We underestimate how much creativity depends on tolerating not-knowing.
One of the more radical ideas in creativity research comes from the psychoanalytic tradition, particularly from Wilfred Bion’s notion of “negative capability” (itself borrowed from John Keats). The capacity, as Keats originally put it, to remain with uncertainty without ‘irritable reaching after fact and reason.’ In practice, it means resisting the urge to immediately resolve uncertainty. To not rush to closure. To sit, for a moment longer than feels comfortable, in the space where meaning hasn’t yet crystallised.
We can see similar ideas elsewhere. In Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s work on ‘flow’, there is an emphasis on the balance between challenge and skill, but what is often overlooked is that entry into flow frequently involves a period of disorientation. Or take Donald Winnicott’s idea of the “transitional space”—that intermediate area of experience between inner and outer reality, where play and creativity happen. It is, by definition, not fully known. Not fully controlled. It requires a kind of psychological looseness that can feel, at times, like a loss of footing.
Even outside explicitly psychological frameworks, writers have long circled this point. Joan Didion’s famous line—“I don’t know what I think until I write it down”—is often quoted as a neat aphorism, but it carries a deeper implication: that writing is not the expression of prior clarity, but the means by which clarity is tentatively, sometimes reluctantly, arrived at.
One of the reasons I care so much about structured creative spaces—whether that’s the weekly Creative Flow coworking session, the ongoing Writers Flow Circle, 1:1 coaching, or workshops—is that they provide a container for this kind of work. A place where not-knowing is not only tolerated but expected. Where you don’t have to perform certainty in order to belong.
If you’re in a season where your work feels slightly out of reach—where you can sense something wanting to emerge but can’t yet articulate it—you don’t necessarily need a new strategy. You might need a different relationship to that feeling: a willingness to stay with the question a little longer than is comfortable.
If that resonates, I’m running an upcoming workshop that may be of interest:
We’ll be working directly with attention, distraction, and the subtle dynamics that either support or disrupt creative flow, very much including this question of how we meet the unknown.
Perfectionism I’m increasingly convinced, is not at all about maintaining high standards. Writers like Brené Brown have been helpful for me in naming this dynamic: perfectionism as a defence against vulnerability rather than a pursuit of excellence. Similarly, Donald Winnicott’s idea of the “good enough” offers a quiet corrective. Not a lowering of standards, but a recalibration—an insistence that aliveness matters more than polish.
What I’m experimenting with, imperfectly, is letting things move sooner. Allowing the work to be seen in earlier stages. Trusting that clarity often emerges through expression rather than prior to it. It’s a small shift, but it changes the atmosphere completely. Less pressure. More momentum.
If this feels familiar, I’ll be exploring these patterns—and offering some practical ways through them—in tomorrow’s workshop, Overcoming Perfectionism and Taming the Inner Critic (Tuesday 5 May | 7.30–9.00pm UK time | £12). You can register here: https://www.meetup.com/the-art-of-creative-practice/events/314377652/
And if you’re looking for something more sustained, I currently have one space open for 1–1 coaching. It’s a chance to work with these patterns at a deeper level, in a way that’s both rigorous and, importantly, kind.
Creative practice is one of the few places where procrastination can masquerade as discernment.
In most areas of life the difference between the two is fairly easy to spot. If you delay replying to an email for three weeks, you are probably not engaging in a subtle process of ethical reflection. If you keep postponing a dentist appointment, you are unlikely to be waiting for the right aesthetic conditions to emerge. Procrastination, in most domains, looks exactly like what it is.
Creative work is different. Here, hesitation can feel virtuous. Delay can wear the coat of taste. Not doing something can look like a form of artistic integrity. The line between genuine discernment and sophisticated avoidance becomes very thin.
This is one of the reasons creative practice can become psychologically complex. It sits at the intersection of imagination, identity, and judgment. We are not just deciding what to do—we are deciding whether what we do will be worthy of the version of ourselves we hope to become.
The philosopher and theologian Josef Pieper once wrote that leisure is the basis of culture. What he meant wasn’t idleness in the modern sense, but a kind of receptive attentiveness to reality. Creative work often begins in this receptive space. We listen before we speak. We wait before we write.
But the receptive state can also become a hiding place.
I have been thinking about this a lot recently while preparing a few things for the coming week. Ostara is approaching, thel seasonal threshold into Spring hat invites a little reflection and reorganisation. My houseplants are beginning to look as if they want to wake up again. A few of them clearly need repotting and I have been making notes about some spring recipes I want to experiment with.
These kinds of seasonal rhythms often nudge my creative life back into motion. Gardening and writing share a certain temperament. Neither responds well to frantic effort, but both require regular engagement. You cannot simply contemplate tomatoes into existence. At some point, you have to put your hands in the soil.
Writing is similar. The American writer Annie Dillard once observed that ‘how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.’ In creative work, however, the daily decision is often framed differently. The question becomes: is this the right moment to act, or should I wait for greater clarity?
Sometimes the answer genuinely is to wait.
Discernment is real. Ideas need time to ripen. A paragraph written too early can flatten something that needed to remain fluid for a while. Anyone who has done serious creative work knows that forcing an idea before it is ready often produces something strangely lifeless.
But procrastination has learned the language of discernment remarkably well. It says things like: this project deserves better conditions. Or: I should do more research first. Or: I just need a slightly clearer structure before I begin.
These can all be reasonable thoughts. They can also be remarkably effective forms of delay. The sociologist Robert Merton once wrote about what he called “trained incapacity”, the strange phenomenon where the very skills we develop become obstacles in new contexts. I sometimes think something similar happens to experienced creative practitioners. As our taste improves, so does our capacity for hesitation. We become more aware of the gap between what we imagine and what we can currently produce.
The result can be a kind of elegant paralysis. This is one of the reasons community can be so helpful in creative work. When we work entirely alone, discernment and procrastination can blur together indefinitely. When we show up in a room with others—especially others who are also doing the work—things tend to become clearer.
This is something I see regularly in the coworking and coaching sessions I run. Someone arrives saying they have been “thinking about” a project for weeks. Then we spend twenty-five minutes writing together, and suddenly several pages exist.
It turns out the idea was ready all along.
The ancient bards had a word for the mysterious source of creative inspiration: Awen. But they also understood that inspiration rarely arrives in a vacuum. It tends to visit people who are already working.
This is why I have been putting so much energy recently into building spaces where that working energy can gather.
If you are curious about how this kind of creative structure works in practice, I am hosting a free session this week where you can experience it directly:
The session is designed as a gentle introduction to the rhythm of the circle: a short teaching, a guided creative exercise, and some focused writing time together. Many people find that even one hour like this can unlock a surprising amount of momentum.
And for those who want a deeper container for their work, the full programme begins the following week:
Over twelve weeks we work with the deeper structures of creative practice: inspiration, discipline, craft, and community. It is part workshop, part coaching space, and part creative fellowship.
Alongside this group work, I also offer 1-1 creative coaching for writers and thinkers who want more personalised support. These sessions can be particularly helpful if you feel stuck in that grey zone between discernment and delay. Sometimes a single conversation can clarify what the next step actually is.
In the meantime, the small seasonal rituals continue. I will probably spend some time this week repotting a few herbs and planning those spring recipes. The shift from winter to early spring always feels like a useful reminder that creative work rarely moves in straight lines.
There are seasons of incubation. Seasons of emergence. Seasons of pruning.
But the key thing—the thing that separates discernment from procrastination—is that the work eventually returns to the page.
The soil is turned. The seed is planted. And something begins
I left a tarot workshop yesterday with an insight that was startlingly clear: I spend a great deal of time living in the future. Card after card suggested anticipation, projection, preparation, movement toward what comes next.
The irony was not lost on me. Present-moment awareness — mindfulness, contemplative attention, the cultivation of presence — sits at the centre of my teaching and much of my writing. I talk frequently about inhabiting experience rather than managing it, about learning to notice rather than constantly optimise. And yet, as anyone who works in this space knows, the practical reality of such work involves a surprising amount of future-thinking: planning programmes, designing workshops, mapping trajectories, building structures that do not yet exist.
At the moment my notebooks are full of precisely this energy: outlines for new offerings, teaching plans, lists of ideas, and preparations for the opening this Spring of my new online community space, Innerworks (more on this very soon). All meaningful, all exciting — and all subtly orienting attention toward what is not yet here.
The cards were not criticising ambition or creativity. They were pointing to something more delicate: the ease with which we begin to live ahead of ourselves.
Psychologists sometimes describe this as time orientation — the habitual direction in which our attention leans. In The Time Paradox, Philip Zimbardo and John Boyd argue that individuals tend toward past-, present-, or future-oriented modes of living, each with advantages and distortions. Future orientation, often celebrated in productivity culture, enables planning, discipline, and achievement. But pushed too far, it produces a life experienced primarily as preparation.
Philosophers have long recognised this tendency. Martin Heidegger described modern existence as characterised by projection — the self constantly thrown forward into possibilities. Henri Bergson distinguished between measurable clock time and lived duration, reminding us that real experience unfolds qualitatively, not as a sequence of tasks awaiting completion.
There is a peculiar paradox when presence becomes one’s professional field. Teaching mindfulness, creativity, or contemplative practice requires organisation. Workshops must be scheduled. Communities must be built. Emails must be sent. Ideas must become structures.
The work of helping others arrive in the present inevitably involves calendars. Over the past months, as I’ve been developing new programmes and thinking carefully about how to support creative and reflective communities more deeply, I’ve noticed how easily meaningful planning slides into subtle deferral. The mind begins narrating life as a sequence of upcoming thresholds:
Once this launches. Once this settles. Once this next phase begins.
The tarot workshop simply named what I already half knew: I had begun relating to the present primarily as a staging area. And the strange thing is that the more meaningful the work becomes, the easier this trap is to fall into. Purpose intensifies projection.
This weekend my partner and I visited the Orchid Festival at Kew Gardens — its 30th anniversary this year, and something that has become part of our late-winter rhythm. It is, objectively speaking, an exercise in logistical patience. Timed tickets, queues, dense crowds moving slowly through glasshouses thick with humidity and colour.
And yet something happens once you are inside. Orchids have an almost unreasonable beauty. Shapes that seem designed rather than grown. Colours that look improbable even while directly in front of you. People shuffle forward, phones lifted, conversations softening. Despite the press of bodies, time loosens.
Standing there — surrounded by impossible blooms and sharing the experience with someone I love — I noticed a rare stillness. Nothing needed to happen next. The present moment was sufficient.
The trap of living elsewhere is subtle because it disguises itself as responsibility. We believe we are being diligent, visionary, prepared. And often we are. The future matters. Planning matters. But presence is not opposed to planning; it is what prevents planning from becoming exile. The challenge, then, is not abandoning future-thinking but returning, repeatedly, to lived immediacy.
This insight has shaped how I’m approaching my upcoming workshops. Increasingly, I see creativity itself as a form of time practice — a way of restoring balance between imagination and presence.
Creative work asks us to plan and to surrender, to envision and to attend. Writing, especially, teaches patience with unfolding. You cannot inhabit a sentence that you are already trying to finish.
That’s partly why I’m so excited about the programmes beginning this March. They are designed not simply as skill-building spaces but as environments where people can rediscover a different relationship to time that supports both aspiration and groundedness.
If this reflection resonates, you might consider joining:
The Writer’s Flow Circle: A 12-Week Group Coaching Circle Beginning Monday 23 March | 7.30–9.00 PM UK time | £180 A sustained space for writers seeking structure, accountability, and deeper alignment with their creative rhythms. Register here: https://www.meetup.com/the-art-of-creative-practice/events/313207235/
Both, in different ways, are invitations to stop postponing creative life until conditions feel perfect.
The lesson from yesterday’s tarot spread was not that I should stop imagining the future. It was simply a reminder to visit the present more often — to stop treating it as a corridor leading elsewhere. Presence is not a permanent achievement. It is a practice of return. And perhaps that is why moments like the Orchid Festival linger: they reveal that life is not waiting for us at the end of our plans. It appears briefly, vividly, whenever attention and experience coincide.
The future will arrive soon enough. In the meantime, there is always this moment.
As I prepare for some very exciting spring workshops and begin working with a new cohort of 1–1 clients, I find myself returning again and again to the question: what kind of attention are we cultivating? And to what ends?
At the same time, I am collaborating with colleagues at the University of Surrey on a research study exploring the relationship between mindfulness and originality. I have designed an 8-week Mindfulness for Originality programme that we are currently trialing, and we will be studying its outcomes over the coming months. The premise is simple but, I think, quietly radical: that sustained, non-reactive attention is not the enemy of creativity but its precondition.
This runs counter to a certain romantic myth of originality as frenzy. But when we examine the intellectual lives of figures like Hannah Arendt, James Baldwin, or Virginia Woolf, what we find is not scattered brilliance but disciplined depth. Woolf’s diaries are full of labour—patient, iterative, attentive labour. Originality emerges not from distraction but from fidelity.
The philosopher Byung-Chul Han argues that we have moved from a disciplinary society to an achievement society, in which the violence is internalised. We exhaust ourselves trying to be endlessly responsive. The result is not freedom but fragmentation. In Stolen Focus, Johann Hari traces how economic and technological systems have steadily eroded our capacity for sustained attention, not as an accident but as a business model.
The ethics of attention, then, must reckon with power.
Who profits when we are distracted? Who benefits when we can’t read a long book, hold a complex argument, or sit with a difficult feeling?
Nicholas Carr’s The Shallows made this argument over a decade ago, but the evidence has only intensified. We are training our brains toward interruption. And yet, paradoxically, we long for immersion.
I see this longing in my coaching practice. People do not come to me because they lack ideas. They come because they cannot hold their ideas long enough to deepen them. They skim their own lives.
Reading, in this context, becomes a form of resistance.
To read a demanding text—say, a passage from To the Lighthouse or a dense philosophical argument—is to enact a countercultural choice. It says: I will not be hurried. I will not reduce this to a headline. I will allow complexity to exceed me.
But attention is not only about texts. It is about how we inhabit our own projects.
In the 8-week programme we are trialling at Surrey, one of the early exercises invites participants to notice the precise moment at which they reach for distraction during creative work. Not to judge it. Not to suppress it. Simply to witness it. The findings, even anecdotally, are striking. Original insights tend to arise not in the first burst of enthusiasm but in the stretch just beyond discomfort—when one stays.
There is an ethics here, too. To stay with one’s work is to honour it. To stay with another person is to dignify them. To stay with oneself—especially in the face of uncertainty—is to cultivate integrity.
This is why I am so passionate about the upcoming 5 Days of Creative Abundance workshop (9–13 March, 7.30–8.00 PM GMT, £29).
Yes, it is a practical, energising, five-day immersion into creative flow. Yes, it will give you tools, structure, and momentum. But underneath that, it is an experiment in attention.
For five evenings, we gather. We turn toward what matters. We practise not skimming our own creative impulse.
Abundance, as I understand it, is not accumulation. It is depth. It is the experience of discovering that when you attend properly to one idea, it unfolds. When you give something your full presence, it yields more than you expected.
There is a quiet confidence that arises from this. Not the performative confidence of broadcasting productivity, but the grounded confidence of knowing you can enter and remain in meaningful work.
If you have been feeling scattered, thinly stretched across platforms and obligations, this workshop is designed for you. If you sense that there is more in you—but you can’t quite access it amid the noise—this is for you.
I am intentionally keeping the price accessible (£29) because I want the barrier to entry to be low. But do not mistake accessibility for superficiality. The container will be strong. The invitation will be serious.
And if you are ready for more sustained support, my 1–1 coaching work continues alongside these group offerings. In those spaces, we go deeper. We examine not only habits of attention but the attachment patterns and identity narratives that sustain them. We design structures that protect what is most alive in you. It is precise, relational, and tailored.
Attention, I am increasingly convinced, is a form of stewardship.
In an earlier book project, I explored the ethics of mediation in mail-order occultism—how printed texts promised transformation across distance. I am struck now by how similar the stakes feel. Every medium shapes consciousness. The question is whether we use the medium deliberately or allow it to use us.
Marshall McLuhan’s famous dictum that “the medium is the message” was not a celebration; it was a warning. If our dominant medium fragments attention, then our inner lives will fragment accordingly—unless we intervene.
This intervention need not be dramatic. It begins with small, repeatable acts. Reading ten pages with full presence. Writing one paragraph without checking a phone. Listening to a friend without composing a response.
It also requires community.
One of the reasons I continue to run workshops—even as I refine my focus and prepare for new directions—is that collective attention is amplifying. When we gather around a shared intention, distraction loses some of its grip.
There is something profoundly moving about watching a group of people choose depth together.
In my own life, this season feels like a threshold. New 1–1 clients. Spring workshops taking shape. Research that, I hope, will contribute something meaningful to the conversation about mindfulness and creativity. It is not frenetic expansion. It is intentional cultivation.
And so I return to the ethical question.
What deserves your attention?
Not what clamours for it. Not what monetises it. What deserves it?
Your most original ideas do not shout. They wait. They require a certain stillness before they reveal themselves.
If you would like to practise that stillness—and discover what abundance might mean in your creative life—I would love for you to join me for the 5 Days of Creative Abundance.
