Write Things: You're Wrong About Creativity

Hello writers,

I think it’s time that we got the story straight on creativity—on the act of creation.
I truly believe it is one of, if not the, most powerful things we can do. Depending on your human origin story, if we are created in the image of a creator—then that only makes sense, right?

But the story you tell yourself about what creativity in writing truly means might be the very thing that's holding you back.
Let me explain.

Mindset Shift

I’m not a fan of the dictionary.com definition of creativity: “the use of the imagination or original ideas, especially in the production of an artistic work.”

While it’s not wrong, it’s missing one key element that, funny enough, Google’s AI, Gemini, captures in its definition: “the ability to produce or develop novel and valuable ideas, solutions, or works by using imagination and combining existing concepts in new ways.”

When we are being creative, we are creating something new. That’s not to say it hasn’t existed in the world before (we can’t consciously know of everything), but it is to say that that which you’ve created is novel—it’s original to you.
It means you’re not simply replicating something.

And if we’re creating something new, then that means it didn’t exist (at least to us) before we created it.
Maybe we saw a vision, were reminded of an important memory, heard a line of dialogue, or had a feeling inside of us that we wanted to express. Our creation is a product of that exploration and expression.

For writers, we’re literally building the plane as we fly it. Whether you're writing a personal or fictional story, you will learn something about your story you didn’t know before you started. Characters will change, plots will shift, the focus of the memoir will reveal scenes, memories, and insights you hadn’t expected going in.

That’s because the creative process—the process of creating something new—is, by its nature, a journey into uncertainty. You can start with an intention, but none of us know exactly how the final product will unfold.
It’s an act of faith in the creative process, your imagination, the Muse, the Universe, God—pick your story.

This is how writers develop confidence and self-trust. It’s not because prolific writers always know how to write a good story.
It’s because prolific writers know how to trust the process. And yes, they’re often proficient with word choice, structure, technique, etc.—because after they’ve got their first draft, they want to craft their story to be as effective as possible.

But all that means nothing if you cannot create something original and authentic.

Consistent writers know to show up, let their imagination, memory, feelings, thoughts, and intuition flow, and play with what emerges.
They don’t sit there and wonder if what they write will be good or not. We can’t know if something is good or not until we’ve written it!

If you’re someone who freezes when the pen is in your hand, when someone asks you to write something on demand, or even when you’re asked to share something unedited—you’ve got a different story about creativity running. One, that, I’d argue, your Inner Critic put there (that’s a discussion for another time).

You believe, on some level, that there’s “good” and “bad” writing and that you should only write and share “good” writing. And you probably believe that if you don’t create “good” stories, then you’re a “bad” writer.

But we don’t control how our stories unfold. We’re part of the process—but when we’re in the flow, when our fingers fly and the pen can’t move fast enough, we’re not consciously planning. We’re listening and capturing what’s coming.

So if we sit down and, on any level, feel pressure to write the “right” thing—we’ve already missed the mark.

We’re gardeners. We till the soil. We water. We make sure there’s access to the sun.

👉 Want to see this in action? Check out the quick-writes our community members did below!

You are part of the creative process—not the genesis of it. Stop worrying and judging before the words even arrive.
Your first draft does not determine your value as a writer.
It’s a sign of your courage as an artist.

There is no pressure—we’re adventurers hoping to discover something magical when we sit down to write. We can only explore if we wade into uncertainty and accept whatever comes.
Then we’re free to put our editor hats on and craft away.

If the idea of writing with ease, creating original, authentic pieces, and enjoying every day of your writing life (not just the day you finish) appeals to you—I’d like to offer you a challenge.
Join the Write Things Community for three months. Be the writer you want to be. And I’ll give you your money back.

👉 Learn more here: https://www.ihelpyouwritethings.com/write-things-community
👉 To see if this challenge is right for you, book a free 1:1 with me: https://cal.com/trevormartens/write-things-community-challenge-1-1

Spaces are limited—whatever space is left in the calendar is all I have left!

Your Next Four Minutes

Prompt: “The photograph.”

Write about a real photo that stirs something in you—joy, ache, nostalgia—and capture what lives beyond the frame. Or invent a fictional moment where a photograph sparks memory, conflict, or discovery.

Set a timer and write freely on the topic above. Don’t edit. Don’t worry. Just go.

If you decide to develop your quick-write into a piece:

Technique Tip:
👉 Focus on what the image doesn’t show—the hidden story outside the frame often carries the most power.

From the Write Things Community

Each of these pieces were written by members of the Write Things Community on the above prompt:

Denis F.

Mom would have chastised me.  She hated looking bad in photos.

As I look at the photo on my smartphone, she is lying in bed, unaware. Oblivious to the activities around her.

I did not know then that this would be my last photo of her. She was dying, deep inside, I knew. She slept more. I took the photo to send to my daughters.

“Memere has fewer and fewer lucid moments.” I texted.  You may want to see her and talk to her soon.

They did. Some moments were lucid, others not so much. Within a week of taking that photo, Mom was gone. She was not perfect. But I had made peace with that so long ago.  I had been able to speak with her, understand her past, fill in the blanks she could not. Her life had been marred by war, by alcohol and by death. Raised by a single parent in the shadow of the Tourist Hotel on the banks of the Red.

Brenda H.
The photograph of my oldest son, then four, lying propped up on his elbows in the abandoned school yard amidst the fall leaves, is a favorite of mine. He wasn’t smiling. Quite the contrary, actually. He’d lost interest several minutes beforehand, but dutifully stayed positioned as per my instructions. His gaze was drawn to something in the distance and his face was all crinkled up from his hands, perfectly epitomizing his boredom. It was the money shot.

He and my youngest son were great sports and the perfect models as I launched my photography career, capturing ‘real life’ images even though most of them were staged. When I began my journey, this is what I wanted to achieve, evoking emotion in the viewer. I’d first made the decision that this is how I wanted my work to be seen, admiring the portraits at my dentist’s office. Fraziers Photography were pros, and I aspired to capture those images, too - to be a photographer most sought after.

Shawna T.
How do you see the story in someone’s eyes—with a lens set at 2.8 or 4.5 who cares what lens—how do you see? How do you see the burden of guilt, the love, the cry, the sky that failed the soul? I know the story, I know the words. Stories not meant to be told. Too cruel. Too real. Too ugly to be true. True story. We stand on a hill, his soul the light that day. My camera sees a man worn and true. I see the shadow of lost souls.

Catherine S.

It’s a selfie with mom and I in the living room sunshine. She’s in her chair and I’m hanging over her left shoulder. I’ve draped freshly washed and just out of the dryer flannel sheets around us both.

Mom’s eyes are closed, and she has a beatific look of extreme sensual delight on her face as the warm, almost hot sheets engulf us. I am smiling a happy smile splitting the photo wide open. My heart is flying through the floating fairy dust. You can feel our happiness with home, the heat, the moment: our lives bursting out through the Covid cloud that hung over everyone in those days.

Jill R. 

Eating McD’s cheeseburgers in ball gowns at an Indian wedding – this captures Breanne and I’s multi-decade friendship in a photo. Loving getting dressed up and having an “adventure” going out, but always tempered with our feet firmly on the “fart jokes are funny” ground. Like downing a burger before going back to dance in our heels, doing our best impression of a Bollywood movie. Big jewellery, painted nails, my dark hair and navy dress a foil to her blonde hair and pale pink one.

Beyond the frame is the friendship that we still can’t believe happened. A summer job at a government office that turned into one of the most important relationships in our lives, spanning jobs, boyfriends, cities, and provinces. We’ve always been different in so many ways and yet, we don’t know what we’d do without each other. Nights soaking our feet in the tub with Epsom salts after going out dancing, munching on hotdogs before watching a Tori Spelling movie (the only thing on a 3am when cable was still king).

I love this woman. Our sneaky smiles amid half eaten cheeseburgers belie everything that you can’t see. A Mona Lisa with McDonald’s.

Josie M. 

The photograph-s!

There I yell…our photo op!!

My arm around you, 

We are smiling

And the first photo snaps

You look at me

And I at you

We kiss

Past the time of the second snap

I call out, wait!

And cuddled so you would hug me

You did and made a funny face at the camera

Third snap

We then burst out laughing

As the last photograph snaps

We wait 

The photo booth drops the 4 photos taken

And I smile when I look at those pictures

And I feel happiness

And I show it with my face

And I feel it with my body

When was I last this happy?

It doesn’t matter

I am

And so are you

From different places we came

To the same photo booth

And both kept a copy

As a reminder for now and tomorrow

Kristin D. 

It's a photograph of when I was 13 and a half. Wow! Black wire rimmed glasses, braces and a page boy haircut. I have used a curling iron on my bangs for a sausage like roll over my right eye. I have on a skirt and matching top set. I remember loving that outfit. I can see my chest is just developing and my arms and legs look really long. Like a colt. I believe it is Easter visiting family in Regina. I am pictured standing with my handsome Uncle Jon, sister AnnMarie (11) and cousin Haukur (10) crouched down in front. We are all dressed up after church and we seem happy. Classic 70's fashion and decor in the background. If I could go back to that 13 year old, I would tell her that she is beautiful. I would make sure I did it in a way that she would believe it. My husband Bob came in and I showed him the picture. He said, "You were stunning!" I think that just did it!

Want to Hear Writers Read Their Stories?

Check out Episode 2 of the Write Things Podcast!
🎙️ Listen to Episode 2 here: https://www.ihelpyouwritethings.com/podcasts/write-things-podcast/episodes/2149083307

If you enjoyed this edition, please share it with a friend. The more writers we get writing, the more wonderful stories we’ll have in the world.

Until next time, I wish you and your stories all the best,
Trevor Martens
Founder, I Help You Write Things

P.S. As promised, if you missed my I’ll Make You a Writer webinar, here it is:
📺 https://youtu.be/9YGpdKq2THo