I used to think this cycle of writer’s block was a problem. Now I’m wondering if it’s actually the point of the creative act of writing.
Why I’m still reading “The Creative Act” and what Multnomah Falls taught me about novel writing…
I took this shot of Multnomah Falls over a year ago, but I keep coming back to it. There’s something about that water just falling—not thinking, not planning, just following gravity and finding its way down. I had no idea then that this photo would become the perfect metaphor for everything I’m learning about writing my first novel.
I’m deep into Rick Rubin’s “The Creative Act” right now—still working through it, honestly, because every few pages I have to stop and think. Yesterday I read his bit about artists being conduits, and it finally clicked why my novel writing has been such a roller coaster.
Some days I sit down and the words just pour out. Other days I stare at the blank page like it had killed my dog. For months, I thought the good writing days meant I was “doing it right” and the bad writing days meant I was failing.
Classic writer’s block thinking, right?
But looking at this waterfall photo again, I realized something. That water doesn’t look the same from day to day. Weather changes it, seasons change it, the light and wind hit it differently. The flow might be heavy after rain or barely a trickle during drought. It’s still the same waterfall, and yet it’s never the same experience.
That’s me with my manuscript. Tuesday me writes angry dialogue after dealing with family drama. Friday me, who spent the morning laughing with friends, finds humor in scenes that Tuesday me would have made resentful. I used to think this cycle of writer’s block was a problem. Now I’m wondering if it’s actually the point of the creative act of writing.
Rubin talks about surrendering to the creative process instead of trying to control it. Hard concept for someone like me who plans everything down to the most minute detail because I am extremely Type A… But when I look at this bridge in the photo—just quietly spanning the falls, not fighting the water or trying to redirect it—I get what he means… Let it flow.
Maybe that’s what I need to do with all my different writing selves. Maybe I should stop fighting the bitter Tuesday writer or the optimistic Friday writer. I should let them all contribute to the same story.
I’m starting to think creative writing isn’t about showing up as the same person every day. It’s about letting whoever you are that day add something to the work.
My novel is getting shaped the same way. Not by one version of me writing consistently, but by all the different versions of me showing up over months and months of work. The grieving me who understands depression and loss. The hopeful me who believes in second chances and redemption and forgiveness. The frustrated me who knows exactly how loneliness feels.
Writer’s block used to feel like failure. Now it just feels like being between versions of myself; this liminality isn’t BAD, it just IS…
The waterfall doesn’t stop being a waterfall just because the flow changes.
Our story will be different tomorrow. So will we. Stop fighting it.
