Tag: writing

Embracing Craft in Academia: Reflections on Sabbatical

Posted on by Allan Johnson in academia, Observations

Academia, for all its bureaucratic scaffolding and metricisation (neither of which, in spite of what many would have us believe, is newly arrived on the scene), has always seemed to me less an outcome and more a craft. The language we use is linear and progressive—impact, output, key performance indicators—but the experience is slower and quieter. What looks from the outside like a trajectory of advancement often feels, from the inside, like the painstaking rhythms of practice: revisiting texts, refining an argument, shaping a paragraph until it carries its own weight.

Beginning a period of sabbatical this month has sharpened this distinction for me. Having the time to work on my next book, on liberal theology in early-20th-century America, is an extraordinary privilege, of course, but also a perturbing reminder that the rhythms of academic life are neither fixed nor inevitable. After a six-year term as an associate dean, when my diary wasn’t my own and a truly uninterrupted hour for writing was out of the question, I now find myself in a space where mornings are less prescribed, afternoons more open, and evenings less weighed down by the day’s unanswered emails.

This shift has interrupted the treadmill to which I had grown accustomed: no more weekly meetings or administrative reports, fewer obligations to the tempo of the institution. The contrast is striking. Career logic dictates constant forward motion, progression, and visibility. Sabbatical interrupts that, slowing time to the pace of craft: immersion, attention, revision. After years of deliberately (and at times aggressively) climbing a ladder, it feels now like I am stepping back into the workshop of what I have actually been trained to do: pore over the historical record to better understand what modernist literature means, and, in doing so, cultivate my own scholarly sensibilities in order to train students to do the same.

The language of career encourages us to think in terms of advancement, but the language of craft invites us to think in terms of depth. Career implies a vertical climb: promotion, recognition, and external markers of success. Craft, by contrast, is iterative and circular: you return to the same problems with new tools, you revisit the same materials with a slightly steadier hand. In my ways, this sabbatical is feeling like an unmistakable return, and whether or not my hand is indeed steadier, it is at the very least different to when I began my career.

Pierre Bourdieu’s account of ‘academic capital’ in Homo Academicus explains much about why universities are structured to reward careerist accumulation: advancement depends on how well one plays the game, converting intellectual labour into recognisable forms of capital. But Richard Sennett’s celebration of craft in The Craftsman reminds us that the deeper meaning of scholarly work is found elsewhere: in the long hours of slow reading, the shaping of sentences, the iterative labour of interpretation. Bourdieu undoubtedly shows us the internal logic of the field, but to treat scholarship as craft is to resist the abstraction of labour into capital and to remain grounded in the work itself, the feel of words under the hand, the quiet satisfaction of making something well.

Craft is built not through dramatic leaps but through the slow accumulation of skill over time. Looking back, I see this clearly in my own trajectory. As an undergraduate, I was awkward but diligent; I once arrived late to an exam with an analogue alarm clock whose battery had died, holding it up as evidence. From those unpolished beginnings to my current role as teacher and writer, what has mattered is not sudden transformation but steady honing.

This accumulation resists the logic of outputs. Like any craft, academic practice is tethered to the materiality of tools, spaces, and habits. The scholar’s equivalents of the potter’s wheel or carpenter’s chisel are the library, the notebook, and the annotated text (I’ve also grown accustomed to my ReMarkable tablet but still feel uneasy when I see my disused notebooks glaring back at me from the shelf). 

My own sabbatical days so far have been marked by relocating books and rediscovering notes I had once scribbled in margins, while rearranging my desk into something that feels more like a workshop than an office. Bruno Latour reminds us in Reassembling the Social that tools are never neutral; they co-constitute practice. Academic work, though often presented as disembodied thought (the ‘output’, the ‘paper’, the ‘impact’), is always materially situated. The desk, the chair, the pen, the screen: they are part of the making.

The pressures of modern academia can make it dangerously easy to forget the craft beneath the career, but the dangers of modern academia can make it just as tempting to ignore the career beneath the craft, an evasion that only feeds the very thing we hoped to resist.

I know this from experience. Six years in middle leadership brought tremendous satisfaction but also a creeping drift away from the hands-on craft of my own research. Strategy and oversight are necessary, but they can displace the intimate contact with sources and sentences that drew me to academia in the first place. Sabbatical is, in that sense, a time to retool: to remember the making at the heart of the work. As Stefan Collini asked in What Are Universities For?, what are we serving if we forget the scholarly craft that justifies the institution itself?

My hope for this sabbatical is to deepen the craft. A book will come out of it, but as a tool rather than a product. I want to give myself permission to linger in primary texts, to sketch ideas without rushing to publication, to think slowly. Projects on attachment and literature, and on contemplative approaches to pedagogy beckon, but I want to approach them less as tasks to be completed than as materials to be worked with patiently.

To see scholarship as craft is to reclaim its artistry from the machinery of career. Universities will continue to speak the language of metrics, rankings, and progression, an essential role, because it is this machinery that maintains the workshop in which scholarship can take place. But we don’t have to speak in the same register. To resist or even repudiate the machine is not to undermine the institution but to create the very conditions in which scholarship can breathe: the space for slow thought, patient practice, and the kind of intellectual labour that no metric can capture.

The machinery of career will always hum in the background, but we needn’t let its clatter drown out the quieter sound of practice itself. If these reflections resonate, I explore them further in The Art of Academic Practice on Substack, a space for thinking together about how scholarship might remain both sustainable and alive.

Ignite Your Imagination: Essential Mindfulness Practices for Creatives

Posted on by Allan Johnson in creative industries, creativity, meditation, mindfulness, wellbeing

Imagination does not always come galloping through the mind like a wild horse across open ground. More often, it creeps in — hesitant, flickering, partial — like light beneath a half-closed door. For the creative spirit, this can be both a torment and a gift. We long for the fullness of vision, the burning clarity, the intoxicating moment when idea and form lock together and the world briefly makes sense. But more often, we are in the waiting room: alert, uncertain, rehearsing fragments and false starts, hoping for a signal. It is in this threshold space — this in-between — that mindfulness becomes not only helpful but transformative.

Creativity has long been romanticised as divine madness, a burst of genius, a possession. And while there may be truth in that mythology, it is not the whole truth. The more interesting question is not what inspiration is, but how we prepare for it. Not how we command the imagination, but how we create conditions in which it might choose to speak. Mindfulness, in this light, is not a set of breathing techniques or an escape from the demands of artistic work. It is an ethos of attention. A way of being that sharpens the contours of perception and makes the self available to wonder.

To live mindfully as a creative is not to disengage from the world, but to engage it more fully. It is to notice, in radical detail, the colour of morning light on the floorboards, the twitch in a friend’s voice, the quiet violence of a passing thought. This kind of noticing is not simply decorative. It is the material of art. All creative acts begin with attention — not just to what is seen, but to how it is seen. Mindfulness cultivates that how. It refines the inner lens. And with that, the imagination becomes less a distant realm and more a neighbour — elusive, yes, but not unreachable.

The challenge is that modern life trains us out of this kind of perception. We scroll, skim, switch tasks mid-thought. Our nervous systems are fragmented, our minds colonised by speed. In such a climate, the imagination withers — not because it lacks ideas, but because it cannot find stillness. Mindfulness returns us to a slower rhythm, one more akin to the pace at which creative insight naturally moves. The imagination does not shout. It whispers. It offers symbols and sensations before it offers structure. To receive those fragments requires a kind of inner spaciousness that mindfulness can restore.

It is important to say that mindfulness is not a cure for creative block. It is not a pill or a shortcut. It is, in many ways, a deepening of the block. A way of entering it with presence rather than panic. When the artist is blocked, they are often not lacking ideas — they are overfull. Jammed with expectations, self-comparisons, imagined critics, and internalised metrics of worth. The block is often a symptom of too much noise, not too little content. Mindfulness teaches us to sit quietly in that noise until it begins to part. It does not dissolve resistance, but it changes our relationship to it.

At its heart, mindfulness invites us to meet the moment as it is — not as we wish it to be. This is perhaps the most radical act for a creative. Because we are often trained to work from an ideal: the perfect performance, the future masterpiece, the imagined audience who will finally understand. But the work does not emerge from the ideal. It emerges from the real. From the slight tremor in the hand. From the smell of the paper. From the deep breath taken before the brushstroke or the chord or the sentence. When we attend to the real, we begin to loosen our grip on perfection and make space for play — and play is where the imagination feels safest.

There are practices that support this shift — not as formulas, but as invitations. One of the most powerful is the simple act of arriving. Before beginning your creative work, pause. Close your eyes. Feel your feet on the ground. Sense the breath in your body. Let yourself come into presence, not as an act of performance, but as a gesture of receptivity. In doing so, you are not asking the imagination to perform. You are letting it know that you are listening. This small ritual can become an anchor — a way to mark the space between ordinary time and creative time.

Another practice is mindful observation. Take an object — a leaf, a stone, a photograph — and study it without naming it. Let yourself be absorbed by its texture, its edges, the way light moves across it. Notice your mind’s habits — how it wants to interpret, to comment, to categorise. Gently return to the act of seeing. This seemingly simple exercise reawakens the raw materials of creativity: detail, pattern, form, and most of all, wonder. It is wonder, not novelty, that fuels true imagination. And mindfulness is a training in wonder.

Body awareness is equally vital. Creative work is not only intellectual — it is visceral. The body speaks in tone and rhythm and colour, often before the mind knows what it means. Writers sense a sentence’s weight. Dancers feel a phrase in the spine. Painters move through gesture. Musicians enter trance. Mindfulness reconnects us to these signals. A body scan — gently bringing attention to each part of the body — allows us to hear the somatic wisdom beneath the surface. Often, an idea is stuck not in the mind but in the jaw, the shoulders, the chest. When we release these holding patterns, the imagination begins to flow again.

Mindfulness also teaches us how to recover from the inevitable crash after a creative high. Every artist knows the pattern: the flush of energy, the intoxication of vision — followed by doubt, fatigue, the sense that none of it is working. This cycle is not a flaw. It is the natural rhythm of the creative process. Mindfulness helps us ride it without drowning in it. It teaches us to greet the high with gratitude and the low with compassion. Not to cling to either, but to keep returning to the work, with steadiness, even when inspiration recedes.

In a deeper sense, mindfulness reminds us that the imagination is not a separate realm to be accessed, but a mode of being to be remembered. Children live in this mode. They animate the world with story and symbol. They know, without being told, that the line between what is and what could be is porous. Adults, trained in control and outcome, often lose this porousness. But it can be recovered. And mindfulness is one way to trace the path back. It allows us to unhook from habitual thinking and return to what is called “beginner’s mind” — a mind not emptied, but freshly open.

Beginner’s mind is a paradoxical place. It requires discipline to enter, but surrender to remain. For the creative, this is the site of pure potential. It is where the known world dissolves just enough to let the new world appear. But it does not come through force. It comes through presence — through the willingness to stay close to the edge of unknowing, to sketch with the left hand, to listen without deciding. This is not the absence of technique. It is technique softened by trust.

And trust is perhaps the most essential ingredient in creative life. Trust in the process. Trust in the self. Trust that something worthwhile can emerge even from a messy first draft, a broken melody, an unfinished canvas. Mindfulness strengthens this trust, not by feeding confidence, but by cultivating stability. When the mind is steadied, we are less thrown by failure, less addicted to success. We become more willing to explore. And the imagination — that sensitive, skittish creature — comes closer when it senses safety.

Of course, not every moment of creativity will feel mindful. We will still have days when the mind races, when the work feels brittle, when nothing seems to cohere. This is human. Mindfulness does not erase difficulty. It simply offers us a way to meet it without collapsing. To meet it with a little more breath. A little more kindness. A little more space. Over time, this changes not just how we work, but who we become through our work. It reshapes the creative life from a series of outcomes to a deepening relationship — with form, with feeling, with the mystery of making itself.

So light the candle. Take the breath. Touch the clay. Return to the sentence. Let your attention lean in. The imagination is not a bolt of lightning. It is a door. And mindfulness is the key that helps you hear when the latch lifts.

Unlock your potential with mindfulness! Discover how a few mindful moments can help spark breakthrough, overcome blocks, and transform your personal and professional journey. Subscribe to my blog today for more on the art of being present.

If you want to start putting these ideas into action, you can sign up for Integrative Meditation (Level 1). This course represents the culmination of years of learning, practice, and personal growth. Integrative Meditation is a comprehensive framework designed to enhance your mental and emotional well-being. It draws on Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT), positive psychology, neuroscience, Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), journaling, and breathwork to support you in reducing stress, enhancing focus, building emotional resilience, and discovering your true self.

Mindfulness for Writers: Find Clarity and Inspiration in Your Craft

Posted on by Allan Johnson in creative industries, creativity, meditation, mindfulness, wellbeing, writing

For many writers, silence—full of potential and hesitation—can feel simultaneously rich and unbearable. We long to write, to shape thought into language, to move the idea from the interior chamber of the self into some shared terrain. And yet we resist. We distract ourselves. We rehearse the moment of beginning without quite entering it. The cursor blinks. The mind loops. The feeling grows that something must be resolved—cleared, conquered—before the writing can begin.

Mindfulness offers another way.

To write mindfully is not to wait for the perfect conditions, but to enter the imperfect ones with attention and care. It is to befriend the silence, rather than avoid it. It is to recognise that clarity does not descend fully formed from on high, but arises gradually through relationship—with language, with mood, with the flickering mind itself. At its heart, writing is an act of intimacy: with our own thoughts, with the complexities of truth, with the reader we may never meet. And like all acts of intimacy, it benefits from presence. It flourishes in the absence of harshness, when control gives way to curiosity.

The mythology around writing tends to encourage the opposite. We are taught, implicitly or otherwise, that inspiration is rare and capricious, that a successful writer must discipline themselves ruthlessly, that the creative mind is both gift and burden. From this perspective, the writer’s job becomes one of wrangling: taming the wild impulse, dragging the idea across the threshold of productivity, pushing through inertia with sheer will. But this model creates a peculiar estrangement. The act of writing becomes adversarial. We are no longer in dialogue with our thoughts but in conflict with them. The page becomes a site of pressure rather than possibility.

Mindfulness undoes this subtle violence. It invites us to return to the writing process not as a battleground, but as a place of noticing. We begin to pay attention not only to what we want to say, but to what is happening as we try to say it. We notice the quickening of the breath when a sentence feels too vulnerable. We notice the flicker of doubt when the prose doesn’t match the inner image. We notice the impulse to check email, scroll, tidy the desk—anything but face the discomfort of uncertainty.

And then, rather than judge ourselves for these things, we soften. We stay. We write from within the mess rather than waiting for the mess to resolve.

This kind of writing is slower, yes. But it is also truer. When we learn to tolerate the moment of unclarity—when we stop fleeing the fog and start writing from within it—something begins to shift. The words that emerge may be halting, but they are honest. The rhythm that arises may be uneven, but it carries the weight of attention. And from this attention, something unexpected can unfold. We find ourselves saying what we didn’t know we knew. We surprise ourselves. We write not to assert, but to discover.

In this way, mindfulness is not simply a technique for calming the nervous system. It is a stance. It is a way of approaching the creative process with respect—for ourselves, for the material, for the reader. It acknowledges that the mind, left to its own devices, will often resist the work it most wants to do. Not out of laziness, but out of fear. The fear of not being good enough, not being original, not being able to finish. These fears are ancient and deeply human. But they are not the end of the story.

Through mindfulness, we begin to recognise these internal dramas for what they are: patterns, not truths. A thought is just a thought. A mood is just a weather system. They pass. And if we can learn to observe them rather than obey them, we free ourselves from their grip. We become less entangled. We make space for the writing to emerge on its own terms.

Of course, this requires a kind of humility. The mindful writer does not approach the page with the assumption of mastery. They approach with openness. They are willing to be surprised, to be wrong, to revise not just sentences but assumptions. They listen. And this listening begins long before the first word appears. It begins in the body—the breath, the posture, the quiet scan of inner state. How am I today? What is present in me right now? Not: what do I want to write about, but: where am I writing from?

This simple pause—this moment of turning inward—can change everything. It can prevent the unconscious projection of stress onto the writing task. It can reveal the source of resistance. It can allow a more grounded voice to emerge, one less driven by ego and more attuned to truth. In this way, writing becomes a form of meditation. Each sentence is a return. Each revision is a reckoning. Each paragraph is a field of attention.

This does not mean the process becomes easy. Writing mindfully is not a shortcut to flow. On the contrary, it often requires more patience, more willingness to linger with discomfort. But it also brings a deeper reward. The writing begins to feel less like a performance and more like a practice. We are not trying to impress. We are trying to see clearly.

And that clarity—when it comes—is not just about language. It is about alignment. The writer begins to feel aligned with their own voice, their own rhythm, their own pace. They stop comparing themselves to imagined others. They stop chasing an abstract standard. They begin to trust their process, even when it feels slow or strange. They begin to recognise that inspiration is not a bolt from the blue but a byproduct of attention. That the well of creativity refills not through pressure, but through presence.

In this spirit, many writers find it helpful to create small rituals that anchor them in mindfulness. Not elaborate routines, but subtle cues—a brief pause before beginning, a few breaths with the eyes closed, a wordless acknowledgment of the moment. These rituals are not about superstition. They are about orientation. They remind the writer that this work, however ordinary, is sacred in its own way. That to sit down and listen inwardly, day after day, is an act of both courage and care.

Sometimes, of course, the writing does not come. The mind is scattered. The ideas are half-formed. The inner critic is loud. Mindfulness does not banish these moments. But it changes our relationship to them. Instead of pushing through or giving up, we stay curious. We ask different questions: What is happening here? What am I afraid of? What part of me is not yet ready to write? And sometimes, the most important work a writer can do is not to write, but to listen. To let the stillness speak. To honour the pause, not as failure, but as part of the rhythm.

In the long view, what mindfulness gives to writing is not just clarity and inspiration, but resilience. It teaches us how to return. To begin again, without shame. To meet the page as it is, and ourselves as we are. This is not merely a mental skill; it is a spiritual one. It asks us to drop the mask. To write not from performance, but from presence. And in doing so, we make room for something deeper to come through.

Writing, in this mode, becomes less about control and more about conversation. A dialogue between self and world, between language and silence. We no longer need to force meaning; we allow it to emerge. And when it does, it carries the subtle texture of truth—not just what is said, but how it is said. Not just insight, but tone. That particular cadence of voice that can only arise when the writer is fully present to their own experience.

And so the invitation is simple: write as you are. Let the writing be an act of awareness. Let the process teach you something about your own mind. Let it be less about making a point and more about making contact—with yourself, with the page, with the invisible reader who may be longing for the very thing you are about to say.

Let writing become a place of return.

Let it be a home.

Unlock your potential with mindfulness! Discover how a few mindful moments can help spark breakthrough, overcome blocks, and transform your personal and professional journey. Subscribe to my blog today for more on the art of being present.

If you want to start putting these ideas into action, you can sign up for Integrative Meditation (Level 1). This course represents the culmination of years of learning, practice, and personal growth. Integrative Meditation is a comprehensive framework designed to enhance your mental and emotional well-being. It draws on Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT), positive psychology, neuroscience, Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT), journaling, and breathwork to support you in reducing stress, enhancing focus, building emotional resilience, and discovering your true self.

Navigating the Filling-Fishing Fallacy: Balancing Inspiration and Creation

Posted on by Allan Johnson in Observations, writing
water drop on bucket photo

Part of the challenge we face as creatives is what feels like a constant pressure to come up with new ideas. We may feel compelled to continuously produce original works and keep pace with the ever-evolving landscape of our fields. This pressure can sometimes lead to creative burnout, a feeling of being stuck in a cycle of expectation and output. It’s important to recognize that creativity also requires rest, reflection, and rejuvenation. Sometimes, stepping back from the relentless pursuit of new ideas can actually lead to a fresh perspective and renewed inspiration. Taking the time to explore different experiences, engage in unrelated activities, or simply take a break can often spark the innovative thinking needed to push creative boundaries.

Julia Cameron often talks about how important it is for the creative process to ‘fill the well’. This concept entails actively seeking inspiration, experience, and knowledge to support our creative endeavors. According to Cameron, creativity thrives in a dynamic interplay between exploration and expression, making it crucial for us to engage in activities that replenish our well of creativity. This may involve immersing ourselves in diverse art forms, exploring nature, engaging in thought-provoking conversations, or delving into various cultural experiences. By continuously filling our well with new and stimulating input, we enhance our ability to generate fresh and innovative ideas, setting the stage for meaningful and impactful creative expression.

However, it’s equally important to recognise when it’s time to move from filling the well to fishing in it. This transition signifies the moment when we must delve into our accumulated ideas, influences, and inspirations and break through the inertia to start creating. By tapping into the wealth of experiences and knowledge we have gathered, we can breathe life into new projects, harnessing our creative energy to bring our visions to fruition.

It’s not uncommon for creatives to underestimate or overestimate just how much new information or external inspiration they need before getting down to work, what I call the Filling-Fishing Fallacy. This phenomenon can occur when creators feel like they need to continuously fill their minds with new ideas, never feeling fully prepared to start their projects. On the other hand, some may become so engrossed in seeking external inspiration that they never actually dive into the creative process. Finding the right balance between gathering new insights and diving into the work can be a challenge for many, but it’s an important aspect of the creative process to master.

Sometimes we just need to start writing, start painting, start moving, or start creating. Sometimes we’ve already consumed enough inspiration to get us going. Sometimes we need to stop filling the well and start fishing in it.

It’s a common misconception that we need to inundate ourselves with new information or inspiration before we can even begin the creative process. The truth, however, is that creativity isn’t just about the accumulation of information, but the delicate balance between ‘filling the well’ and fishing in it. This delicate balance involves not only seeking new input but also allowing time for reflection and synthesis. It’s the interplay between absorbing new ideas and allowing them to percolate within our minds, creating a rich reservoir of thoughts that can be drawn from when the time for creativity comes. The process of creativity is not solely about input, but rather the alchemical process that occurs when we blend new knowledge with our unique perspectives and experiences. Therefore, nurturing creativity involves both the acquisition of new information and the cultivation of a mental landscape conducive to the generation of original ideas.

By learning to distinguish between when we need to fill the well with new experiences, inspiration, and knowledge, and when we should start fishing in it, drawing from the resources we have gathered, we can optimise our creative process and avoid unnecessary burnout. Taking the time to nurture our creativity through exploration and learning, and then knowing when to harness that creativity by actually producing work, allows us to maintain a sustainable and fulfilling creative practice.

As I writer I used to spend hours scrolling through social media, bookmarking articles and watching videos for research and inspiration. Despite the abundance of material, I found it increasingly difficult to translate this flood of information into tangible creative results. What I didn’t then realise is that the act of creating requires not only input, but also processing and synthesis. I had to learn to take the time to think about and digest the information I’d gathered, and then to figuratively fish from this well of inspiration.

Many of us fall into the trap of overfilling our creative wells, believing that more information and inspiration will inevitably lead to better ideas. However, this can quickly become overwhelming and counterproductive. Overfilling the well can lead to analytical paralysis and creative stagnation. It’s important to find a balance between input and output to avoid getting trapped in this cycle. Taking the time to reflect and distill key insights from the multitude of inputs can lead to more focused and impactful creative output. Embracing moments of quiet and stillness can also allow the mind to process and connect the dots, resulting in innovative ideas and solutions. So, instead of overfilling the well, it’s essential to nourish it with a diverse range of meaningful inputs and allow the space for deep, uninterrupted reflection.

By understanding the signs of overfilling, such as feeling overwhelmed, mentally drained, or uninspired, we can proactively reclaim our creative energy and channel it into productive endeavours. Recognising the importance of balance and the need to differentiate between gathering inspiration and actively creating can empower us to break free from the cycle of overconsumption that the modern world often pushes us toward. Embracing moments of quiet reflection, engaging in activities that nourish our creativity, and setting boundaries around our time and energy can further support this shift towards a more sustainable and fulfilling creative practice.

Creativity isn’t a finite resource to be hoarded, but a dynamic force that thrives on movement and expression. When we embrace this mindset, we unlock endless possibilities for growth and innovation. By shifting our focus from accumulation to action, we open the door to new experiences and perspectives. This shift allows us to explore uncharted territories and break free from the confines of routine, fostering a sense of adventure and discovery. As we engage with our creative impulses, we not only fuel our own passions but also inspire and uplift those around us. It’s through this active engagement with creativity that we can truly harness its transformative power and make a meaningful impact on the world around us.

Once we have filled our wells with inspiration and ideas, it’s time to move from passive consumption to active creation. This is where the magic happens — the act of fishing in the well of creativity. Fishing in the well allows us to tap into our reservoir of ideas and insights and transform them into tangible works of art, innovations or forms of expression. This is the phase where inspiration meets action, where ideas are brought to life.

What characterises this phase isn’t only the act of creation itself, but also the depth and richness of the material from which we are able draw. Fishing in the well isn’t just about producing something, it’s about engaging with our creative resources in a meaningful way. It’s about breaking through the inertia, the uncertainty, and, yes, sometimes the fear, to begin to create.

It’s about trusting the depth of our inspiration and allowing intuition and curiosity to guide us. When we allow ourselves to fish in the well, we can turn ideas into reality and begin to unleash our full potential. Creativity isn’t a linear process, but an iterative one, built up piece by piece over time. As we navigate between filling the well and fishing in it, we should embrace the fluidity of the creative journey and trust in our ability to navigate through its ebbs and flows.

During the Renaissance, scholars and artists developed a profound appreciation for the intricacies of the natural world, leading to the creation of spaces known as kunstkammers or studiolos — personal rooms meticulously curated and filled with an array of treasures, curiosities, and sources of inspiration. These rooms served as the physical embodiment of the creative process, providing a sanctuary for exploration, reflection, and the convergence of expression. Within these carefully crafted environments, individuals fostered a deep connection with their work, surrounded by objects that ignited their imagination and encouraged artistic experimentation. The kunstkammers and studiolos symbolized the fusion of art, science, and intellect, serving as testimony to the multifaceted nature of creativity during this remarkable period in history.

The cultivation of our own art chamber — whether physical or metaphorical— is a tangible reminder of the interplay between filling the well and fishing in it. It is a sanctuary for creativity, a place where ideas can flourish and inspiration can unfold. What makes the art chamber special is not only the physical components, but also the intention and energy inherent in it. It’s about understanding the symbiotic relationship between inspiration and expression and creating a sanctuary for our creative endeavours. Our environment has a profound impact on our creative process and mindset. By consciously designing a space that encourages inspiration and productivity, we can optimise our creative potential and enhance our overall wellbeing.

The Filling-Fishing Fallacy serves as a powerful metaphor for the creative process, illuminating the intricate interplay between replenishing our well of creativity and actively engaging with the ideas and concepts within it. It prompts us to consider the dangers of overfilling the well, leading to stagnation and an overflow of undirected thoughts, thus hindering the creative process. Conversely, by embracing the act of “fishing” in our creative well, we learn to navigate the depths of our creativity, selecting and refining the most compelling ideas. This process allows us to cultivate our own unique art chambers, honing our creative intuition and enabling us to harness the full potential of our imaginative energy. Through this intentional and purposeful engagement with our creative resources, we are able to transcend previous limitations and reach new dimensions of inspiration, innovation, and expression.

Digital Minimalism and Why I Write My Morning Pages By Hand

Posted on by Allan Johnson in writing

In a world dominated by touchscreens and keyboards, the reason why writing by hand is still important seems to be increasingly forgotten. The physical act of putting pen to paper has a profound impact on our creativity and unleashes untapped potential in our minds.

This year, I have gone back to writing my Morning Pages by hand and it’s made a huge difference to me.

Many famous thinkers and writers throughout history have emphasised the benefits of writing by hand—and, indeed, Julia Cameron herself made it very clear that Morning Pages should be handwritten, even if I forgot about that for a while. The act of handwriting activates various cognitive processes and creates a unique connection between the brain and the hand. The tactile experience of writing seems to anchor the information deeper in our memory, promoting a deeper understanding of the material.

In a world where information overload is the norm, it becomes a valuable skill to retain and truly understand what we encounter. Handwriting provides a pathway to better learning as it allows us to grasp concepts more effectively and subsequently stimulates our creativity.

J.K. Rowling wrote the first drafts of Harry Potter by hand. This way of writing allowed her to give free rein to her creativity without the constraints of a blinking cursor. Rowling herself has spoken about the liberating experience of writing by hand, explaining that it allowed her to explore creative tangents and unexpected plot twists.

The cognitive processes triggered by the physicality of handwriting have the potential to fuel our creative minds and push us beyond the boundaries of conventional thinking. Handwriting improves memory, fosters deep understanding and unleashes creative potential. This practise can be a powerful tool to manage the complexity of our information-driven world.

Part of the problem I struggled with is that in the digital age, speed often takes precedence over thought. Clicking buttons can feel like a race against time, where our thoughts have to keep up with the incessant flow of information. However, when we focus on the deliberate pace of handwriting, a profound shift occurs.

Writing by hand encourages a slower, more contemplative approach to thinking. It makes us savour every word, every sentence as we put our ideas down on paper. The physical effort required to form letters and words engages our senses in a way that typing does not. This deliberate rhythm can be a balm for an overstimulated mind and provides a sanctuary for deep thinking in a world where speed is often more important than substance.

Take the example of Virginia Woolf, who filled countless notebooks with her handwritten thoughts. Her methodical approach to writing allowed her to immerse herself in the nuances of her characters and narratives, creating literary works that stand the test of time. This is in stark contrast to the speed of digital communication, where brevity often trumps depth.

Writing my Morning Pages by hand has taught me to trust the pace at which ideas flow. When I used to type them, my mind would race ahead and I’d find myself faced with pages of pretty nonsensical stream of consciousness. By gently slowing down with handwritten pages, my ideas have more time to take shape before flowing onto the page.

I have realised that the deliberate pace of handwriting creates a connection between mind and paper that is difficult to achieve in the digital world. By slowing down the pace, we give our thoughts the space they need to develop and mature.

In a society that celebrates constant productivity, the value of well thought-out, well-developed concepts cannot be overestimated. The deliberate pace of handwriting encourages deep thinking and provides a counterbalance to the hectic pace of digital communication.

I see the sensory experience of handwriting as a rebellion against the sterility of digital tools. The feel of paper under our fingertips, the scratch of the pen on the page — these sensations engage our senses in a way that a keyboard and a screen cannot.

Sure, I love technology as much as the next person, but I’m learning to connect more with a form of digital minimalism, where I rely on the best of digital and the best of analogue without assuming that a digital version of something is always preferable.

Why is this tactile experience of the analogue so important? When we write by hand, we activate not only the visual sense, but also the tactile and kinaesthetic senses. This multi-sensory engagement leaves a deeper and more lasting impression on our memory.

In addition, the tactile experience of writing by hand also has therapeutic benefits. It can be a mindful exercise that anchors us in the present moment and offers a break from the constant digital deluge. In a world full of distractions, the act of writing by hand becomes a meditative exercise that allows us to switch off from the chaos and reconnect with our thoughts.

Digital minimalism is a subtle rebellion against a world that tells us that digital is the only way forward.

The practise of writing by hand is not a relic of the past, but a key to unlocking creativity in the present. From improving memory and fostering deep understanding to promoting conscious thinking and engaging multiple senses, handwriting offers a multitude of benefits.

In a world increasingly dominated by digital technologies, rediscovering the power of writing on paper can be a revolutionary act, freeing our minds to explore unexplored realms of imagination. So, in the midst of the digital rush, take a moment to savour the simplicity and richness of writing by hand — your creativity will thank you.

In The Path of Mindful Living: A 21-Day Mindfulness Companion, I lead you through a series of self-guided mindfulness exercises and show you how to bring mindfulness into your daily life. Readers of my blog can download the workbook and pullout charts for only £6.