The Unseen Side of Creative Work

‘Sometimes inspiration comes slowly. A silence builds around the work, and that silence has its own kind of weight.’

That’s exactly where I am right now, with my embroidery on photography art. I am in that heavy kind of silent space. It’s not that I don’t want to create. If anything, I still love the idea, think there is a lot of potential in what I can do with it, where it can go; the urge and the impetus to create is there, but it’s kind of humming in the background. Every idea at this point feels off, too shallow, too decorative, too disconnected from what I’m actually trying to say.

As someone who is looking for a deeper meaning, I am looking for that point where thread and image speak to each other, not just visually, but emotionally. I don’t want to add embroidery just because it looks good. I want it to mean something. To bring out a story, a memory, a feeling that’s buried just beneath the surface. 

But resonance takes time. And right now, I feel like I’m in that space in between, where nothing’s quite wrong, but it does not feel right either.

Generally we tend to liken inspiration to a lightning strike, that eureka moment, but in reality creativity is hard work and never dramatic.

Most times, ideas don’t arrive with fanfare. They require incubation. They creep in slowly, half-formed, unsure of themselves. Other times, they hide altogether. And no matter how many times you revisit an image or stare at your materials, nothing comes. Authenticity is tough. 

That space, the waiting, is frustrating. The pressure to keep up can push you toward making something just for the sake of it. But that pushing through for the sake of output almost always feels hollow later.

These days, I’m trying to be okay with not knowing. With letting the pause be what it is, a part of the process. I remind myself that some ideas take their time. So instead of forcing it, I’ve been trying to listen more. To revisit old pieces. To go for walks. To let images sit for longer, without the pressure to intervene. Sometimes, I write a few thoughts down. Sometimes I do nothing at all. And I hope slowly, the thoughts will start to speak back.

It’s taken me a while to accept that not all creative work looks like making. Sometimes it looks like waiting. Sometimes it looks like stepping away. And sometimes, it’s just trusting that the idea will come, not when I demand it, but when it’s ready.

The truth is, being in a creative block can feel awful. It’s not just a lack of ideas, it’s the self-doubt that creeps in, the pressure to stay ‘relevant’ or productive. You start to question whether you’re losing your touch, or whether you ever had it in the first place.

But I’ve learned not to mistake stillness for failure. Creative work doesn’t always look like making. Sometimes it looks like waiting, wrestling, starting over, or walking away. It’s uncomfortable. It’s slow. And it’s real.

I’d rather sit in that uncomfortable space than rush something that doesn’t mean anything. I’d rather risk silence than fill it with noise. That’s not weakness, that’s part of what it means to be a creative person. To keep showing up, even when nothing’s flowing. This isn’t the fun part of the process. But it’s part of the process.

And I’m still here.