#182 If You Think You Aren't Creative Anymore

What I learnt by teaching creativity

Dearest,

I know. I vanished. It’s been almost a month.

And what a month it’s been.

I wrapped up Wakefit’s latest season of Sleep Internship. Oversaw the final shoot. Met old friends. Made new ones. I traveled. Sat with my grief. Listened to my anger long enough to hear what it had to say.

I’ve stretched. I’ve grown. I’ve laughed, a lot.

But nothing lit me up quite like teaching. I’m learning it’s not about giving answers. It’s about holding space so people can find their own.

Especially these one-on-one sessions. They’re where the real magic happens.

When someone lets you into their creative blocks, their fears, their “I used to love writing but now I just stare at a blinking cursor,” you don’t just meet a person. You meet a threshold.

One of my students, much older than me, with years of experience and a formidable body of work, came in feeling completely drained.

Not because he lacked talent. But because his creativity had turned into a checklist. Deliverables. Deadlines. Decks. All driven by people who didn’t really know what it means to make something.

To sit with a sentence. To dance with doubt. To let a half-formed thought unfold.

I see this often. Especially in people who’ve been at it a while. Brilliant, mid-career folks who have led teams. Shaped campaigns. Launched ideas into the world.

Somewhere along the way, the joy quietly seeps out. And all that’s left is output. Perform. Produce. Prove.

Now, with AI entering the room, their anxiety gets louder. “How do I keep up?” “How do I stay relevant?” “How do I matter?”

But the answer isn’t typing prompts faster and producing 100 options. It’s to think differently. And that comes from remembering how to play again.

You need to understand that you can’t partner with AI until you’ve reclaimed your own way of thinking. Machines can mimic. They can accelerate. But only you can surprise yourself.

That’s what we do in these sessions. We don’t begin with brand copy or strategy decks. We write a limerick for our bellybutton lint. A love letter to the first pee of the morning. A product listing for a lurking midlife crisis.

We play. We break format. We giggle. We stretch language until it starts to dance again.

Because creativity doesn’t come back when you chase productivity. It comes back when you feel free enough to be ridiculous.

Yesterday, this student, who has started feeling numb to words, told me these last two weeks have been the most joyful he’s felt in years.

He said he finally feels like words are his again. Like he can make things. Like something is moving inside him.

And I swear, I grinned like a fool.

Sensing that he was freer and more fluid, I thought it was a good day to speak about another block of his: editing.

I asked him to list every reason he avoids it. Then we went through the points one by one. Reading that list, I saw myself.

Most of us treat editing like we’re fixing a problem. Like something’s broken and we have to make it better.

But editing isn’t fixing. Editing is discovery.

What if we thought of our work not as something to complete, but something to explore? What if we stopped trying to get it right, and started asking, what else could this be?

Because the moment you call something done, it dies.

A piece is only alive when it’s still in motion. Still shifting. Still full of what-ifs and almosts.

I tell my students this all the time. A living piece of writing breathes. It surprises you. It frustrates you. It teases you into trying one more version. That’s the magic. That’s the invitation.

So when you write, don’t chase the perfect. Chase the possible.

And in doing that, something comes alive. Not just in the work. But in you.

I’m watching this student transform. Not because he’s getting better. But because he’s getting looser. Funnier. Wilder. His language is starting to play again. And in that playfulness, there’s freedom.

And I thought, maybe this is something you needed to hear too.

With mischief and light,
Ree

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