Creativity Begins Before You Feel Ready

By Hans Sandkuhl, eolas – 7 minutes read

There is a myth that creativity starts with inspiration. That you will suddenly feel ready, Muse arrives, equipped, overflowing with ideas or skill or time. Though that moment? It rarely arrives as cleanly as you hope.

For years, I thought creative people were different. Not better, necessarily, just wired in some unusual way. They had a gift. A tendency to make things out of nothing. I admired that from a distance, convinced I was more analytical, more structured. Creative? No, that was not me.

And yet, there were times, quiet, unspoken times, when I would feel an itch. A slight curiosity. Perhaps I would open a notebook, just to see. I would stare at the blank page, wondering what I might write, or sketch, or simply think about. And then, nothing. The moment passed. The page stayed empty.

What I did not realize then is that not doing something was already doing something.

I was already in the process, hesitating maybe, overthinking, sure. Yet the creative impulse had arrived. And I had answered it, not by creating, but by meeting it with doubt. That counts too, strangely enough.

What If Creativity Is Less About Talent And More About Permission?

Permission to begin.
Permission to be unsure.
Permission to do something without knowing why it matters.

There is a kind of courage in drawing a single line. Literally, a line. Not a picture, not a concept. Just a mark. I remember doing that once, maybe out of boredom. I had a pen, a receipt, and a moment with nothing to fill it. I drew a line. Then another, slightly curved. I did not finish anything. When I looked at it later, I felt, oddly, proud.

Because I had done something. Something tiny, maybe even meaningless. Mine.

We Often Wait For Confidence To Arrive Before We Act

In my experience, it rarely shows up that way.

Confidence tends to follow you. Not lead. It waits, quietly, behind you, until you do something first.

It is strange how many things I wanted to try and never did, simply because I had already judged the outcome. “I will not be good at this.” “It will be embarrassing.” “Others are better.”

Those thoughts are not predictions. They are defenses.

We use them to protect something we think is fragile. Creativity, I think, is more resilient than we give it credit for. It does not shatter at the first sign of awkwardness. If anything, it thrives there.

Perhaps What Feels Like Impostor Syndrome Is Actually A Kind Of Respect

You see what others have done. You recognize the depth, the craft, the refinement. And you think, “I do not belong here.”

The impulse to compare is not always negative. It means you care. It means you notice nuance. What matters is not removing the feeling, rather what you do next.

When I began writing for myself, not professionally, just as a habit, I had this recurring thought: “This is not how writers write.” My structure felt off. My words, repetitive. I kept qualifying everything. Like now.

The more I kept going, the more I started to recognize something. I was not trying to be perfect. I was trying to be present.

And that made all the difference.

Presence Is More Honest Than Polish

We think creativity requires some grand moment. But sometimes, the most honest expression is unfinished. A voice memo. A quick sketch on the corner of a paper. A half-written idea in your notes app that never becomes a blog post.

That counts.

Not because it is shareable or impressive, because it is a trace. A mark. A signal that you existed in that moment and left something behind.

You do not have to finish things to call yourself creative. You just need to start them.

Try This, Gently

Before you continue reading, pause for a moment.

Look around you. Anything can work: a receipt, the margin of a newspaper, a sticky note, the back of your hand if nothing else. If you have a pen nearby, pick it up. If not, trace the shape in your mind.

Now, draw something. Anything. A straight line. A loop. A shape that makes no sense. Or write a word that comes to you, even if it feels disconnected. Especially if it does.

There is no goal. This is not the beginning of a masterpiece. It is simply a signal.

You acted.

You made a mark that did not exist a minute ago.

That is already more than you think.

You can close the notebook now, or toss the paper. The moment is over, and yet, something shifted. Not dramatically, not forever. Yet slightly. And that is how movement begins.

So Where Does This Leave Us?

I think many of us are standing in front of invisible walls. We look at a notebook, or a blank canvas, or an instrument, or even an empty hour in our day, and we freeze.

We say, “I do not know what to do.”
Or, “I am not creative enough.”
Or perhaps worst of all, “I should be doing something else.”

That last one has stolen more creative moments than we admit.

What if we reframed the entire thing? What if creativity was not a grand act, but a small defiance?

A way of saying: I am allowed to make something, even if it goes nowhere.

Even if it is just a sentence. Even if it is just a shape. Even if it is only for me.

Because the opposite of creativity is not failure. It is silence.

And sometimes, breaking that silence with a whisper is already an act of courage.

So the next time you hesitate, perhaps today or tomorrow morning, try not to wait for the perfect idea. Instead, try this:

Draw a line.
Write a word.
Hum a tune that makes no sense.

It might feel silly. It might feel small. Still, it is yours.

And perhaps that is how it begins.

Not with brilliance.
Not with certainty.

Just with a line.

A mark.

A decision that you are allowed to begin, even before you feel ready.