July Theme: Creative Courage

Big Question: What does it take to begin, risk, and share what you create?

Week 2: Taking Creative Risks

This month, we’re asking ourselves the big question: What does it take to begin, risk, and share what we create?

So far, we’ve explored creative and reflective writing prompts that have allowed us to discover the ins and outs of beginnings and the creative courage they take through written drafts. And we’ve discussed books that focus on beginnings and books that inspire us to write more courageously.

Last week’s dialogue also focused primarily on beginnings and asked: Do writers need to feel ready before they begin a new project?, which allowed us to uncover a lot about Why Beginning Feels So Difficult, But Doesn’t Have to Be.

And through those drafts and dialogues, we’ve discovered that creative courage is not the absence of uncertainty, but the willingness to begin while uncertainty is still present. And that creative courage often arrives after we begin, not before.

But most importantly, we discovered that whether we’re plotters or pantsers, have been writing for weeks or a lifetime, we’re not alone in the fears and concerns that sometimes arise when we stare at a blank page or head in an unfamiliar direction. And that creative courage comes with a level of risk that encourages us to become more curious and move beyond what we perceive as certain in exciting and consistently rewarding ways.

Which is why this week, we’re going to turn toward the question of taking creative risks and what it means to move beyond the familiar, fully embrace uncertainty, and make choices that allow our most original ideas to emerge. Because every story, every work of art, and every meaningful beginning also require the willingness to take that first risk that makes it all worthwhile.

Today’s question is at the heart of discussing what it means to embody creative courage because it motivates us, as creators, to consider one of the biggest hurdles to overcome when weighing creative risks: audience expectations. It also nudges us to delve even deeper into those important questions we need to ask ourselves about the creative risks we want to take and know we need to take, as well as those things that might be preventing us from taking those risks in the first place.

Whether you take creative risks all the time, are unsure of where to begin, or are simply interested in exploring the ways you can be more authentic and inventive in your writing, this week’s dialogue will unpack invaluable insights into what it means to take creative risks when weighing readers’ expectations, how doing so can lead to more self-awareness and creative growth, as well as how you can better approach those things that might be holding you back from taking successful creative risks.

Take a moment to consider today’s question and the different responses to it, then participate in the poll. And let us know more about what you think in this week’s Dialoguers chat thread. There are no strict right or wrong answers, only those answers that will help us better understand creative courage and how we want to better leverage it.

Drafting this Dialogue

Prioritize creative risks.

Every memorable piece of writing begins with a choice between playing it safe or trying something new. Writers who take creative risks may divide their opinions along the spectrum between the two while realizing that taking risks (even small ones) often leads to fresh ideas, authentic perspectives and voices, and stories that leave a lasting impression. Writers with this perspective, however, agree that originality is worth the possibility that some readers may not like the result of the creative risks they’re taking, and that it is better to prioritize creative risks over readers’ expectations most of the time.

If you strongly agree, you may also find yourself identifying with one or more of the following statements:

• “I believe great writing comes from trying something new, even if not everyone appreciates it.”

• “Creative risks are necessary to authentic storytelling.”

• “If a writer is afraid of taking risks, then he or she should not be a writer.”— Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

• “A writer’s unique voice is more valuable than universal approval.”

• “I’d rather write something unforgettable than something merely acceptable.”

• “There is no innovation and creativity without failure. Period.” — Brené Brown

• “Challenging readers can encourage deeper thinking and meaningful conversations.”

• “If my work pleases everyone, I probably haven’t said anything original.”

• “Go into territory so new that you have to learn to write as you go.”— Margaret Atwood

Reflection

This month’s theme, Creative Courage, reminds us that meaningful creativity often requires stepping into the unknown. This week’s focus, Taking Creative Risks, encourages writers to experiment with ideas, styles, and perspectives that may not appeal to everyone. While creative risks can lead to criticism, they also create opportunities for growth, innovation, and authentic self-expression. Courage in writing is not about avoiding failure or prioritizing readers’ expectations, in other words, but about being willing to share something original despite uncertainty and potential criticism.

To engage in further dialogue, ask:

• What examples of risky writing have changed literature or culture? Especially those I want to emulate?

• How can writers and readers tell the difference between being original and or being confusing?

• Is it better to write for the sake of artistic expression or for audience approval? And is there a way to balance the two in my own writing?

• Can a controversial yet innovative book still be considered successful if it doesn’t appeal to a large group of readers? If so, then what makes it successful? To whom? And why?

• When does taking creative risks become irresponsible or start alienating too many readers? And does that matter?

Prioritize readers’ expectations.

The purpose of writing is to communicate with readers. From this perspective, success is measured not by how bold or unconventional a piece is, but by how well it connects with the people it was written for, its intended audience. Writers with this view believe that taking unnecessary creative risks can distract from the message of what’s written and reduce their ability to effectively reach their intended audience, in other words, so it is ultimately better to prioritize readers’ expectations over taking creative risks.

If you strongly agree, you may also find yourself identifying with one or more of the following statements:

• “Effective writing succeeds by meeting the needs and expectations of its target audience.”

• “A story succeeds when its intended readers understand and enjoy it.”

• “A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences.” — William Strunk Jr.

• “Clear communication is more important than experimentation.”

• “Writers should prioritize connecting with readers over taking creative risks.”

• “Nobody wants to read your old diary except you.” — Donald Murray

• “The audience is the reason the story exists.”

• “Good writing isn’t about shocking people, it’s about reaching them.”

• “Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.”— Neil Gaiman

Reflection

This month’s Creative Courage theme can also remind us of the importance of making thoughtful, intentional choices that best serve our audiences. And this week’s focus on Taking Creative Risks reminds us that not every writer will or should experiment in the same way, or at all. Sometimes courage entails resisting the pressure to be different simply for the sake of being different and what is perceived as ‘originality’ in other words. Instead, writers may demonstrate creative courage by communicating clearly, staying true to their purpose, and creating work that resonates deeply with the readers they hope to reach.

To engage in further dialogue, ask:

• How should writers identify and understand their intended audience? And what if they get it wrong, even without taking major creative risks?

• Can a writer be original without taking major creative risks? Or is there a way they can take only minor creative risks instead? And if so, what’s the difference?

• Should commercial success influence a writer’s decisions? And what limitations does considering this place on reaching readers’ expectations versus taking creative risks?

• How will different audience members respond to the same piece of writing? And how does this factor into meeting readers’ expectations?

• When should a writer choose clarity over experimentation?

My Reflection and an Invitation

As usual, I am caught between these two options, which indicates how compelling this question is upon further reflection.

While I absolutely see the value in taking creative risks and always believe some element of risk is important when evolving as a writer, I also see the value in sincerely considering and caring about audience expectations. And ultimately, I’m left wondering where the middle ground exists between these two options, and if there is one?

Does the answer to this question ultimately depend on things like what type of genre a writer is exploring? Is it better to prioritize creative risks when writing Sci-Fi but not Romance, for example?

Or does the answer to this question ultimately depend more on things like what a writer’s goals are? If a writer wants to sell more books, they will likely prioritize audience expectations over experimentation then, right?

I want to know what you think!

Join this week’s dedicated Dialoguers chat thread to discuss this topic further as we continue to explore Creative Courage this month. I’d love to have a much richer and more meaningful discussion about this.

Feel free to share any thoughts, questions, or observations in the chat—whatever comes to mind. Some of what comes up in our conversation may be included in Thursday’s follow-up post, where we’ll explore this topic more deeply and look at how understanding creative risks can strengthen both your own creative courage and that of the community.

I’m looking forward to hearing everyone’s perspectives and getting the conversation started in the comments or chat!

Please don’t forget to like or share this post if you enjoyed it. Thank you!

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Continue Exploring July’s Creative Courage Theme

This week’s Posts: Taking Creative Risks

Taking Creative Risks: Writing Prompts to Build Creative Courage

Beneath the Armor

Week 1: Beginning Before You Feel Ready

Beginning Before You Feel Ready: Writing Prompts

Between Two Worlds

Do writers need to feel ready before they begin a new project?

The Art of Beginning Again

Beginnings and endings are linked in a lot of ways…

Why Beginning Feels So Difficult, But Doesn’t Have to Be

Books That Made Me Want to Write and Take Creative Risks

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Buy me a coffee to say thanks

Consider going more in depth with this month’s theme with July’s Creative Courage Writing Collection.

The writing collection is designed to help you explore creative courage from different angles: discovering your voice, strengthening your craft, experimenting with new approaches, and reflecting on the writer you are becoming.

The free Drafts and Dialogues posts that will be published this month will explore the outward side of creative courage—beginning, risking, and sharing— and should complement this collection quite well, which invites you to go much deeper into the internal work of creativity with 30 guided writing prompts and craft exercises, reflections, as well as three options for guided monthly writing challenges for those who want to go even further than that.

Note: Paid subscribers have access to the full archive, including previous writing prompts, discussions, and reading lists, as well as full access to the community chat and Daily Drafters Exclusives writing collections.

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© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC.

July Theme: Creative Courage

Big Question: What does it take to begin, risk, and share what you create?

Week 1: Beginning Before You Feel Ready

The Question Behind the Question

This month we’re exploring creative courage, and this week we’re exploring the complexities of beginnings and the courage they take, which prompted Monday’s question: Do writers need to feel ready before they begin a new project?

The responses I received on Substack and across social media were split in half, with about half of you agreeing with some version of “Yes, preparation creates better work” and half of you agreeing with some version of “No, starting is how we become ready.” Which likely means that around half of respondents are ‘plotters’ and around half of respondents are ‘pantsers.’ And that’s not too surprising, especially when we consider the various genres and types of writing respondents dabble in.

What I did find interesting, however, is what I discovered when I asked some respondents individually what they thought the most difficult thing about starting a new project was, regardless of whether they felt prepared to begin working on it or not. And most of them replied with things like “Staring at a blank page in terror” and “Not knowing if it will be any good.”

Which leads me to believe that hesitations around beginning new projects likely have much more to do with what I referred to as ‘emotional blockages’ in Monday’s post than being technically prepared with outlines or conjuring interesting characters to follow— that feeling ‘ready’ is a much more emotional endeavor than we like to admit to ourselves or each other aloud that often. And that realization only further affirms my belief in the supportive conversations and dialogues I want to facilitate inside our community, as well as with what we read and write.

Perhaps these ‘emotional blockages’ are what give us the most insight into where creative courage truly begins. And it’s not when our fears disappear, but when we decide that fear will never get the final word.

The section that follows includes writers who offer us reminders for helpful ways to think about beginning new projects. They remind us not to think of beginnings as moments when we finally feel ready, but as moments we can meet with acts of trust, curiosity, and self-prescribed permission and courage.

And the sections after that recap my final thoughts on this week’s dialogue, then wrap up what it means to have creative courage so that we can begin.

Permission to Begin

When you’re starting a new project, it’s important to remember that you aren’t alone with whatever feelings or hesitations you might be experiencing and never have been and never will be. Not only will you have the Daily Drafts & Dialogues community to lean on now, but you’ll also have a substantial well of experience and advice from other writers to pull from. Because even they, some of the most well-adjusted and well-established writers to have ever existed, needed reminders and motivation boosts to push them through any blockages they were experiencing from time to time. We all do or will at some point. No one is immune to beginnings.

So, whenever you’re hesitant to begin and one or more of the following thoughts cross your mind, imagine an author you admire or respect telling you what you need to hear at that exact moment. Even start a dialogue with them if you have to, especially if it gets you writing.

“My first draft isn’t good enough.”

• “Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere.”
  — Anne Lamott

• “The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.” — Terry Pratchett

• “I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles.” — Shannon Hale

• “I’m not a very good writer, but I’m an excellent rewriter.” — James Michener

• “You can only write regularly if you’re willing to write badly. One of the most important things a writer can do is give themselves permission to write badly.” — Jennifer Egan

• “The first draft of anything is shit.” — Ernest Hemingway

• “I have rewritten —often several times— every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasers.” — Vladimir Nabokov

• “Every first draft is perfect because all the first draft has to do is exist.” — Jane Smiley

“The blank page is terrifying.”

• “You can always edit a bad page. You can’t edit a blank page.” — Jodi Picoult

• “The blank page is a mirror reflecting back your own fears, but it is also a canvas waiting for your truth.” — Gloria E. Anzaldúa

• “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.” —Stephen King

• “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” — Ernest Hemingway

• “The blank page is a door, but it’s a locked door until you find the key. Sometimes the key is just a single word.” — Margaret Atwood

• “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou

• “Writing about writer’s block is better than not writing at all.” — Charles Bukowski

“I don’t know where to begin.”

• “Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.” —Louis L’Amour

• “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” — E.L. Doctorow

• “The experienced writer says to the anguished novice: ‘Just do it; get something, anything, on to the screen or page, just establish a flow of words, and criticise them later.’” — Hilary Mantel

• “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” — Ernest Hemingway

• “Much of what’s taught under the name of expository writing could be called ‘The Anxiety of Sequence.’ Its premise is this: To get where you’re going, you have to begin in just the right place... Why not begin where you already are?” — Verlyn Klinkenborg

“I need inspiration before I can write.”

• “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.”
  — Stephen King

• “Don’t wait for inspiration. Discipline is more dependable than inspiration.” — Elizabeth Gilbert (Reflects a recurring theme in her talks and essays.)

• “You don’t start with inspiration. You start with work.” — Octavia Butler

• “You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.” — Jack London

• “Inspiration usually comes during work, rather than before it.” — Madeleine L’Engle

• “I only write when inspiration strikes. Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.” — W. Somerset Maugham

• “The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.” — Mary Heaton Vorse

“I need to know everything before I start.”

• “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.” — Joan Didion

• “A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.” — E.B. White

• “I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.” —Robert Frost

• “I don’t want to know everything before I write because the writing is the knowing. It is the discovery of what I am capable of thinking.” — Toni Morrison

• “Exercise the writing muscle every day... Writers are like dancers, like athletes. Without that exercise, the muscles seize up.” — Jane Yolen

• “The first sentence can’t be written until the final sentence is written.” — Joyce Carol Oates

• “I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time... The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it... They learn as the plant grows.” — George R.R. Martin

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“What if my idea isn’t original?”

• “There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope.” — Mark Twain

• “Everything has been written before, but it hasn’t been written by you!” — Chris A. Jackson

• “Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.” — C.S. Lewis

• “It’s not where you take things from—it’s where you take them to.” — Jean-Luc Godard

• “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” — Toni Morrison

• “Everything that needs to be said has already been said. But since no one was listening, everything must be said again.” — André Gide

• “Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination…Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent.” — Jim Jarmusch

• “Write what you know. That should leave you with a lot of free time.” — Howard Nemerov

“I’m afraid of what people will think.”

• “Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to wonder what they’re going to think about it. Just write.” — Barbara Kingsolver

• “Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about.”
  — Natalie Goldberg

• “An unbelieved truth can hurt a man much more than a lie. It takes great courage to back truth unacceptable to our times.” — John Steinbeck

• “Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.” — Kurt Vonnegut

• “If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” —Anne Lamott

• “You can’t think about the audience. You have to write what you want to write.” — Judy Blume

• “The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read.” — Margaret Atwood

• “So long as you write what you wish to write, that is all that matters; and whether it matters for ages or only for hours, nobody can say.” — Virginia Woolf

• “When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.” — Audre Lorde

“Maybe I’m not really a writer.”

• “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” — Thomas Mann

• “A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.” — Richard Bach

• “A writer is a person who writes. That’s it. It’s a verb, not a noun.” — Margaret Atwood

• “You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

• “The biggest problem we have as writers is imposter syndrome. We feel like we are sneaking into a party we weren’t invited to. But remember, everyone else feels the same way.” — Neil Gaiman

• “I think that if a writer ever stops doubting themselves, they stop being a writer.” —Shirley Jackson

• “I would like to say that it gets easier, but it doesn’t. You just learn to live with the fear that you aren’t good enough.” — Harper Lee

“I’m afraid of making mistakes.”

• “Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it’s the only way you can do anything really good.” — William Faulkner

• “The beautiful part of writing is that you don’t have to get it right the first time…” —Robert Cormier

• “If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.” — Margaret Atwood

• “The only kind of writing is rewriting.” — Ernest Hemingway

• “You fail only if you stop writing.” and “You’re afraid of making mistakes. Don’t be. Mistakes can be profited by... If you hide your ignorance, no one will hit you and you’ll never learn.” — Ray Bradbury

• “I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You’re doing things you’ve never done before, and more importantly, you’re Doing Something.” —Neil Gaiman

• “A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.” — James Joyce

“This project feels too big.”

• “Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page for each day, it helps. Then when it gets finished, you are always surprised.” — John Steinbeck

• “Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.” — Anne Lamott

• “The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret to getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks and then starting on the first one.” — Mark Twain

• “We have to be willing to grow to meet the work. Sometimes a book is too big for us, and we have to grow until we are big enough for it.” — Madeleine L’Engle

• “A word at a time... It sounds too simple to be true, but consider the view from the other side. If you didn’t visualize a total of four hundred pages, if you only thought of the page you were writing today, it wouldn’t be so formidable.” — Stephen King

• “First forget inspiration. Habit is more dependable. Habit will sustain you whether you’re inspired or not. Habit will help you finish and polish your stories.” — Octavia Butler

“I don’t have the courage.”

• “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.”— Mark Twain

• “You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you... Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down.” — Ray Bradbury

• “Courage is the most important of all the virtues, because without courage you can’t practice any other virtue consistently. You can practice any virtue erratically, but nothing consistently without courage.” — Maya Angelou

• “You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if it can be written by inside sources, it will be. But if it cannot, you have to go to the darker place.” — James Baldwin

• “Vulnerability is the birthplace of innovation, creativity, and change.” — Brené Brown

• “Creativity requires the courage to let go of certainties.” — Erich Fromm

• “If you’re not prepared to be wrong, you’ll never come up with anything original.” — Sir Ken Robinson

• “You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.” —William Faulkner

• “The moment that you feel that, just possibly, you’re walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself. That’s the moment you may be starting to get it right.” — Neil Gaiman

Upon Further Reflection

After further reflection, I’ve come to see how crucial embracing uncertainty is to beginning new projects, and that creative courage has a lot more to do with feeling ready than actually being ‘ready’ with an outline, plan, or approach, even if those things can help us feel ready most of the time. So, the important question isn’t about whether you’re a plotter or a pantser, but how you’re able to embrace uncertainty as part of your writing process, especially when beginning new projects.

I’ve also come to see how important it is to question what we’re doing and how we’re doing it, but only as we’re working out our questions via writing and active discovery. Otherwise, we risk questioning our own intentions and value too much, which can lead to crippling self-doubt about whatever we’re writing, as well as our identity as writers. Some level of doubt is normal and healthy when beginning new projects, in other words, but only when we’re doing the writing work it takes to grapple with it and potentially unravel those doubts, one word, one sentence, one page at a time.

And most importantly, I’ve come to understand how crucial supportive writing communities are when starting new projects. It’s impossible to know how starting a new project will feel, and if you’ll ever feel ready, especially when each new project comes with its own doubts and things for us to worry about. But hearing helpful reminders and encouragement from fellow writers who have experienced what we’re experiencing at those moments can be powerful.

Dialogue Wrap-Up: Creative Courage and the Courage to Begin

A plotter may worry: What if my carefully planned story doesn’t work? What if I spend all this time outlining and still can’t find the heart of the story?

A pantser may worry: What if I get lost? What if I write hundreds of pages and discover I have no idea where I’m going?

But both are navigating the same fundamental question: Can I trust myself to create something meaningful?

Plotting and pantsing are not opposites. They are two different ways of approaching the same act of discovery, which requires the same creative courage.

The plotter discovers through preparation. The pantser discovers through exploration. One begins with a map, while the other begins with a journey. But both require creative courage to begin.

“Structure does not restrict creativity; it focuses it.” — For plotters, structure can be an act of creative courage, when choosing a direction, making decisions, and creating a foundation strong enough for their imagination to flourish. A framework does not remove possibilities for them but creates a container where creativity can deepen.

“Writing without a map isn’t haphazard; it’s discovery.” — For pantsers, uncertainty is not a failure of preparation, it’s part of the process, and requires courage to step into that uncertainty. Leaving room for surprise, intuition, and unexpected turns can reveal elements of the story that could never have been planned.

Both approaches require trust. The plotter trusts the plan. The pantser trusts the process. Both must eventually surrender control and allow the story to become something beyond their original idea.

Beginning is difficult because every new project asks us to step into uncertainty. The outline is uncertain until it becomes a story. The blank page is uncertain until it becomes a draft. The first draft is uncertain until it becomes something worth revising.

Writers don’t overcome fear and then start. They start, and through the act of creating, they build confidence, clarity, and momentum. Whether we begin with a blueprint or a blank page, every writer is practicing the same courage it takes to trust that something can emerge where nothing exists yet.

The question isn’t whether we should begin with a map or without one, it’s whether we are willing to begin at all, knowing that uncertainty is not a sign we are doing it wrong, but proof that we are creating something new.

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I invite you to join this week’s Dialoguers chat to share your experiences on beginning new projects with us, or any of your reflections on what it means to create beyond the boundaries of what feels safe and familiar.

Whether you join to share your responses, ask more thought-provoking questions, or connect with other writers and support their work, we look forward to your contributions as we continue to discuss creative courage this month!

Join the Dialoguers Chat

Continue Exploring July’s Creative Courage Theme

ICYMI—>This week’s Posts: Beginning Before You Feel Ready

Beginning Before You Feel Ready: Writing Prompts

Between Two Worlds

Do writers need to feel ready before they begin a new project?

The Art of Beginning Again

Beginnings and endings are linked in a lot of ways…

Subscribe now

Buy me a coffee to say thanks

Consider going more in depth with this month’s theme with July’s Creative Courage Writing Collection.

The writing collection is designed to help you explore creative courage from different angles: discovering your voice, strengthening your craft, experimenting with new approaches, and reflecting on the writer you are becoming.

The free Dialogues posts and Drafts writing prompts posts that will be published every Saturday this month will explore the outward side of creative courage—beginning, risking, and sharing— and should complement this collection quite well, which invites you to go much deeper into the internal work of creativity with 30 guided writing prompts and craft exercises, reflections, as well as three options for guided monthly writing challenges for those who want to go even further than that.

Note: Paid subscribers have access to the full archive, including previous writing prompts, discussions, and reading lists, as well as full access to the community chat and Daily Drafters Exclusives writing collections.

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© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC.

July Theme: Creative Courage

Big Question: What does it take to begin, risk, and share what you create?

Week 1: Beginning Before You Feel Ready

This month, we’re thinking about and discussing the creative courage it takes to begin a new project or practice and the risks doing those things entails, especially when it comes time to share what we create.

And since this is the first week that we’re kicking off prompts, reflections, and discussions centered around creative courage, we’re focusing on beginnings— primarily, what it means to begin before you feel ready, and if that is even possible or advisable.

Today’s question is at the heart of discussing creative courage because it motivates us, as creators, to reflect on and identify those moments and processes that signify we’re ready to begin a project, as well as those things that might be holding us back from beginning new projects time and time again.

Whether you’re starting a new project today, next week, or next year, this dialogue will uncover invaluable insights into what makes you feel ready to begin a new project, and what you can do about those things that get in your way when you want to begin a new project but find yourself stuck.

Consider today’s question, respond to the poll, then let us know what you think in the Dialoguers chat. There are no strict right or wrong answers, only those answers that will help us better understand creative courage and how we want to leverage it.

Drafting this Dialogue

YES Preparation creates better work.

If your initial response to today’s question is ‘yes,’ you might be what is commonly known as a ‘plotter,’ or a writer who prefers to research and outline a story or project in advance before they start drafting it. And you probably do this because you feel it saves you time when you finally sit down to write or revise your project, as you’ll already have the general structure and essence of your project figured out well before you start drafting it. Which may also prevent you from encountering writer’s block or fearing the ‘messy middle’ of your project since you’ll always know what comes next.

You may also find yourself strongly identifying with one or more of the following statements:

• “If you do enough planning before you start to write, there’s no way you can have writer’s block.” — R.L. Stine

• “Fail to plan, plan to fail.”

• “I used to write down ideas in notebooks... then I would plan the outline of the plot carefully.” — Agatha Christie

• “Structure does not restrict creativity; it focuses it.”

• “When I sit down to write page one of the book, I already know everything that’s going to happen.” — Ken Follett

• “Fix structural problems in the outline, not in the first draft.”

To engage in further dialogue, ask:

• In what ways has being fully prepared for a project helped me? And in what ways has it hindered me?

• Does preparation tend to lead to more creative breakthroughs, or more creative ways to procrastinate?

• Has there ever been a time when preparing for a project limited my spontaneity or ability to be surprised while working on that project? And if so, was that a bad or good thing?

• How do I know when I am officially prepared enough to start writing?

• In what ways might preparing for a project hinder or assist my creative courage overall?

NO Starting is how we become ready.

If your initial response to today’s question is ‘no,’ you might be what is commonly known as a ‘pantser,’ or a writer who dives into a new project with little to no preparation or outline. You probably enjoy the discovery process of writing the most. You likely enjoy seeing what plot twists reveal themselves as you write and learning about your characters and what they are going to do next as you are writing them and their worlds into existence. And this ‘flying by the seat of your pants’ approach is likely fun and engaging, often allowing you to get lost in the flow of writing thousands of words in one sitting.

You may also find yourself strongly identifying with one or more of the following statements:

• “Writing was exciting because I never planned ahead. I made up my stories as I went along and it was a great deal like reading a book I hadn’t written.” — Isaac Asimov

• “Characters should dictate the plot.”

• “First, find out what your hero wants, then just follow him!” — Ray Bradbury

• “Writing without a map isn’t haphazard, it’s discovery.”

• “Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.” — Sylvia Plath

• “Writing myself into a corner is part of the process.”

To engage in further dialogue, ask:

• In what ways has little to no preparation for a project helped me? And in what ways has it hindered me?

• Does my discovery process tend to lead to more plot twists, or more plot holes?

• Has there ever been a time when improvising what I wrote negatively impacted my ability to follow the path of what I was writing, or revise and edit what I wrote?

• How do I know when what I am writing is taking the shape of a cohesive story and narrative?

• In what ways might unstructured writing hinder or assist my creative courage overall?

Reflection

Typically, if an idea won’t leave me alone, I know it’s worth sitting down and sorting through and organizing or researching further. Over the years, I have learned that a hybrid approach to the above approaches (plotting + pantsing) is typically best— I tend to create a loose, bullet point outline with sections that I use or lose as I draft my first and second drafts. And I have a feeling this might be the case for most writers, but could be wrong?

I also think that a writer’s preferred approach, and how prepared they need to be to start a project, likely depends on what they’re writing. Many dense, literary novels and nonfiction works seem impossible to achieve without structures and outlines, while many thrillers seem to necessitate more improvisation as they’re being written. But I’m curious about what you think!

More than that, I want to go deeper with the question about what it means to feel ‘ready’ to begin a creative project. It seems emotional blockages are more likely to get in our way of starting projects than intellectual ones. Creating outlines and first drafts can help ideas take shape, in other words, but can they help us get past those things that are making us feel far less courageous than we want to feel as we begin new creative endeavors?

An Invitation

Join this week’s dedicated Dialoguers chat to discuss this topic further as we continue to explore creative courage this month. I’d love to hear what you think and how you’re drafting this ongoing dialogue too, so we have a much richer and more meaningful discussion.

Your thoughtful contributions in the chat could also end up in Thursday’s follow-up post, which will offer an expanded discussion of this topic, and notes on how understanding it better can help your creative courage, as well as your fellow creatives. I can’t wait to get this conversation started!

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ICYMI—>This week’s Posts: Beginning Before You Feel Ready

Beginning Before You Feel Ready: Writing Prompts

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The writing collection is designed to help you explore creative courage from different angles: discovering your voice, strengthening your craft, experimenting with new approaches, and reflecting on the writer you are becoming.

The free Drafts and Dialogues posts that will be published this month will explore the outward side of creative courage—beginning, risking, and sharing— and should complement this collection quite well, which invites you to go much deeper into the internal work of creativity with 30 guided writing prompts and craft exercises, reflections, as well as three options for guided monthly writing challenges for those who want to go even further than that.

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© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC.

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Have you been feeling lost or desperate lately?

Write anyway.

Do you feel like there’s still too much to learn, see, and do until you find your true inner voice?

Write anyway.

Are you feeling uninspired today?

Write anyway.

Do you feel exhausted, or irritable because of how exhausted you are?

Write anyway.

Are you feeling lonely and like nothing you do matters?

Write anyway.

Have you been feeling overwhelmed by the weight of the world lately?

Write anyway.

Do you have a busy schedule and feel like you never have time to yourself?

Write anyway.

Are you anxious and unable to focus on anything for longer than a minute at a time?

Write anyway.

Does it feel like no one will ever listen to what you have to say?

Write anyway.

Are you unsure of what you’re feeling and where you’re going in life right now?

Write anyway.

I could keep adding different feelings, states of being, and life scenarios to this list, but I think you get the gist.

Regardless of what you’re going through today, write anyway, because the times you are less inclined to write are probably the times you need to sit down and write the most— to reflect, to breathe, to escape, to remain inspired and creative, to remain human.

When you write, you will become more inspired with each word you write, each sentence you write. Or, at the very least, you will start to feel more relaxed and focused as you write. The only caveat is that you allow yourself to write freely and even badly sometimes. The act of writing itself will allow you to slow down and breathe as long as you aren’t expecting a perfect literary masterpiece to surface every single time you sit down to write.

Also, using cloud-based apps and setting doable daily writing routines and quotas will keep you writing every day, especially when it’s difficult to do so. Even if you only write 500 words per day for an hour each day at lunchtime or right when you wake up, it all adds up. And you’ll always feel better about having written something.

You can also change what you write whenever you want. Write a journal entry one day, then the next day complete a free writing exercise or a creative writing prompt like the ones you’ll find at the bottom of every Daily Drafts and Dialogues post. Or write the next scene in your novel or your next Substack post. It doesn’t always matter as long as you keep writing, no matter what. Trust me. You will feel better in the long run when you do.

Today’s Dialogue

When’s the last time you decided to write anyway? And how did it make you feel?

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ICYMI

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Poverty, By America by Matthew Desmond

Week 1 (July 1-5 )— Prologue- Chapter 1

Week 2 (July 6-12)— Chapters 2-4

Week 3 (July 13- 19)— Chapters 5-7

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July 31st: Discuss entire book in Substack chat thread

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TODAY’S WRITING PROMPT:

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It’s part of the human condition to compare ourselves to others sometimes, to see where we fall on the ever-elusive spectrum of ‘normal.’ And to emulate those we understand as setting the bar for the ‘normal’ standards we want to reach or feel we need to reach within our chosen professions and roles in life.

However, there are times when we wind up, even if unintentionally and subconsciously, comparing ourselves more to the stereotypical visions and versions of the roles we’ve chosen than what those roles actually entail on the ‘normal’ spectrum, or what feels most authentic and normal to us individually, especially as writers. Which is problematic for a number of reasons; chief among them: self-doubt and creative abstinence.

When writers compare themselves against stereotypical visions and versions of who they think they should be and what they think they should be doing in order to be considered a ‘normal’ or ‘serious’ writer, they often wind up flattening, or even eradicating, the most creative and authentic impulses and aspects of who they are as both writers and humans, and end up suffering from crippling self-doubt as a result. Which then ends up not being all that great for their writing, which in turn makes them continue to question their identity and abilities as a writer, which in turn makes them continue to search for other writers and practices to emulate that may not encourage them to be the writer they truly are and want to be. And on and on it goes— inert creativity trapped inside a never-ending spiral of self-doubt.

Of course, finding writers and writing practices you want to learn and emulate is essential to evolving into the writer you want to be, and is a never-ending process. Reading others’ work and seeing how they do it, however, should always be inspiring and inspire your own authentic work, not make you feel less worthy of calling yourself a ‘serious writer’ because you aren’t doing exactly what they’re doing, exactly how they’re doing it. Especially when stereotypical visions and versions of who you think they are and what inspires their writing begin to blur with who they actually are and what they actually do when they write, and those blurred visions and versions begin to influence you and your writing for the worse and make you start doubting yourself and your capabilities as a writer.

In other words, as you continue to fine-tune your writing identity and writing practices, be careful of falling victim to those stereotypical visions and versions of who you think other writers are and who you think you should be as a writer— those generic stereotypes that are often applied to writers— without allowing yourself to discover on a case-by-case basis which writers’ writing you genuinely admire and which writing practices of theirs you want to emulate, to become the most authentic writer you can be. Especially if you want to avoid being trapped inside a never-ending spiral of crippling self-doubt that prevents you from writing at all.

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So, what stereotypical visions and versions of ‘normal’ or ‘serious’ writers am I talking about?

What writer stereotypes need to die?

Buckle up because there are a few, though they all have a common thread. See if you can pinpoint what that thread is.

1. You need to own a million vintage typewriters and leather journals or even care about vintage typewriters and leather journals.

There is nothing wrong with owning vintage typewriters or caring about vintage typewriters, of course. But you do not need to be obsessed with them in order to consider yourself a ‘serious’ or ‘normal’ writer. Personally, I don’t like how they take up a lot of space, collect dust, and can be difficult to maintain. I also don’t like the smell of white out and don’t like how noisy typewriters can be when I use them. If you don’t feel the same way I do, cool. But if you do, please know that’s okay, too.

Likewise for leather journals. Personally, I am a fan of collecting journals I never actually write in because my Notes app is always closer and easier to get to, and because, well, they’re just so pretty and I don’t like ruining them. But if you enjoy marking up all the pages in the leather journals you collect, please, be my guest, go nuts!

2. You need to be depressed, a heavy drinker, or partake in illicit or hallucinogenic substances on a regular basis to be a creative writer.

In fact, the opposite is true. Studies show that you can’t think clearly or creatively when you are on drugs or use them frequently, and that drugs damage creativity by dulling our awareness, making us self-absorbed, and impairing critical faculties. [1]

Not to mention that the tired stereotype that ‘serious writers’ need to be depressed or dark often leads to heavy drug use and addiction, which is a toxic and deadly stereotype to uphold. If you are an optimistic, generous, hopeful person who doesn’t need medication or want to use illicit drugs, you can still be a writer with something worthy and important to share and are in fact more likely to write anything creative at all long-term. I also wrote about this in A tortured artist is a myth. No?

3. You need to be a man or adopt stereotypical masculine habits and tropes (see above), and or only write about war and misery and death, in order to be considered a ‘serious writer’ worthy of attention or acclaim.

There’s a lot to be said about this stereotype because it seems to be the hardest stereotype for writers of all backgrounds to accept and confront let alone eradicate due to their deeply indoctrinated beliefs of what ‘real literature’ is— which is a direct result of stereotypical cultural, patriarchal, educational standards, which are solely based on a literary canon full of tomes by men, for men, promoted by men, for centuries and centuries, offering the illusion that women have not always been ‘serious writers’ since the invention of written language, despite their work continually being outright stolen by their male guardians or intellectual peers who seem to have no shame or embarrassment about passing women’s writing off as their own in the annals of history, albeit discreetly and dishonestly, all while deliberately and publicly sidelining those same women authors in every way imaginable (literally, legally, and professionally), belittling them as being ‘too feminine’ so therefore ‘not serious enough’ (whatever that is even supposed to mean), even as they steal from them and require institutional indoctrination to subordinate those women’s ideas and writing to their own entitled wills.

Whew. I know. There’s a lot to unpack there. I am already thinking of writing a post (or entire book!) dedicated to this topic, as we speak…

4. You need to be a pretentious, pompous pr*ck in order to be a ‘serious writer.’

This stereotype follows from the last but is more insidious as it tends to sneak up on those who are so indoctrinated by what they have been led to believe ‘real literature’ is that their creative sense of wonder and exploration via writing and reading becomes practically non-existent over time. So, they (likely as a coping mechanism based on their unresolved insecurities they refuse to tend to) end up shutting down and ignoring and sidelining everything that isn’t ‘real literature’ to them or the patriarchal literary canon and dictates they refuse to expand or edit— essentially working to shut down the natural evolution of human literature and its potential, as well as their own creative potential.

Again, I realize there’s a ton to unpack here, worthy of its own post or book… But for now suffice it to say that being a judgmental jerk about what is and is not ‘serious writing’ or ‘real literature’ just makes you a jerk, not a ‘serious writer’ who knows how to genuinely explore the possibilities of what’s written and what can be written, especially if you aren’t critical of your own work or limitations.

5. You should read and laud every Classic in the existing literary canon, and only enjoy those works, if you’re a ‘serious writer.’

There are thousands of Classics, so reading every single one of them would be challenging if not impossible, especially if you’re interested in dabbling in Eastern Classics as well as Western Classics. And the likelihood that you’ll enjoy every single one of them or want to emulate every single one of them is definitely impossible and straight-up disingenuous to claim, if you’re actually paying attention to what you’re reading and fine-tuning what you want to write. Statistically, there will be far more literary works outside the Classics canon that will resonate with you as a writer than not. Of course, some Classics will resonate with you and the writer you want to be. But all of them? To the point that you feel the need to laud works that don’t actually resonate with you or the writer you want to be? And belittle everything else in the process? I don’t think that’s reasonable or healthy or indicative of wanting to be a ‘serious writer.’

Please, it’s time to put the tired stereotype to rest that anything outside the Classics canon isn’t ‘real literature’ or worthy of reading or emulating, and that popular writing is essentially meaningless simply because it’s popular—especially when it’s propagated by those who don’t even bother to read what they’re judging at face value before making their stereotypical judgments without direct textual evidence. I believe whole-heartedly that readers of all stars and stripes and backgrounds should experience a book in its entirety before they can judge its merits— and even then, they’re only qualified to judge its merits for their own writing, not every person in human existence. (Note: this is coming from someone who has a master’s in English.) Besides, most of the Classics today were actually popular when they were first published… so there’s that to chew on, as well…

“Don’t judge everyone else by your own limited experience.” — Carl Sagan

6. You aren’t a ‘serious writer’ until you earn a prestigious award or acclaim, are traditionally published, or hold a degree.

You can still be a serious writer creating important work if you don’t earn a prestigious award or acclaim or hold a degree. And yes, even if you aren’t traditionally published. There are so many writers out there worthy of attention and acclaim, whose work is worthy of emulation, who don’t have awards or degrees, and aren’t traditionally published. In fact, most prestigious awards are based on, you guessed it— “deeply indoctrinated beliefs of what ‘real literature’ is and should be … as promoted by stereotypical cultural and patriarchal education [and institutional] standards,” so… I at least think it’s worth questioning what stereotypes aren’t even being questioned when it comes to prestigious awards and acclaim and traditional publishing norms, no? Which is not the same thing as saying that awards and acclaim and traditional publishing norms don’t have their own value, only that questioning what they represent and offer, especially in relation to one’s own writing, is essential.

I have a master’s in English and only perceive its value in relation to my own writing, not others’ writing. And I am still struggling to see how traditional publishers and their affiliated awards offer more benefits to most writers and authors (not just those who make it big) than self-publishing or indie publishing in the second quarter of the twenty-first century— especially those writers who want to make money, which the whole traditional book business is supposed to care about and spearhead, no?

7. You should be allergic to emotions if you’re a ‘serious writer.’

I enjoy literature that makes me think, but I also enjoy literature that makes me feel something and reminds me that I’m human. And I believe that ‘real literature’ or ‘important literature’ should do both. Personally, there is no in between for me. I didn’t include the following statement on my About page for no reason: “Always start writing with a vital question in mind or to better understand an emotional state. The best writing usually necessitates combining these two elements with great discretion and diplomacy, regardless of what’s written.” But again, I realize this is my opinion, and don’t think you necessarily have to agree with it.

At the same time, however, writers should be concerned about forfeiting real human emotions in what they’re writing for a stereotypical literary idea, or perceived intellectual standard (especially those mired in patriarchal dogma) they’re trying to achieve or believe they should be achieving in what they’re writing, as this does often lead to boring and inauthentic, superficial writing, sadly, instead of noteworthy writing.

8. You shouldn’t care about money if you’re a ‘serious writer.’

This stereotype stems from the fact that most writers who were able to pursue writing as a ‘serious’ vocation in the past had an elite education and came from wealth or had wealthy benefactors, as well as direct connections to the elite literati and traditional publishers. Bluntly: the writers that first promoted this stereotype didn’t have to care about money at all and whether their writing made money, so were therefore able to think of writing as a hobby or noble pastime, probably because everything they did was a hobby, including their intellectual pursuits.

But the truth is, many writers who come from humble beginnings must work hard writing a bit of anything and everything to make money before they are able to have the money, or the time that money affords them, to write their one opus that puts them on the map, unless they’re lauded for their work long after they’re already dead and therefore never compensated. Indeed, many writers who are not wealthy need money to pay their bills first in order to write. So, this stereotype also seems backwards when you think about it. Those who want to make money from their writing likely care about it a great deal more, and are more serious about their writing, as they are willing to put it as their main pursuit to live, not as a hobby they have the luxury to do on a whim while all their bills are being paid from a trust fund.

9. You can’t write different things across different genres and be a successful writer.

While it might be difficult for established writers to change their genres or styles of writing, I firmly believe that if you aren’t constantly evolving as a writer, you’re missing out on all the things that writing has to offer. If you write fantasy today, there’s no reason you can’t write a memoir tomorrow. If you write literary fiction today, there’s no reason you can’t write romance tomorrow. Etc. Why limit yourself or your writing?

Traditional publishing will have us believe that most authors are only one-trick ponies. But I bet if we were to look at those authors’ personal files, we would see a very different view of what they enjoy writing and what they feel they need to write or are compelled to write. There is a reason why many authors use pen names, for example, or why they sometimes switch publishers when tackling a new genre or niche. Don’t let niche-oriented algorithms and traditional book marketing practices make you believe that you can’t write what you want, when you want, even if you have to get a little creative or think outside the box to get it out to the right audience.

10. You need to write every day to be a writer.

I know, I know. This might seem weird coming from me, the person who started Daily Drafts & Dialogues. But it’s true. I don’t think you need to write every day to consider yourself a writer. However, I do believe whole-heartedly that writing every day makes the writing process more enjoyable and easier, and that when the writing process is more enjoyable and easier, writers are more likely to keep writing on a long-term basis. And I am not exempt from that. So, no matter what, I write every day.

Today’s Dialogue

What writer stereotypes do you want to say goodbye to for good?

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Sources:

[1] How Do Drugs Affect Creativity? by Steve Taylor, Ph.D. Psychology Today. 8.15.2025

© This work is not available for artificial intelligence (AI) training. All Rights Reserved by K.E. Creighton; Creighton’s Compositions LLC.

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TODAY’S WRITING PROMPT:

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Earlier this month, I posted a simple Substack note that asked: “When do you feel most like a writer? While drafting, editing, reading, or in the quiet moments when you’re thinking about what to write next?”

And here’s what I learned from the responses I saw:

• Most people overall agreed that they felt most like a writer when they were drafting, revising, and or editing. No surprise there.

• However, more people shared that they felt most like a writer during quiet moments of brainstorming and reflection than when they were editing.

• And most people in the Other category claimed to feel most like a writer during spontaneous moments, when ideas come flooding in and they have to stop whatever they’re doing, regardless of where they are, to write them down.

• A few people in the Other category stated ‘All of the above’ or stated they felt most like a writer during two or more of the options provided.

• A handful of people also claimed to be struggling with feeling like a writer at all and shared feelings of self-doubt.

• A few people in the Other category stated they felt most like a writer when others regularly read and supported their work and offered encouragement.

• And a few people stated they felt most like a writer while drinking.

• Less than a handful of people said they felt most like a writer when they enjoyed rereading something they had already written or published, outside of the revising and editing stages.

• However, only one or two people claimed to feel most like a writer while reading others’ work (presumably for writing insights and inspiration).

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Overall, I was heartened by how many people embraced the various stages of the entire writing process, especially when they expressed their vulnerabilities with finding supportive readers and the unpredictable nature of the writing process itself. Never being able to shut off the ‘writer brain’ once it’s fully activated can make errands and everyday life a bit challenging, even with a portable notebook handy, as can the silent moments when nothing is happening or surfacing to write at all.

Yet nothing seems more challenging and vulnerable for writers than finding readers who engage with and support their work. Which is why I was somewhat dismayed that close to zero responders found the reading process to be essential to the writing process— but only somewhat, as I do realize the implications of the question itself (‘When do you feel most like a writer?’), which is centered around one’s identity as a ‘writer.’

So, why did that make me feel dismayed?

Because we all not only need readers to be writers, we also need to be readers to be writers. For both mutual support and inspiration.

“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.” — Stephen King

“There is creative reading as well as creative writing.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

“You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” — Annie Proulx

“Basically, if you want to become a good writer, you need to do three things. Read a lot, listen well and deeply, and write a lot. And don’t think too much. Just enter the heat of words and sounds and colored sensations and keep your pen moving across the page. If you read good books, when you write, good books will come out of you.” — Natalie Goldberg

“I read widely—for news, the arts, science, for entertainment, and the value of being informed—and, as a fiction writer, I can’t help transposing what I learn into the scenario for a novel or story.” — T.C. Boyle

“Reading is like breathing in and writing is like breathing out, and storytelling is what links both: it is the soul of literacy.” — Pam Allyn

“Most important for a writer to read widely, enthusiastically. Writing is a consequence of reading and writing well is a consequence of reading well.” — Joyce Carol Oates

“Read and write. Read a lot. Read new authors and established ones, read people whose work is in the same vein as yours and those whose genre is totally different. You’ve heard of chain-smokers. Writers, especially beginners, need to be chain-readers. And lastly, write every day. Write about things that get under your skin and keep you up at night.” — Khaled Hosseini

“Read, read, read. Read everything—trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it. Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master. Read! You’ll absorb it. Then write. If it’s good, you’ll find out. If it’s not, throw it out of the window.” — William Faulkner

“I kept always two books in my pocket, one to read, one to write in.” — Robert Louis Stevenson

“The way to rock oneself back into writing is this. First gentle exercise in the air. Second the reading of good literature.” — Virginia Woolf

Today’s Dialogue

When do you feel most like a writer?

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TODAY’S WRITING PROMPT:

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I have been writing every day for years now, and one of the most important things it has taught me is that writing brings me hope every single time I do it, without fail. But that hope doesn’t always appear in ways I might expect or want it to. In fact, most of the time, the hope writing offers me often appears as some sort of struggle or void at first, only surfacing when I am toward the end of a writing session, or once a writing session is complete.

Some days when I begin writing in the dawning hours of the morning, I don’t have hope. To be honest, that’s mostly due to the fact that my first cup of coffee hasn’t kicked in yet and I haven’t had much time to do anything or feel or think about anything at all, other than getting some clothes on and getting said cup of coffee and shuffling to my office to write something out of sheer habit. But sometimes it’s because, like many other writers, I’m highly attuned to what is going on in the world and have had my fair share of doubts about what it all means and what my part, my writing part specifically, has to do with it all. I take my role and responsibility as a writer seriously, in other words, which is one of the many reasons I am as diligent as I can be about doing it daily, especially in a world full of misinformation and negative content and AI bots that need to be circumvented.

When I’m not writing, I often wonder: How can my words leave a lasting impact? Will they have a positive and or necessary impact? Should I care if they do, and is it even up to me? If so, for whom, and in what way do I want my words to resonate? Have my words already left an impact? If so, in what ways? … and on and on the questions go… UNTIL I get lost in the flow of writing, which usually happens as soon as I open my word doc and start typing about all those questions rolling around in my mind, even if indirectly and subconsciously via fictional, possible worlds.

When I start writing anyway, over and through and under my endless questions, despite my uncertainties about the world and my miniscule role in it, my writing’s miniscule role in it, I find myself getting closer and closer to answering them, one word, one draft, one dialogue, one day at a time, remembering that the writing process itself will work out all the answers for me in one way or another, even though I will likely never find concrete answers anyway, because why should I expect that when me and my writing and the world and all its inhabitants are constantly in flux and ever-evolving? Which is what makes the writing process so frustratingly magical and necessary… and hopeful.

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As I write, I become subsumed by a greater world full of possibility, not the other way around. A world that I can only begin to write into existence when my self-centered ego and concerns begin to fade into the background and I enter a state of flow. A possible world that is by its very feasible nature full of hope, as hope is nothing more than the anticipation or desire to make something true— and what else is writing but the anticipation or desire to make something true on the page, and then the world in which that page exists alongside others’ pages?

As I write, I get to imagine everyday heroes and remember forgotten people and make complex people seem relatable and center worlds around communities and love and kindness and justice and grit and vulnerable humanity and determination and perseverance and resourcefulness… and write those things into existence so they become a part of the narrative of the greater world and stories in which I live, in which they live. In essence, as I write, I get to hope because it is only when I write that I can sense how a new world beyond myself and my words is possible. And that is, to me, the essence of hope: what is possible, what I want to make possible.

As I write, I find and get lost in that liminal space between where I have been and what I have written and read and where I am going and what I am going to write next. A space somewhere between despair and uncertainty and a desire for The Divine and limitless knowledge and harmony. A space in motion that transports me toward and into something that is difficult to hold onto for long: hope. Because hope is more than a feeling or state of mind— it is a nuanced state of being that is in constant flux, and deep inside the flow of writing is where I experience it the most. When I am becoming subsumed by possible worlds made by others’ possible worlds alongside my possible words, I feel hope.

This is why I write daily: to feel hope.

When I don’t write daily, hope, what is possible, starts to disappear from my purview, which for me isn’t optional during the times we’re living in right now.

There is also hope in knowing that whatever you write is not finite, that your words don’t have to be finite, and that they are a part of a greater human story that far exceeds your words alone that is ever evolving. There’s power in that, liberation in that, and hope in that— a level of hope I want other writers to experience too.

Today’s Dialogue

Does the writing process bring you hope? If not, why?

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CURRENTLY READING : Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke

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TODAY’S WRITING PROMPT:

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I will always marvel at the propensity of some humans in our modern-day world to laud artists and creatives of all kinds (painters, novelists, poets, filmmakers, musicians, graphic designers, etc.), as they simultaneously marginalize them and don’t take them very seriously… or care if they eat.

The world seems to be saying: If you aren’t starving, can you really call yourself an artist? But at the same time, if you are starving, how talented and creative are you anyway? And if you are an artist, you must create things because creativity is practically part of your DNA, regardless of whether you can eat, right? Even if you never make a dime, you’d keep creating, right? Because you were just born to create no matter what? And if you don’t, are you really all that creative or an artist at all?

It’s true that society tends to marginalize creative thinkers and artists, especially in the modern age of data and information and AI, where algorithms and machines reign supreme and are infiltrating everything. Even the once coveted title of one of the most revered types of creatives in the modern world, the ‘innovator’, has lost the magic it once held in the early aughts.

But why? Why aren’t creatives and artists revered more and paid more, in general? Is it because we tend to think anyone (or any machine) can learn how to be creative, and that being creative is easy and nothing special? Or is it because we think there are only a select few who are born creative, so why bother trying to be creative, as trying to be creative is a part of one’s destiny and not intended to be a paid vocation?

I think the answer may lie in redefining or reimagining who we generally perceive as being creative, or who we define as being a creator, in the first place. And begin to consider whether they are one and the same.

Why are all artists perceived as creative, for example, but all people who are perceived as being creative aren’t necessarily seen as artists?

Do all creative people create things?

Or are all people who create things creative?

For instance, a creator could create a replica of an existing painting, but should they be considered as being creative when they paint the replica, or as an artist?

And someone could have a creative idea for solving world hunger without necessarily creating anything in the physical world, right?

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Truly, what does it mean to be creative? To be ‘a creative’ or an ‘artist’? What does it mean to be a creator? And where do our answers to these questions overlap and differ?

Pinpointing the answers to these questions may first offer insight into answering the question in the title of this post: Is creativity innate or learned?

I am inclined to believe that creativity is learned. But what or who teaches us how to be creative, and in what areas of life, are uniquely different for each of us. And because of that, we’re all creative in our own unique ways.

Often a person will sharpen their sense of creativity in a certain area out of some type of necessity or longing, as well. For example, some people learn to draw or paint to express themselves because they were silenced in some way, or because they were bored and or awestruck by the world and people around them. Some people learn how to be creative with money because they never had any, or because they’re greedy. And others learn how to create various strategies and plans because they remember (even if only subconsciously) the anxiety or repercussions they endured when there weren’t any strategies or plans. Etc.

In short, I don’t think creativity is anything preordained to a select few individuals. We all have the ability to be creative. However, I do think each of us is extraordinarily creative in our own unique way and that we each learn how to be creative in certain areas based on our unique life experiences, tendencies, and backgrounds.

But I want to discuss this further, as there’s a lot to unpack here.

Today’s Dialogue

Do you think creativity is innate, learned, or both? And why?

P.S. If you’re a psychologist, sociologist, neurologist, or someone with expertise in a related field, I would love to hear more about what you know about creativity.

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"The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." — Sylvia Plath

EGALITARIAN BOOK CLUB

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• Prophet Song by Paul Lynch

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CURRENTLY READING

Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke

Week 1 (June 1-7) — Part I and Part II Chapters 1- 11

Week 2 (June 8- 14) — Part II Chapters 12- 27

Week 3 (June 15- 21) — Part II Chapters 28- 42

Week 4 (June 22- 30) — Finish Book

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TODAY’S WRITING PROMPT:

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Do you remember when nearly every romance novel cover had a woman in a flowing nightie or historical costume with exposed cleavage on it? And how there was always a muscular, bare-chested man gripping her torso or carrying her like she was a small child on it? And how they were always frozen in some dramatic pose, eyes closed, lips parted, in front of some hyper realistic natural landscape as their long, windswept hair (they both usually had long, windswept hair) flowed behind them? And how so many people made fun of them by mocking their poses?

Those older romance covers were highly sexualized and clearly marketed toward a specific audience: suburban, middle-class white women who fantasized about being whisked away by a romantic hero to some place far, far, far away (in time and space) from the drudgery of their everyday domestic lives. They were usually centered around the woman on the cover’s fantasy, which was newer at the time, though they were repetitive and often centered around the woman being ‘rescued’ by the ‘hero’ instead of rescuing herself. They also closed a lot of people off to buying and reading romance novels because, let’s face it, there was zero discretion. Wherever romance readers were, people knew exactly what they were reading when they saw these book covers and judged them for it. Not to mention that the covers usually only depicted white, hetero-normative couples and blatant, patriarchal stereotypes.

So in many ways, the move book marketers made from those highly erotic romance covers (‘clinch covers’) to the less raunchy, cuter cartoon covers in the 2010s makes sense. First, they no longer needed to pay for expensive photo shoots with high-profile models like Fabio (who was a big deal in the 90s) to grace their covers, especially once advances in digital imaging technology became more mainstream. Second, cartoon covers began to offer potential readers more discretion when buying and reading romance novels in public and began to appeal to a newer group of readers who were drawn to their brighter, more inclusive images that left more room for potential readers’ imaginations.

The bright, fun designs of cartoon covers on romance novels have proven time and time again (especially at the height of when the trend was taking off) to increase sales for romance novels, especially self-published romance novels, because potential readers find them less intimidating, more inclusive, easier to share across social media (hence the birth of BookTok and Bookstagram), and appreciate their discretion. However, many readers have also said they believe the cartoon covers further infantilize the romance genre, which is already looked down upon (probably because it’s primarily centered around women’s interests and fantasies, and exploring emotional depths— but that’s another post for another day because there’s a lot to unpack there). And some readers claim cartoon covers don’t always accurately convey the context of the story they’re marketing behind their covers, especially when those stories are full of explicit sexual scenes. Additionally, there is worry that more and more authors and publishers are going to use AI to make these cartoon covers in the future.

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I was originally on the side of readers who found the cartoon covers to be infantilizing and wondered how readers would connect the cartoon images to potential swoon-worthy book boyfriends or plots centered around deeper, human connections. And I was downright shocked the first time I read a cartoon-covered romance novel a friend recommended to me in the early aughts that ended up having a ton of spice in it. It honestly confused me for a beat when I first saw its cover, as it didn’t seem to match her synopsis of the book, so much so that I was hesitant to read it, thinking it would be full of cheesy clichés and adolescent tropes. But I trusted her recommendation and read it anyway, inevitably becoming so immersed in its story and characters (who did have depth to them) that I was able to forget all about its cover by the time I was done reading it.

But now, if I’m honest, I still don’t know where I stand on these cartoon covers. On the one hand, I appreciate how they’re more discreet because it makes them less awkward to share with a friend or read by the pool as children wander around, which also ensures more people will read them. (I am not a diehard romance reader by any means but do believe everyone should read a romance novel every now and then, especially men— but again, that’s another post for another day because there’s a lot to unpack there). Yet on the other hand, I do think cartoon characters do make many romance books appear silly and childish on the outside when they are often anything but on the inside, even the funnier and more dramatic ones. And don’t even get me started on the cartoon people on these covers who don’t even have faces…

Though there is this part of me that knows exactly why we’re even having this conversation about the pros and cons of cartoon covers on romance novels in the first place: Fiction women can see themselves in and relate to on a personal level is never taken seriously, regardless of book covers— Even when romance novels gross the highest sales and revenue for publishers of all shapes and sizes, regularly outperforming other genres. Even when the fictional protagonists in these novels are doctors and spies and chemists and lawyers, and hold other traditionally prestigious professions, along with genuinely interesting perspectives and life concerns that include everything from getting promotions and professional recognition to living a more authentic life to innovating something new for humankind to dealing with a parent’s death or a toxic boss or lingering traumas. And even when women make up to around 80% of the total book-buying market. Still, even then, women’s nuanced perspectives and concerns and relationships in fiction are reduced to frivolous distractions that don’t mean anything… at least, when the general public encounters them via a romance novel cover first.

I guess what I’ve come to realize is that whether romance novels have contrived romantic poses full of sexual innuendos or cartoon characters with bright colors on them, people will judge them and misunderstand and misrepresent them in the general public… until they get to know more about what’s really inside their pages. Which may not happen until more of these books are recommended by friends to friends who actually read them, which is probably much easier to do when they’re made easier to recommend via less intimidating and explicit covers. And I am speaking from personal experience here.

Bottom line: Whatever gets more people buying and reading and talking about romance books, and books in general, is good in my book, because then maybe, just maybe, we’ll all be one step closer to understanding and accepting that women’s nuanced perspectives are nothing to laugh at, especially when they are the backbone of the entire book-buying market and represent one of the largest sectors of the human population.

We also can’t forget how cartoon-covered romance novels are opening doors for so many other nuanced and inclusive perspectives on romance and relationships in fiction too— Hello, Heated Rivalry, Get a Life, Chloe Brown, The Kiss Quotient, You Had Me at Hola, and many, many others— which is also a post topic worth writing about and or reading about another day…

Today’s Dialogue

Do you think cartoon covers on novels are a good or a bad thing?

Do you judge books by their covers?

What’s the last romance novel you read? Did you enjoy it? Why or why not?

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THIS WEEK’S WRITING SHARE IS LIVE IN THE CHAT

What did you write this week? What felt most alive in your writing this week?

Share something you wrote this week—finished or unfinished. A paragraph, a fragment, a line, or even something you’re still shaping.

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EGALITARIAN BOOK CLUB

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The options are:

• Prophet Song by Paul Lynch

• Poverty, By America by Matthew Desmond

• The Edge of Space-Time: Particles, Poetry, and the Cosmic Dream Boogie by Chanda Prescod-Weinstein

• Japanese Gothic by Sunyi Dean

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[1] SOURCES

1. Illustrated Covers Aren’t A Conspiracy to Belittle Readers by Jessica Pryde. Book Riot. 11.11.2019

2. Why Does Every Romance Novel Have the Same Cartoon Cover Right Now? by Kayleigh Donaldson. Paste. 2.1.2024

3. Visualizing Romance Novel Covers by Morgan Stevens. Center for Data Innovation. 10. 27. 2023

4. Romance is the Leading Growth Category for US Print Books This Year, NPD Says by Circana. 9.13.2022

TODAY’S WRITING PROMPT:

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If you’ve been following me long enough, you already know it’s rare for me to claim that anything is strictly ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ when it comes to creativity and approaches to writing. But today I am making an exception because I do believe if someone says they ‘hate’ writing, especially when it’s hard or challenging for them to do, that they’re probably doing it wrong.

Why?

Because writing isn’t supposed to be easy for anyone. Not even award-winning authors.

Writing also isn’t supposed to be something you master one time then stop practicing altogether if you want to remain good at it or enjoy doing it long-term.

But for some reason, that’s what so many people seem to believe these days— that writing is supposed to be easy. And if it’s not easy for them, then they seem to believe it’s some kind of chore to loathe, outsource, or demean, which is problematic for a ton of obvious and not-so-obvious reasons.

If writing were easy, people wouldn’t be using AI to do it for them for any reason, not even for emails, and they wouldn’t be flocking to social media for writing support systems either (online writing communities are some of the only remaining safe spaces on the internet by the way).

Too many people are confusing speed with quality and value these days and think if writing isn’t always fast and breezy for them to do, that they’re doing it wrong. So, they talk themselves out of liking it and doing it and practicing it, kind of like they do with everything else that’s hard to do, because many people also confuse speed with natural talent instead of diligence and practice.

And what do most people do when they are insecure about their perceived ‘talent’ or lack thereof with anything? They either:

1. Demean or undermine the thing they wish they were good at so others stop making them feel bad (even if inadvertently) for not being good at the thing they wished they were good at. Because if they claim to hate something, they believe others won’t think they care about it. (This seems to be the most popular option, at least when it comes to writing.)

2. Avoid the thing they wish they were good at entirely as often as they can, either out of fear or embarrassment.

3. Try to camouflage and mask their skill level with the thing they wish they were good at by trying to cut corners and copy-pasting others’ work. (This is where the appeal and pitfalls of AI, even plagiarism, come in.)

4. Dig in and do the work (practice) so that they become good at the thing they wish they were good at.

Admittedly, however, writing is a weird example to consider here because nearly everyone assumes they should automatically be good at writing in the language in which they already speak, even without regular practice. And that might be a fair assumption, though most practiced writers out there know how false and misleading that assumption is and how it can lead many aspiring writers to quit before they ever really get started, before they really give themselves a chance to practice writing. Or worse, how it can convince novice writers they hate writing because it isn’t as easy as they expected it to be. Or, even worse, how it often leads novice or unpracticed writers to use AI instead of stretching their own writing skills.

I could write an entire book on the various ways writing is different from speaking when it comes to how we process our world and everything and everyone else in it. In fact, many writers, philosophers, linguists, psychologists, and neuroscientists already have.

“The difference between speaking and writing is that speaking is a conversation that vanishes into the air—mostly—and writing is a conversation with eternity.” — Joyce Carol Oates

“Talking is altogether against my nature. Whatever I may say is wrong, in my sense. For me, speech robs everything I say of its seriousness and importance. To me it seems impossible that it should be otherwise, since speech is continuously influenced by a thousand external factors and a thousand external constraints. Hence, I am silent not only from necessity, but likewise from conviction. Writing is the only appropriate form of expression for me, and will continue to be so even when we are together.” — Franz Kafka

“The complexity of speech is choreographic—an intricacy of movement. That of writing is crystalline—a denseness of matter.” — Michael Halliday

“We don’t expect that we would produce different words in speech and writing. [But] It’s as though there were two quasi-independent language systems in the brain.” — Brenda Rapp

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Essentially, writing forces us to slow down and clarify our thinking and feelings and observations simultaneously, even when we write fiction, in a way that speaking does not. And it is challenging to do all that mental and emotional exercise together, especially when it’s done on a routine basis while learning and exploring the ever-evolving limits of language. Which is what makes it hard and why people avoid doing it or think and say they hate doing it.

Not many people like challenging themselves with things they assume they’re already good at doing, or feel they should already be good at doing, but quickly discover they need more practice doing as soon as they try doing it on a routine basis.

And let’s face it, most people nowadays don’t enjoy thinking critically or learning, or don’t set aside adequate time to do so, which writing original work on a routine basis requires.

Writing is an exercise in critical thinking. Synthesizing thoughts, written words, conversations, ideas, and feelings into something coherent for an intended audience requires reflection and intentionality, which takes time and practice to do authentically and intelligibly. There’s no way around that.

As those who have practiced any skill know, there will be times when you feel like a master at your craft and others when you still feel like a novice, regardless of how long you’ve been practicing your craft. But this push and pull behind your sense of mastery is what indicates you’re challenging yourself the right amount, and that you enjoy learning and exploring the process of your craft as much as you enjoy demonstrating your mastery of it, which will always be evolving in a world in which others also practice your craft and contribute to it.

When you are writing, grappling with your own thoughts and feelings alongside others’ thoughts and feelings alongside the mechanics and built-in leniencies of language, which is ever-evolving, is part of the practice. The practice of writing and ‘doing’ language. A practice that never truly ends or can be mastered fully. Not until people stop making up words and meaning and using language itself. Because language is not static, the practitioners of it can’t be either.

To put it bluntly, you cannot enjoy writing if you don’t accept this truth: A writer will never be ‘done’ learning how to write, as being a writer requires only that one continues practicing learning how to write and what to write and when and why they should write, alongside the ever-evolving timelines of their lives and the mechanics and art of language itself, as long as language and how humans choose to use it evolves.

Those who struggle to accept that truth are people who haven’t discovered the patience it requires to sit and play with language on the page long enough to see how fun and rewarding it can be. Or they view writing as a strictly inborn aptitude or something that should and can be mastered in a few lessons, instead of something that requires diligence and practice. And I believe this impatience is understandable to a certain extent in our need-for-speed, distractible age. But it’s also what leads too many people to believe they hate writing when they may not— because how could someone hate something they never really allow themselves to practice and experience fully in the first place? And how could someone hate writing when they haven’t yet learned to enjoy the ups and downs of the writing process, which is what reaps the true rewards of writing?

As they say, practice makes perfect progress, and progress makes a process worth repeating. And writing is nothing if not a process worth repeating.

Today’s Dialogue

What do you think someone means when they say they ‘hate’ writing? Or what would you like to add to this discussion?

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