ne you wrote a novel that you found personally incredibly satisfying to write.

It then got picked up by a major publishing house, sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and received great acclaim.

Fantastic.

Naturally, your publishers, and the fans of your work demand more, a sequel or follow up to the first novel.

You oblige and write the second book, though it was more difficult than the first and the pressure was completely differen

Creativity has a thousand different guises and expressions. Indeed, each of us who create may have any number of different ways of creating and communicating with the world through our creative abilities and works.

But how many of these are truly the things we WANT to create?

How much of our creative energy is invested in those projects we burn with passion for and yearn to produce, the projects that when we’re in the midst of creating feel rewarding, exciting and fulfilling like nothing else?

Often we may appear to be very productive on the surface and be churning out new work apparently effortlessly and without breaking a sweat.

So this makes us highly creative. Doesn’t it?

Well, yes in one sense.

If we measure how creative someone is by the volume of their output then someone who writes 6 novels a year or records an album every 3 months, is very creative.

But consider also the quality of this output.

And not even the quality as measured by the outside world, but the quality of the experience to the artist who created it, the value and benefit that creating these works gave them.

At one end of the spectrum there may be, for example, an artist who creates one new piece of work every 4 years, yet each day of those 4 years, each moment invested in their project, was rewarding, enjoyable and entirely necessary for the creator.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, there may be an artist who creates something new every day, generating new work like a perpetual motion conveyer belt.

Regardless of the opinions of the wider world, their work may be equally as rewarding for them as the artist who produces something every 4 years. Or it may not.

Only the artists themselves know what drives them to create and who they’re really creating for.

Consider this example:

Imagine you wrote a novel that you found personally incredibly satisfying to write.

It then got picked up by a major publishing house, sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and received great acclaim.

Fantastic.

Naturally, your publishers, and the fans of your work demand more, a sequel or follow up to the first novel.

You oblige and write the second book, though it was more difficult than the first and the pressure was completely different

exciting and fulfilling like nothing else?

Often we may appear to be very productive on the surface and be churning out new work apparently effortlessly and without breaking a sweat.

So this makes us highly creative. Doesn’t it?

Well, yes in one sense.

If we measure how creative someone is by the volume of their output then someone who writes 6 novels a year or records an album every 3 months, is very creative.

But consider also the quality of this output.

And not even the quality as measured by the outside world, but the quality of the experience to the artist who created it, the value and benefit that creating these works gave them.

At one end of the spectrum there may be, for example, an artist who creates one new piece of work every 4 years, yet each day of those 4 years, each moment invested in their project, was rewarding, enjoyable and entirely necessary for the creator.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, there may be an artist who creates something new every day, generating new work like a perpetual motion conveyer belt.

Regardless of the opinions of the wider world, their work may be equally as rewarding for them as the artist who produces something every 4 years. Or it may not.

Only the artists themselves know what drives them to create and who they’re really creating for.

Consider this example:

Imagine you wrote a novel that you found personally incredibly satisfying to write.

It then got picked up by a major publishing house, sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and received great acclaim.

Fantastic.

Naturally, your publishers, and the fans of your work demand more, a sequel or follow up to the first novel.

You oblige and write the second book, though it was more difficult than the first and the pressure was completely differen

quality of this output.

And not even the quality as measured by the outside world, but the quality of the experience to the artist who created it, the value and benefit that creating these works gave them.

At one end of the spectrum there may be, for example, an artist who creates one new piece of work every 4 years, yet each day of those 4 years, each moment invested in their project, was rewarding, enjoyable and entirely necessary for the creator.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, there may be an artist who creates something new every day, generating new work like a perpetual motion conveyer belt.

Regardless of the opinions of the wider world, their work may be equally as rewarding for them as the artist who produces something every 4 years. Or it may not.

Only the artists themselves know what drives them to create and who they’re really creating for.

Consider this example:

Imagine you wrote a novel that you found personally incredibly satisfying to write.

It then got picked up by a major publishing house, sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and received great acclaim.

Fantastic.

Naturally, your publishers, and the fans of your work demand more, a sequel or follow up to the first novel.

You oblige and write the second book, though it was more difficult than the first and the pressure was completely differen

the opposite end of the spectrum, there may be an artist who creates something new every day, generating new work like a perpetual motion conveyer belt.

Regardless of the opinions of the wider world, their work may be equally as rewarding for them as the artist who produces something every 4 years. Or it may not.

Only the artists themselves know what drives them to create and who they’re really creating for.

Consider this example:

Imagine you wrote a novel that you found personally incredibly satisfying to write.

It then got picked up by a major publishing house, sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and received great acclaim.

Fantastic.

Naturally, your publishers, and the fans of your work demand more, a sequel or follow up to the first novel.

You oblige and write the second book, though it was more difficult than the first and the pressure was completely differen

ne you wrote a novel that you found personally incredibly satisfying to write.

It then got picked up by a major publishing house, sold hundreds of thousands of copies, and received great acclaim.

Fantastic.

Naturally, your publishers, and the fans of your work demand more, a sequel or follow up to the first novel.

You oblige and write the second book, though it was more difficult than the first and the pressure was completely different.

5 years and 5 novels down the road, the enjoyment you’re getting from writing is virtually non-existent. You feel highly stressed and under constant pressure to deliver.

The motivating and highly personal reasons that helped you write your first book have all but evaporated.

When you began you had dozens of ideas for books, each very different to one other, and each exciting and challenging for you to write. Now, instead, you find each novel you produce is a virtually photocopy of the previous one. The challenge, the thrill, the purpose and the point of writing, have all but disappeared.

Put simply, you’re not creating for yourself anymore.

It’s easy for us to lose sight of why we create, especially in the face of any commercial or critical success. We’re torn between wanting to pursue our successes - mining the potentially rich seam we’ve found - and trying to remain original, authentic and innovative enough to satisfy our natural need to evolve and grow as artists.

How does this relate to your creative life right now?

Ask yourself, what is most important to you - creating to satisfy your deepest artistic urges, fulfilling the need that nothing else can replace, or reproducing the type of work that you know has been successful in the past?

Be truthful in your answer, there’s no definitive right or wrong that works for everyone. We’re all individual and that’s just the point.

So what is the truth about your creativity. Who DO you create for?