The time I had to punch my way through to creativity

Breakthroughs are easy. It’s the get-up-off-the-couch part that's hard

There’s a special kind of irony in having a revelatory conversation about your creative direction while simultaneously doing everything in your power to avoid it.

Last week, I sat down with

Elinor Trier

for her podcast Zuzu’s House of Cats—which, yes, sounds like a vintage Etsy store that only sells hand-knit feline balaclavas, but is actually a smart show about art, process, and storytelling. Somewhere in the middle of our talk, Elinor said something that stopped me in my tracks—not because it was mind-blowing, but because it mirrored something I’ve been circling for the last week.

She acknowledged how I’m good at pulling pieces from different parts of my life experiences (and dirty scraps of trash from the road) and turning them into something cohesive.

Cue the slow blink, the knowing nod, and the internal monologue screaming, “Then why the hell aren’t you doing that right now, Dave!?”

Because here’s the truth: the rest of the week was a creative graveyard. I still went to the gym. I still pretended to do “research” (translation: poking around new projects I have zero business thinking about). Then the non-work turned into doomscrolling social media and playing video games with the sort of commitment most people reserve for job interviews.

But when it came to the actual work I said I cared about—finishing the next newsletter, building out my shop, delivering anything at all to my members—I became a ghost. Not a cool, haunted-by-punk-rock-art-ghost. Just... the eating-chips-on-a-couch specter that wipes its fingers on the cushions.

The worst part wasn’t the lack of output. It was the creeping whisper of Does any of this even matter? Do people even care? Maybe you know that feeling, where showing up doesn’t feel like it will change anything, or how I could disappear, and the algorithm wouldn’t even blink.

Thankfully, I’ve been here before. I know this monster, and I’ve learned that sometimes the only way through is to throw yourself at the page (or the screen) like it owes you money.

So I picked up my iPhone, opened Procreate Pocket, and made Give Me a Reason, the piece above. Then I went out to the studio, cracked open my art journal, and made one with paper, paint, and glue.

Then I made another.

Not because I was inspired by some grand vision or urgent artistic need to express myself. I did it because sitting in the fog started to feel like quicksand, and I either had to fight my way out of it or disappear into the couch cushions forever.

I didn’t want to make. I wanted to want to make.

I’ve learned the hard way that waiting for creative inspiration when your brain’s in a death spiral is like waiting for a bus in a town with no roads. Instead, I pushed, I scraped, I mashed layers together on a four-inch screen with clumsy fingers and tired eyes. I didn’t care if it was good. I just needed to see something move.

And eventually, it did.

The fog didn’t vanish in a blaze of motivational glory. It didn’t unlock the heavens or cue the end credits, but it loosened. The static thinned—my breath got a little easier, shoulders unclenched, and eyes widened.

In that moment, I remembered what unhindered creativity felt like; not because I made something brilliant, but because I made anything at all.

No big resolutions here. No declarations or shiny new announcements. Just a reminder: when your brain tells you that none of it matters, that’s exactly when you need to make something—even if it’s mediocre, messy, or made on your phone, manipulating layers with sausage-like fingers while you lie on the floor, avoiding your actual responsibilities.

Anyway, I’m back, or close enough to it. Momentum counts for a lot, and there’s a square-format sketchbook on my work table that needs to be tended regularly to keep that nasty inner dialogue at bay.

If you don’t see me, it’s because I’ve got too much spray paint on my fingers to type.