You want the truth about creativity?
It’s not some mystical bullshit where you dance naked under a full moon and wait for the muse to French kiss your brain.
It’s not about finding the perfect artisanal coffee shop with just the right amount of hipster ambiance and pretentious baristas.
It’s about planting your ass in a chair and staying there until your fingers bleed alphabet soup.
You think 23,748 words is impressive? That’s cute. That’s what happens when you stop making excuses and treat writing like the soul-crushing, mind-numbing job it really is.
You lock yourself in a room at 9 AM like you’re cosplaying as a hostage in your own personal word dungeon.
You don’t come out until the work is done or you’ve forgotten how doors work.
(This actually happened cause I had to escape for a little break to refuel on spite and caffeine)
No excuses? Damn straight.
Your dog ate your laptop? Write on its back with a Sharpie.
Alien invasion? Better hope those probes come with a word processor.
The apocalypse? Well, congratu-fucking-lations, now you’ve got plenty of material.
Distractions? Ha! The only distraction you’re allowed is the occasional bout of existential dread or the burning desire to headbutt your keyboard until it spells out a bestseller.
Your phone? Throw it out the window.
Social media? Block that shit harder than your ex trying to friend request you after ghosting for three years.
The writing got done because you stapled your ass to that chair and told your brain, “Listen here, you lazy bag of neurons, we’re not leaving until we’ve vomited words onto this page like a freshman after their first keg stand.
“There’s nothing romantic about it, kids. It’s not about inspiration striking like lightning.
It’s about grabbing inspiration by the throat and forcing it to do your bidding like some demented puppet master.
You think Hemingway waited for the perfect moment? Hell no. He wrote drunk, edited sober, and probably insulted a few people in between.
So, all you aspiring wordsmiths and various flavours of creatives out there, here’s the cold, hard truth:
The muse is a fickle bitch who’ll leave you high and dry faster than a date who realises you can’t afford the fancy restaurant.
Waiting for inspiration is like waiting for your cat to appreciate you – it ain’t happening.
Not knowing what to write about? Welcome to the club. We meet at the bar of perpetual despair every night.
What matters, what really fucking matters, is putting your ass in that seat and getting to work.
You write when you’re tired. You write when you’re hungover.
You write when you’d rather be doing literally anything else, including giving yourself a root canal with a rusty spoon.
And yeah, after puking out 23,748 words, you’re gonna feel like your brain’s been put through a wood chipper and reassembled by a drunk toddler.
Your editor’s gonna look at that mess tomorrow and wonder if you’ve been possessed by a demon with a grudge against the English language.
But you know what? You did it. You showed up. You faced the blank page and told it who’s boss.
And tomorrow? You’re gonna do it all over again, because that’s what writers do. We’re not artists, we’re word factories running on caffeine, self-loathing, and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, we’ll write something that doesn’t make us want to set fire to our laptops.
So strap in, It’s gonna be a long, bumpy ride on the Creative-Express, and the only stops are Writer’s Block City and Carpel Tunnel Junction. But hey, at least you’re moving forward, one painful word at a time.
Now get back to work, stop reading this email. Those words aren’t gonna torture themselves onto the page.
Stephen Walker