get overwhelmed trying to do all the things—often at the expense of their well-being. Whether you’re traditionally published or self-published, full-time or part-time, setting clear limits helps keep the joy in writing.

Set Work-Life Boundaries

Writing from home can make it hard to “clock out.” That’s why it’s important to define your work hours—and stick to them.

Tips for Better Work-Life Balance:

• Choose writing hours that fit your lifestyle—and treat them like appointments.
• Create a dedicated writing space, even if it’s a cozy couch corner.
• Shut down your laptop or close the notebook when your writing time is up.

Remember: You don’t have to write every day to be a real writer.

Be Social Media Smart

Writers often feel pressured to “be everywhere” online. But constantly scrolling, comparing, and posting can be draining—and derail your creativity.

Healthy Social Media Habits:

• Set specific times to check or post on social media.
• Use scheduling tools to plan posts.
• Mute or unfollow accounts that leave you feeling inadequate.
• Choose two or three platforms to focus on.
• Take breaks! A day away from social media won’t break your career.
• Work with a social media manager to assist you and free up more writing time.

Redefine Deadlines

Deadlines can motivate us—or destroy us. If you lose sleep or sanity over them, it’s time to reassess.

Tips for Better Schedules:

• Build in buffer time for edits, life interruptions, and rest days.
• Don’t overcommit—say no when your plate is full.
• Be honest with editors or clients about what’s realistic.
• Make personal deadlines flexible. It’s okay to shift them when life happens.

Protect Your Creative Energy

Creativity isn’t endless. Recharging is just as important as writing.

Ways to Fill Your Cup:

• Go for walks, take naps, or watch your favorite comfort show.
• Read for fun—not research.
• Say no to things, tasks, and people that drain you—even if they seem “good for your brand.”
• Celebrate every win.

Boundaries = Longevity

Ultimately, setting boundaries isn’t about doing less—it’s about doing what matters sustainably.

Authors and writers who honor their limits are more likely to:

• Stay passionate about writing
• Avoid long-term burnout
• Enjoy a career that supports life—not one that takes over it

The writing industry may be competitive, but protecting your peace is not optional—it’s essential. When authors and writers guard their time, energy, and mental space, they show up stronger, write better, and last longer in the game.

You’re allowed to rest, reset, and draw the line. The words will wait.

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(The Case for Creating When the World Is on Fire.)

But what about all the other weekends of the year? I always think about that. I’ve returned from writers’ events and retreats filled with enthusiasm and motivation to write every day, submit everywhere, and live a writer’s dream life.

Except actual life usually brings me back to reality.

I am a parent. I am an employee. I am a spouse. I do not own all of my time. This past fall, I spent three to four nights a week at little league practices and games. I also taught five sections of composition at a local university. I held workshops at my local library. I suffered through a kitchen remodel which pushed us from our home into a hotel room more than once. I became the primary parent when my husband had to travel for his job. This is not a brag about how “busy” I was, but a description of a life. My life has many, many disruptions.

And when things get incredibly busy, it is hard not to turn into an angsty teen who’s not allowed to spend all their time with their high school sweetheart. In order to avoid it, I have to make sure I am setting up boundaries while remaining flexible.

Making the Time to Be Creative

Here is my list of tips for organizing my life so the angsty teen doesn’t take over.

• I write in the margins. I write in smaller increments when I can instead of waiting for long stretches of writing time. Sometimes I can only get 15 or 20 minutes to scribble something down. Sometimes I will have my lunch delivered and write on my lunch hour. When my kids were smaller, I had an hour between when my shift ended and my daycare closed down for the night. I would either linger in my office or find a coffee shop to make the most of that hour.
• I turn off push notifications. Push notifications are designed to make you stop what you are doing and pay attention to them. When I turn those off, I don’t have anyone pulling my attention. If that doesn’t work, I turn on Do Not Disturb. I only go into my apps to see if I have notifications when I take my breaks, two or three times a day.
• I do not check or answer emails after 5 pm. Especially university work emails. My job as an instructor is not so important that I need to check in when I am not on the clock. My students can wait. My boss can phone me. My coworkers can text me. Additionally, I don’t make decisions after 5 pm. If a designer sends me an image of cover art, I cannot sign off on it until the next day. If someone emails me about an interview, I don’t agree until the next day. No decisions until I have had at least one good sleep.
• I don’t volunteer. For anything. Ever. In the few instances that I have volunteered, it was usually from some place of guilt—a “good mom” would volunteer at their kids’ school. I would always have some moment where I would see the other volunteers and how eager they were to be a part of the event or even lead an event, and thought, “Wow. There are many more qualified people than me who want to be here.” I write a check instead. I don’t feel guilty about it either.
• I schedule writing time with others. I’ll meet with a writing friend at a local coffee shop, library, or classroom, so we can both work on our projects in pleasant silence. I’ve also set up write-ins on campus in the library and announced to students that it was a place where they could work on a project. It’s like when children parallel play and it’s incredibly productive because setting the meeting creates accountability. I’ve known other writers to do this over Zoom.
• I always keep my writing materials with me. Like a mobile writing station. I keep a journal, tablet with keyboard, and a collection of pens, highlighters, and Post-Its in a messenger bag that I take with me when I leave my house in the morning. If I’m running errands, I can stop off at a place with coffee and WiFi and sketch out scenes. My youngest child has told me that he actually loves what he calls coffee-shop days. We get snacks and while I write, he plays Roblox. Everyone wins.
• One night a week, I take the night off. Every Friday night, my husband is in charge of handling all of our children’s needs. Food, entertainment, questions, tasks, demands, these are all his responsibility on Friday nights. I get to do whatever I want. I have held process parties and typing parties where I work on edits while I munch on a cheese tray. But honestly the real gift is I don’t worry about not having time for myself, because I know that I am getting Friday night all to myself to rest, to recharge, to find inspiration unfettered by others.
• I ring the bell. At a writers conference recently, some individuals on a panel said they wanted a bell to hang outside of their writing space that they could ring at the end of a productive day. I love this idea and even asked my husband if he would be okay with me installing a cowbell outside of my writing space. He was not okay with it. However, there are many different ways to celebrate a good writing day. For a while, I would mark my writing days on my calendar with a silver star sticker—the same from elementary school days of yore. It doesn’t matter if I write all day, only on my lunch break, or 15 minutes to journal, I will still get a star.

Anything that moves the needle closer to a goal counts. And while many enthusiastically start a project with vim and verve thinking they will knock it all out in six months, they often forget that once you set a goal in motion, everything will step in the path of completing that project. And that’s when people give up. Don’t give up. Instead, adjust the expectation that the universe will open up hours and hours of time. It won’t, but the small increments will add up. 

Check out Brandi Bradley’s Pretty Girls Get Away With Murder here:

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(Meeting Writing Goals When Life Falls Apart.)

I hear you. Let me change your mind.

I am a writer and a creative coach. I work with thousands and thousands of artists and support them as they create. I receive dozens of DMs a week from writers and creatives who can’t create because they think the world is too messed up to be playing around on the piano.

Let me introduce you to an artist you might know: world famous, incredibly talented, author Sally Rooney. Sally didn’t send me a DM, but she did speak to the Irish Times.

She said, “I’ve given my life to writing novels. I don’t know whether they are good, but even if they’re really good, they’re not going to save the planet. Maybe I ought to be spending my time doing something more productive.”

Sally has sold millions of books, and she’s personally changed my life with the beauty of her prose, but apparently, it doesn’t matter how much impact you’re having: Artists everywhere are seriously worried that their creativity is an indulgence in this day and age. I have spoken to hundreds of artists who say they can’t write the books they want to write; they couldn’t possibly make the art they yearn to make, they morally shouldn’t take their writing seriously—because art is frivolous, and there are real-world problems that need fixing!

The narrative that art is decoration, a luxury, a selfish indulgence is rife, and it is wrong. We are sold a narrative that we have to be in STEM to be making a difference or we need a job as a politician in order to make the world a better place. If we aren’t making policy or finding the cure in a lab, we are useless. Spending our time being creative, writing our poems, telling our stories, all these things are being sidelined as something ‘not for these times.’

But we need your art now more than ever before.

Why the world needs you to write

Because when you create, you thrive.

The more intense the news cycle is, the more we feel like the world is falling apart, and the more we need art to help center us, calm us, and heal us. This isn’t just a nice idea. We now have lots of peer-reviewed research that looks at the tangible, significant ways creativity impacts our physical and mental health. The conclusion to these studies? Making art is just as important as exercise, sleep, or meditation. 

Turning to art is not a waste of time. It is the missing pillar in taking care of our health. It is the missing pillar in self-development. It is the missing pillar in living a meaningful life. Even in a world on fire, it matters how YOU are doing. Creating art will change YOUR life. Lean into it.

Making art gives us agency and purpose.

Art is a lifeboat in uncertain times. We read the news, we go to work, we feed ourselves, we scroll on Instagram, and we see pain, injustice, and anger everywhere. And so we stare into space and feel entirely hopeless, useless, out of control. There is nothing to do. Everything seems so pointless. ‘Guess I’ll just numb myself and keep scrolling,’ we say. 

But creativity brings us back to the feeling of purpose, intention, and control. When we write, we become the gods of our own realms. We are not lost at sea anymore, we are doing something, making something. We are in charge. Human beings are instinctive creators. We are made to make. Sit back on your throne and realize that you are here to tell stories, to write, and to communicate. Fill your life with the creative process and watch how much meaning and purpose flood in.

Making art and writing your books reclaims your most valuable resource: Attention.

Big tech wants your attention 24/7. It’s their business model. They don’t want you creating art. In a world that tries to usurp and monopolize your attention, the only way to get some agency back is to become a creator. 

(April Poem-A-Day Challenge.)

Creating is an act of rebellion against a world that wants you entirely stuck to your phone. Writing a poem isn’t just a nice thing to do with your time; it’s revolutionary. It’s taking back what’s been stolen from you—your time, your energy, your attention.

Making art is activism. 

The reason art is as important as activism is because art is activism. Creatives captain culture. We move the needle in how our world thinks and acts, and how we treat one another. Art, books, and your words are powerful forces for shaping people, encouraging empathy, provoking humanity, and demanding connection. Policy and politics don’t make people think deeply or move people emotionally—art does.

Click to continue.

Making art centers humanity in a world of ever-increasing AI. 

As AI starts to encroach on our everyday lives, it’s becoming more important than ever to champion human creativity. It would be very easy to give it all up now. “AI can do it better, so what’s the point of me doing it?” 

But there’s never been a greater need for your human voice—your gloriously imperfect human art. The thing that’s going to differentiate us from our robot overlords is the vulnerability we can infuse within our art. Lean into your imperfections and write human stories. We need your fallible art. Humans consume art to connect with their humanity; we need art made by our own kind.

Creativity creates your legacy. 

Let me appeal to your ego for a moment. Will you be remembered because you consumed a lot of media about how bad the world is right now, and you felt really terrible about it? Or will you be remembered because of that fantasy novel you wrote that your great-great-great-great-grandchild still reads? Because you wrote poems and published them, and people were moved by them? Because you started a YouTube where you review books and you recommended a novel that changed someone’s life? Because you were vulnerable and sung in front of people, and it inspired others to be vulnerable too? 

When you create, and share your creations, you leave a trail of your magic. You leave this hurting world with something beautiful.

Why the world needs art

Let’s go back to that burning world for a moment. Yes, the fires are real. But art is not kindling for these flames; it’s water. It cools, it heals, it gives us hope. It reminds us of what is worth fighting for. When you create, you’re not ignoring the fire—you’re building the tools to withstand it. You’re reminding the world what life is about. Art has always been the light in the darkest times. 

(7 Ways Writing Heals Us.)

Think of the cave paintings of our ancestors, etched in the dim glow of firelight, or the music that carried oppressed people through impossible struggles. Those creations may not have solved every problem, but they gave us the strength to keep trying, they gave us connection and meaning and hope.

I’ll leave you with this: What will your legacy be? Will you let the world’s flames consume you, or will you add your treasures to the world? Your art is the antidote to someone else’s despair; don’t keep that to yourself. It doesn’t matter if it’s a bestseller, a community play, or a simple poem you wrote for your child. It all matters.

The world needs your art. Now more than ever. Stop messing around and make something. 

Check out Amie McNee’s We Need Your Art here:

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I am in the first year of my MFA and I am writing, for the first time, for a professional audience. I am writing hard. My style is cramped. I am trying to mold myself into who I think my graduate program wants me to be. I am composing a bunch of complex sentences with maze-like structures, which are almost impossible to read.

(7 Ways Writing Heals Us—Even After Terrible Trauma.)

I am using pretentious language because I think elevated diction will make me a better writer. Concrete, one-syllable words become abstract, flowery words because I think my writing needs to be more complicated. Because I believe only when writing is complicated it is worthy. I edit everything I write to death. I am a people pleaser who is more focused on what others think of me than what I think of myself.

Around this time, I had recognized a relationship between trauma and my own writing process. One that I desperately needed to free myself from. So I started to reflect on my creative practice and gradually shifted my approach.

Step 1: Understand your trauma

They say awareness is the first step. After reflection, I realized that most of my trauma that interfered with my creative expression was not a result of major personal catastrophe, but a product of my socialization in the world.

First, my identity had a huge impact on my creative expression. My gender shaped my relationship to language. In real life, I am constantly cracking jokes—I love to laugh and make others laugh. But, in my writing process, I was afraid to use humor on the page. I was also afraid to write about sex from a female point of view because most of the desire I had seen on the page had been male centered. I was afraid to write about things that were disgusting because I was afraid of what people might think of me. Sex, humor, horror—none of these were creative spaces I saw available to me as a woman. This meant I had a shame-based writing practice, afraid to trespass upon taboo spaces. In other words, I was afraid to be myself.

Second, my years of education had conditioned me to suppress my creativity. Years of being a student in school teaches you, intentionally or unintentionally, that you need to deliver the correct answer. I had been assessed primarily through multiple choice questions from my early years right until high school. The fright of delivering the wrong answer had transferred itself to my artistic process. This made me feel like there was a right and wrong way to write, and that I needed to mold myself into what authority figures wanted me to be.

Lastly, personal traumas in my life resulted a high-strung writing process. This resulted in a specific relationship to language, one based on rigidity and control. As humans, we can try to tame and restrict language to try to counteract the fact that our lives are out of our control. But the truth was: Controlling language was not going to solve my grief, nor did it undo any of the harshness of what happened.

Step 2: Say yes

In the wise words of the beginning of Taylor Swift’s Grammy-winning album Folklore, she says in the lyrics to “The One:”

I’m doing good, I’m on some new shit

Been saying yes instead of no

In her documentary on the making of this album, she talked about how signing with her new record label resulted in greater levels of creative freedom. In short, she was saying yes to herself, creatively, instead of saying no.

I, too, had to learn how to say yes to myself.

What does this mean, exactly? It means never denying or stifling your creative impulses. Let me give you this example: When I was writing, I would often nip my best ideas in the bud. I would say no to myself. Practically, this meant not writing out the word, sentence, or passage I have felt impelled to write.

This used to happen all the time. It was often rationalized by a practical reason of why I should not write the thing I wanted to write: not the right time to use this information; the joke I had in mind was too inappropriate; the character wouldn’t say this; the idea was too crazy or too perverted, and I worried it would weird people out. As it turns out, I was saying no to a lot of my best ideas.

True creativity is deeply irrational, and often in the moment, it does not make sense why a writer might have an impulse to put something down. But by limiting the nonsense from my work, I was depriving my writing of a vital spark it needed.

I had to learn to say yes. I had to learn to let it flow out, however stupid or weird it was, however bad then idea may turn out to be—I had to trust myself to play, roam, and discover. I had to trust that I would find the flaws when I revised, and that I could use the act of writing to indulge all my instincts, good and bad.

In short, I needed to write towards my inner child, and neglect the concerns of an adult mind. My adult mind knew it needed to write a book to get a job. My adult mind was worried about what people might think or say about my hybrid novel, which used sentence fragments to create a unique voice. There were a bunch of fear-driven reasons to say no, both personally and professionally, to the things I wanted to write.

To write well, I needed to speak with my inner child, who had no social conditioning, lacked life experience, and wrote with total ease. To say yes, I needed to become a kid again.

Anne Lamott articulated this well in her well-known craft essay, “Shitty First Drafts,” from her book Bird by Bird. In this essay, she encourages you to give yourself permission to write badly. “The first draft is the child’s draft,” she writes, “where you let it all romp out.”

Allowing your inner child to take part in the writing process is similar to saying yes. It encourages the writer to forget about adult concerns. A child lacks socialization: They have no fear when it comes to expressing themselves.

Step 3: Write towards your fear

In some weird logic of the universe, I realized the very words I needed to express were often the ones I was afraid to write. For example, my book, The Flat Woman, is powered by elements of horror and disgust. But as a young writer, I was scared to write disgusting things on the page, worrying somebody would make a judgement about me.

Mary Shelley published Frankenstein anonymously for a similar reason: She feared her children would be taken away. This points to the vulnerability of female-identifying authors across history who historically lacked the insulation of male privilege.

And as I began to consciously write into my areas of fear, I realized that terror was actually a great barometer of something worthy, interesting, or powerful to say.

So I came to this conclusion: If I was afraid to write something, I should not repress it, I should actually write into that space bigger and harder than anywhere else.

In expressing what we’re afraid to express, our truest selves can emerge. Success as an artist can be defined as an act of self-authenticity. If you get into the practice of articulating your fears, you can train yourself to have a better artistic process, even if the substance of your fears does turns out to be useless.

Step 4. Write with the body

We think of writing as a mental process, but we often forget it is physical one, too. Your hands are the instrument of your creativity, after all, and ultimately, your fingers are the tools a writer uses to express themselves. For me, I had to remember the writing process happens with the body as well as the mind. Focusing on the physical feeling of the keys beneath my fingers helped me let go of control. Lots of style elements can be palpably felt when you type: Rhythm, for instance, is a very physical experience. Paying attention to the rhythms and the texture of the language helped me experience writing as a process of self-hypnosis.

Self-hypnosis allowed my subconscious to dominate my artistic process. Jack Spicer encouraged poets to think of themselves as a radio receiving a signal from outside of them. I found the idea of this helpful: to think about transmitting a source of inspiration from outside of me as opposed to writing from my own mind. So I started to let my hands transmit the inspiration as opposed to writing it. What is the difference between writing and transmission? Transmitting is something we allow to happen with our bodies, whereas writing felt like an activity I controlled with my mind. Transmission with my hands allowed me to receive the radio signal, which is another way to say creative inspiration.

A lot of writers say their best work feels like it comes from somewhere else, somewhere beyond them. This can only happen when we relinquish control and let our fingers dictate where the poem, story, or essay wants to go. Oftentimes, when we let go, our subconscious takes over. Sometimes, the things our subconscious produces are surprising, disturbing, or unusual—but they are usually interesting. Our subconscious has a lot to teach us, if only we let the right one in.

Step 5: Write the thing

It took me about seven years, but I eventually finished my first book, The Flat Woman. This would not have been possible without an intensely disciplined practice. Every morning of the week, I carved out an hour or two to write. In the context of my regular practice, I slowly and gradually made changes to my process. None of these changes came over night, but were the product of a slow, methodical expulsion of bad habits.

To say yes, I had to put in effort and pay attention to what I wanted to say. By becoming aware of the ways in which I restricted myself, I trained myself to give myself permission. I transformed my writing from a rigid practice into a free-flowing hobby. In this state of hyper concentration, hours and days of the week evaporated. Writing, which was once a stressful process, became a really relaxing hobby—a process where I hypnotized myself into forgetting my hobby was also my career.

There were developments in my life that helped: I fell in love and got married. I bought a house and got promoted. Everything that helped make me happier in my personal life helped me have a more grounded and focused relationship to my art.

What started out as a poetry manuscript of approximately 13,000 words, its language preened and pruned to oblivion, became a 27,000-word short novel called The Flat Woman. In the end, it was nearly double its original length. There are probably some who will still say it’s too short, too fragmented, too absurd, but I don’t care.

In the seven years I spent writing it, I learned how to say yes, which is another way to say letting go. When I let go, what finally came out was weird, funny, and unapologetically feminine—all of the things I had been afraid to let myself be in the beginning. 

The post 5 Steps for Shifting Your Approach to Trauma and the Writing Process appeared first on Writer's Digest.

The first TV vanished when I was seven. My father, a neurologist who’d recently discovered Orthodox Judaism, decided one day that the flickering box in our living room was doing more harm than good. Just like that—poof—it was gone. No committee meetings, no family vote. Just a sticky note (God, that sticky note still haunts my dreams) with some handwritten happy crappy about the great outdoors, natural curiosity, and a life worth living.

(The Two Kinds of Artistic Doubt.)

I lost my mind, naturally. Did what any reasonable kid would do: threw myself on the floor, screamed until my throat was raw, and put my fist through a wall. Several walls, if we’re being honest. The holes stayed there for years, little pockmarks of rebellion.

But here’s the thing about kids—they adapt. They have to. Nature doesn’t give them much choice in the matter. So I started taking my bike to the public library, sneaking Stephen King novels with their covers torn off, hiding in corners where the librarians couldn’t catch me reading about possessed cars and undead pets. Those books became my TV, my movies, my video games all rolled into one.

Fast forward 30 years. I’m standing in my own living room, staring at a different TV, watching my three kids zombie-walking to the couch each morning just to stare at its blank screen. The same screen that was slowly eating away at their imagination, their creativity, their ability to think in more than 10-second TikTok intervals. Ten seconds? Who am I fooling?

So I did what any reasonable parent would do—I channeled my old man. Out went the TV, in came an elaborate IKEA art station that would make Bob Ross weep with joy. And wouldn’t you know it? History has a sick sense of humor. My kids? They punched holes in the exact same spots I had all those years ago. Different house, same story.

But then something magical happened. Just like I had decades before, they adapted. Started painting. Reading. Writing their own stories. Found their way to boredom’s secret garden, where creativity blooms in the spaces between digital distractions.

This journey—from TV-less kid to TV-banishing parent—shaped more than just my entertainment habits. It shaped my storytelling. My debut novel, Georgie Summers and the Scribes of Scatterplot, just went to press with 20,000 hardcover copies. That’s not a typo, friends. Twenty thousand books, after four years of writing, two years of editing, and another year to find an agent.

The story follows young Georgie into a hidden realm where Scribes record humanity’s memories. Without these Scribes, people would forget everything—lose their minds completely. Sound familiar? We’re already halfway there, watching our kids lose their capacity for deep thought one “screen time” minute at a time.

You want to know what scares me more than any horror novel I ever snuck past those librarians? We’re raising a generation of kids who’ve never known true boredom. Never felt that maddening itch of an empty afternoon that can only be scratched by creating something new. Instead, we’re serving them digital candy every time they whimper, then wondering why they can’t stomach a full meal of imagination.

In my book, the villain—a terrifying fellow with bugs crawling out of his neck—wants to destroy all memories. But aren’t we already doing that? Every time we cave and hand over the iPad, every time we choose peace over persistence, we’re erasing our kids’ ability to create their own entertainment, their own stories, their own memories.

We’re not just parents anymore; we’re memory keepers. Every time we say no to the easy fix of screen time, we’re preserving something precious: our children’s capacity for wonder, for creativity, for deep thought. It’s harder than handing them a phone. It means weathering tantrums, patching holes in walls, setting up art stations that might go unused for weeks.

But trust me—as someone who’s lived both sides of this story—it’s worth it. Because somewhere between the thrown remotes and the torn book covers, between the punched walls and the painted masterpieces, our kids might just find what I found: their own stories, waiting to be told.

Check out Isaac Rudansky’s Georgie Summers & the Scribes of Scatterplot here:

Bookshop | Amazon

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