Creating Problems: The Art of Staying With It
“The moment you mark your paper, you’ve created a problem that needs resolving.”
Words from an art instructor I heard years ago still follow me. I know the anxiety of beginning a new project all too well—the unnerving void waiting to be filled with genius or a mad mess. Even when inspiration is there, making that first mark can feel daunting. Because once you begin, you become responsible for what comes next.
I’m surrounded by friends who pursue creative work alongside their full-time jobs—composers, filmmakers, musicians, designers, artists—and I’m endlessly inspired by their commitment and energy. Recently, my friend Kasey, a filmmaker, said to me, “If I’m not using my extra time to make films, what am I even doing?”
That stayed with me because, in a way, she was right.
If you really want to build something meaningful, you have to decide what you’re willing to do with the time you have. What you’re willing to endure in the process. Who—or what—the work is ultimately for.
Following the Thread
People often ask me what my process is for writing. First of all, my Notes app is my best friend. I have HUNDREDS of journal entries, memories, meditations, metaphors, poems, and ideas all living in their appropriately assigned folders. That’s the resource pool.
But how do my ideas form? If you’ve been following along, you know that my work is primarily autobiographical. I only write about real experiences; either my own, or someone I’m interviewing. I’m drawn to themes like growth, grief, healing, and relationships; pulling from my own life events to delve into those topics.
Sometimes an idea sparks from conversations with close ones. Other times, it’s as if a story has been welling up inside of me, waiting to be splashed out across these web pages for friends and strangers alike.
I have seasons where I’m filled with inspiration, and then there are times when it feels like every last thought has evaporated into the abysmal desert of my mind. Creative drought tends to happen when my work and personal life gets too busy.
“Always stop while you are going good and don’t think about it or worry about it until you start to write the next day. That way your subconscious will work on it all the time.”
My two remedies for this, that I believe are absolutely crucial to the process, are:
Rest. Carving out time for empty space. Boredom breeds creativity. Often, my best ideas come to me just as I’m about to fall asleep, after I’ve had time to process and unwind.
Seeking out novel experiences like a trip, hanging out with a new friend, or simply taking a different route on my walks.
I know to follow an inkling when I receive more downloads related to that topic. That tells me there’s something more for me to explore. I can either be strongly compelled, or sweetly swept into that “problem-making” process.
Creating Problems
Nothing is more intimidating than a blank space. A clean canvas. Silence before the first note. The blinking cursor on a fresh page daring you not to suck. Sometimes, I hate the initial sentence that spills out. I know it’s bad, but I force myself to write it anyway. And then another, and another, until I have my first paragraph. Clunky and shapeless. But messiness is part of the process, and you really just have to start. Anything can be formed and refined later on, but as long as I can get the heart of an idea down, I’m already ahead.
There is anxiety in the unknown. You may have a sense of where you’re going, but you have no idea what it will look like in the end. I’ve learned that you kind of have to let the process unfold. I’ve had enough experience to trust that if I stick it out, the piece or project always comes together in the end.
But enduring that process can be torturous. There’s a raw tension that exists between passion and perfection. In getting something just right.
I remember becoming conscious of this when I was working as an interior designer. I was putting together a palette of rug swatches, paint chips, wood finishes, and textiles for a project.
“Your blessing in life is when you find the torture you’re comfortable with.”
Everything was coming together except I could not find the perfect fabric for the custom throw pillows. I understand this may seem like a small thing. But not to me.
I dug through bins in the studio, sorting through patterns, textures, and luxurious materials. I would place one next to the others, and instantly something would feel off.
I continued on in the madness—caught between the push and pull of unresolved details—until I finally found the right fit. The material that perfectly contrasted the sofa fabric, pulled in the tones of the rug, added just the right pop of pattern, and still fell within the client’s budget.
And now, I carry that same tension into my writing process and all of my creative endeavors. Finding the right word, description, metaphor, transitional sentence, the intro that immediately engages, and the conclusion that ties everything together. It all matters. And I think that this tension—this kind of creative torture—is proof that it matters.
Staying With It
Deadlines motivate me. When I set out to launch this blog a year and-a-half ago, I committed to publishing one piece a month, due on the 1st of every month. I haven’t missed a deadline yet 😉
It takes self-discipline to meet the challenge of regular output. To consistently produce. You can’t always rely on energy and inspiration. It’s nice when it’s there, but in order to create within the parameters you’ve set for yourself, you have to work when you’re tired, distracted, or have a hundred other things going on. It’s part of the commitment.
Whenever I’m in a mood, tired from the workday, or just not feeling particularly productive, I ask myself: okay… what’s the alternative? Netflix? Scrolling? To echo Kasey’s comment from earlier… what am I even doing with my extra time if I’m not writing?
Really, all I have to do is sit down and start. Chip away at it. Once I get going, the process always energizes me. Hours slip away unnoticed into the late evening. Then it’s bedtime. And then it’s past bedtime. And then I really have to slam my laptop shut and walk away while there’s still something left in the well.
Setting goals, pushing through discomfort, and putting in those reps has absolutely made me a stronger artist. You learn that you can get it done—and do it well.
Why I Keep Creating
I’ll be honest, sometimes I think, does anyone even care if I keep writing?
Of course, I can see the analytics on each post, so I know people are reading and that I’ve received positive feedback. But views go up and down, and it can be a long road to make a meaningful impact. Sometimes metrics can be discouraging, and it’s easy to get caught up in the numbers or the timeline of progress.
When I start to feel that way, I like to go back and read some of my old posts and think… wow… I really love this. I feel proud of the work I’ve put out, and it excites me all over again. It reminds me why I’m doing this in the first place.
Yes, it’s for me. It’s a creative outlet that brings me joy and fulfillment. It challenges me. But of course, it’s for others, too. The whole purpose is to inspire and build connection through real stories and experiences.
I view art as a responsibility. Not a pastime. Not a hobby. Not a luxury. I do it because I love it and because it matters.
The world won’t stop if I cease to write, but it’s something meaningful that I feel I can contribute. Whether it’s to one person or one million.
Not only that, but I feel misaligned with myself when I’m not creating. Writing was a dream that I laid down for a long time while moving through grief. Returning to it now feels like a sign of healing. Proof that I was able to pull myself back together enough to have the energy to pursue it again.
And I don’t take that for granted. I think of it as a gift.
The Resolution
Knowing when to walk away from a piece—to finally pronounce it “finished”—is an art in and of itself.
It kind of tears at you. Keeps pulling you back in. Another word adjustment. One last brush stroke. A note played differently. A final cut in the edit.
I can only really describe it as a gut feeling. You just know when all the parts have finally come together to create something whole. Like finding the perfect throw pillow fabric that somehow ties the entire room together.
And after you send it out into the world—whether for an audience of one or one million—you rest. Replenish. Enjoy.
And then you begin the process all over again.
Because the work is never really done.