Creative Frustrations

Architects, Gardeners, and the Struggle to Create

Frustration has been killing me lately. I’ve been struggling creatively. And I didn’t want to accept that perhaps some rest was needed. I also didn’t want to take imperfect action, so I chose to stay angry instead.

“Are you okay?” My partner Peter asks, his voice soft and cautious, afraid of making things worse.
“No, I’m not.” I keep it short because short has a dramatic effect.
“Can I help you somehow?” He tries again.
“No, you can’t.” I just want to sit in my victimhood. I don’t say it out loud, but that’s what I mean.

I’m angry. I haven’t slept for five days. I’m exhausted. And I haven’t been able to write anything. Because you can’t think when you are that tired. And then, my body succumbs. I get sick.

“You are not sick-sick, it’s just the flu,” Peter says.
“What do you mean, just the flu?”
It’s better if he stays quiet for his own sake.

I get better. I get some sleep. And one day, I’m faced with the reality of sitting in front of my computer, having time to write. Instead, I stare at the dots on the screen. When was the last time I cleaned it? Too long ago. I bring the wipes. Much better.

I try to type something, but I want coffee. It’s too late for coffee. I need to make some tea. And bring an apple from the kitchen. And something else. But there isn’t anything else. Only the healthy stuff. This is too hard.

I think of the people reading my book, reading me—friends who have been my biggest cheerleaders for decades. They would smile. They don’t care, even if it’s terrible. It’s like motherly love—unconditional, nurturing, and blind.

And then I think about those who seem to know me, but they don’t really. What would they think? And those who don’t know me at all, and perhaps they still don’t get to know me even after reading my book, but they think they do. Those who have so much time on their hands that their whole life calling is to troll people who create. I can’t write a sentence. Not even a word comes out.

All the writing concepts and theories swirl in my head. My book feels wrong, so wrong. I think about the books I’ve read, how far mine is from their craftsmanship, and the bad books I don’t want mine to become. The ones that end up at the thrift shop, forgotten, their pages yellowed with time.

I watch another video about writing because there’s no better form of procrastination from writing than watching videos about writing. The video discusses the terms “gardener” and “architect,” coined by Randy Ingermanson. I think I’ve heard it before but forgotten, and here it is again, just at the right time.

There are two types of writers; apparently, most people fall somewhere in the middle. Architects need a strict outline and a carefully crafted plan to follow before they start writing; gardeners are explorers, taking an idea and seeing where it takes them, they don’t like to plan ahead. I’m a gardener. Not only in my writing—my whole life is a wildflower field and a veggie patch mixed together, and I love it. But I’m now in this phase of my book writing, where I need to become more of an architect.

I need to find the structure, put the building pieces together, and it’s so out of my comfort zone. My brain doesn’t work this way. I take an idea and run with it. I have lots of ideas. Something starts to wink at me, and it’s go time. But now, I’m forced to ground my ideas, put them in order, and make sense of them. I don’t like to plan too far ahead. I used to be the type of person who kept my options open, savouring the false sense of freedom it gave me. Or so I thought. But here it is again, reminding me that maybe I haven’t outgrown it. “Make a decision,” my book screams at me, and I’m furious. “Make it yourself, damn it.”

I wrestle with my self-created struggle for another week, and then I sit down behind my computer. The decision comes down to the next five minutes. Structure. I know I’ll reconsider again because this is a creative process and not an Excel sheet to fill out, but for now, I need to decide. And I do. It feels freeing. I need to be okay with the fact that this is how it will be from now on—up and down. The discomfort of uncertainty will follow me, and I need to focus on moving forward despite it. Writing has taught me more about myself than all the forms of therapy and personal development work I’ve done over the past decade, and it continues to teach me, if I only listen. It shows me my edges, my limitations, and how I self-sabotage. I’m not meant to feel good at this stage—it’s the messy middle. I’m meant to show up and create despite my self-doubt. And somehow, stay sane.