Some nights I open up Logic, stare at the empty track, and… nothing. Just that blinking cursor when the screen just blinks back mocking me like, “Well? You gonna do something, genius?” Same with the notebook, blank page, pen in hand, and suddenly I forget every word I’ve ever known. It’s like my brain packed up and left the building without telling me.
Meanwhile, I’ve got work deadlines buzzing in my ear, bills stacking up on my desk, laundry giving me the stink-eye from across the room, dishes, a wife, kids, and a million other things that need my attention, yet I’m sitting there trying to be profound? Yeah, good luck.
The Jammed-Up Headspace
Here’s what I keep forgetting: it’s not that I’m suddenly not creative. The creativity didn’t die, it just got buried under the mental equivalent of junk mail. And when my head is full of noise, I expect some magical lyric or riff to push through? Not happening. It’s like trying to hear a whisper at a metal show.
Letting Go (Even When I Don’t Want To)
The best stuff I’ve ever written didn’t happen when I was glaring at the screen, daring it to give me a song. It showed up when I wasn’t paying attention. Like playing nonsense chords until something halfway decent pops out. Or taking a walk without my phone and suddenly realizing, oh great, now I’ve got a chorus stuck in my head and no way to record it.
The trick, of course, is letting go when life is pulling in ten different directions. When work is loud, the kids need something, the house feels like it’s falling apart, and the only quiet moment you get is standing at the sink doing dishe, how do you relax enough to let anything through? It feels impossible most days. My brain doesn’t exactly say, “Sure, let’s write a song now.” It says, “Don’t forget to send that email. Did you pay the credit card bill? Oh, and the dog needs to go out.”
But that’s the thing: the more I chase creativity in those moments, the further it runs. Forcing it just makes me clench harder. What usually works is the opposite, walking away. Giving myself permission to not be “productive.” Letting a guitar sit untouched for a few days without guilt. Because the songs don’t come when I’m dragging them out by the collar, they show up in the cracks and crevices, when I’ve finally stopped trying so hard.
It’s like my cat Elsa. She doesn’t care about my schedule, she shows up when she damn well pleases. And if I can’t drop everything when she jumps in my lap, I miss it. Creativity feels the same. I can’t force it to come when I’ve got no room for it, but if I carve out just a little space, five quiet minutes, a walk, strumming nonsense with no expectations, it almost always comes back.
The hard part isn’t writing. The hard part is letting go of all the noise long enough to let the art sneak in.
What’s Actually Helped
So here are the little hacks I’ve been trying, because apparently “just write a masterpiece” isn’t working:
- Dump the noise. I jot down every random thought crowding my head, bills, errands, some half-remembered movie scene, just to clear space for the real stuff.
- Sit still for a minute. Nothing fancy. Just breathing, no screen, no guitar in my hands. Sometimes it’s five minutes of nothing. Sometimes it’s sitting outside and watching the birds at the bird feeder.
- Change the channel. If a lyric isn’t happening, I switch to guitar. If the guitar feels dead, I write a messy blog draft. The point is to keep creating, even if it’s sideways.
- Aim lower. Not for the great song. Not even for a good one. Just something. A bad verse, a dumb riff, anything to break the silence. Funny how lowering the bar makes it easier to stumble into something worth keeping.
The Reminder I Keep Forgetting
Creativity isn’t gone, it never really goes, it just hides out when I get too rigid, waiting for me to quit barking orders at myself like a drill sergeant. The more I demand make something now, the more it digs in its heels. My job isn’t to force it; my job is to keep showing up, keep leaving the door cracked, and maybe stop staring at my guitar like it owes me back rent.
It’s the same thing from those late night band rehearsals; nights where nothing clicked. Everyone was tired, staring at the clock, and the songs sounded like cardboard. Then, out of nowhere, somebody messed up a riff and plays something dumb being an ass, and suddenly that throwaway moment became the start of something real. We don’t plan it, we don’t see it coming, it just sneaks in once we’ve stopped trying so hard to control it.
So yeah, the screen is still blank as the Hiwatt hums in the corner, PRS 24-08 pluggd in waiting for some magical creative eruption tonight. But maybe that’s fine. Blank isn’t failure, it’s just space. Maybe tomorrow something shows up when I’m half awake, pouring coffee, humming without thinking. Or maybe nothing comes and I’ll just end up with another page of nonsense drivel. Either way, I’m still here, still trying. I won’t stop. And frankly, I’ve gotten really good at watching that cursor blink.