Some days, the words just don’t come. Today is one of those days. I haven’t written a blog in two weeks, and instead of writing, I’ve been building Super Mario characters for Halloween and planning a trip. Creative, yes — but not the kind of writing I promised myself I’d be doing. And today? I’m just…blah.
Today, though? I feel…blah. No big burst of inspiration. No profound story to share. Just the quiet reminder that creativity has its rhythms. Some days are fireworks, others are embers barely glowing. And that’s okay.
Even “blah days” are part of the process. They give us space to rest, reset, and — eventually — return to the page with fresh eyes.
So here’s to the ebb and flow, the spark and the silence. The muse may be napping today, but I know she’ll wake up again soon.
I’ve found myself a bit of a casualty in today’s world of misinformation and half-truths online. Okay—casualty might be a strong word. Let’s say: misunderstood.
I write what I know. Sometimes I embellish, sure—but it’s always rooted in truth, unless I clearly say otherwise. Maybe I should start putting disclaimers on each post: This is true. This is fiction.
Take my recent blog about the miracle fish story. It actually happened. As unbelievable as it sounds, it was real. It didn’t even occur to me that readers might think I made it up—until one of my daughters commented, “I remember this.” That’s when someone reached out and asked, “Wait… this actually happened?”
They were stunned when I said yes.
Why do I write this blog? To share information. To offer insight. To spark a laugh. To make people think. But most of all, to leave the reader with a genuine sense of me—the person behind the words.
Am I succeeding?
Writing can feel like a blind art form. I can’t bring a blog post to show-and-tell the way someone might with a painting or sculpture. Writers can’t always tell where they stand with their work until there’s engagement. And when that engagement shows that I missed the mark—especially when something true is mistaken for fiction—it’s a shock to the system.
How could someone not know this really happened? (I have to shake my head, I can definitely see how this example could be taken as fiction.)
Clearly, I need to rethink that. Maybe other writers have been here too. Maybe it doesn’t matter as long as people enjoy the story. But I’m genuinely curious: Do you think the truth vs. fiction distinction matters in a personal blog?
And, just for fun— How many of you thought the fish story was made up?
Let me know in the comments. I’d love to hear what you think.
Five years ago—somewhere between too many coffees and too many visits to the psychiatrist—I finally sat down to write the saga that had been spinning in my head for years. It was time. The stories, the voices, the haunted places—they wouldn’t wait any longer.
Since then, I’ve thrown myself into this world. I write every day, often for hours. I’ve researched until my eyes burned and the screen blurred. I’ve taken trips to key locations, walking where my characters walk, learning what they need to know to breathe fully on the page.
Now, five years later, I’ve written four books in the series. And for the first time, I think I’m done. The first book is ready—really ready—to send to an agent. That’s a step I’ve never taken before. Wish me luck.
My characters have taken on lives of their own. Sometimes they slip into my real world—I’ve caught myself calling friends by a character’s name more than once. Oops. I suppose that’s the sign of a story well-lived… but I’ll try to keep it in check. Maybe.
Now comes the business side of writing. The query letter. The dreaded synopsis. Somehow, I’m expected to distill a nearly 400-page novel (double-spaced!) into a two-sentence pitch, a logline, a tagline—a hook sharp enough to snag a stranger’s attention in seconds. It threatens to swallow me whole, but I’m doing my best to learn the ropes.
And then there’s the author website. I’ve spent two full weeks wrestling with it. Turns out, I’m a bit tech-challenged. Okay, more than a bit. But I’m determined to get it right—if it’s the last thing I do. The pages have to link up, the design has to make sense, and I will figure it out. Eventually.
This whole writing business is a wild mess. A beautiful, maddening, soul-stretching mess. I might lose a few hairs and collect a few scraped knees along the way, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Go ahead and shake your head but to create is to live. It does not matter if its writing, sculpting, painting, dancing, music, drafting, engineering or finding a new way to make pot roast. We all create. Yes, even those of you saying, I don’t have any talent or a creative bone in my body. Yes, you do. It’s in your code, your DNA.
Think of what the world would be like if there was no such thing as being creative. You can’t because the world as we know it would not exist. Animals create, plants do and what’s that word… procreate.
Okay, that’s a stretch. The point is, we all do this, need this and yet so many people are under the impression that “to create” is a frivolousness activity outside productive society. They are wrong. It is the very fabric of society.
According to many studies, children who are encouraged to use their imagination, who are involved, exposed to creative endeavors score higher on tests in school and do better at seeing options in life others miss.
Creative thinking utilizes imagination, exploration of options, reflection and critical thinking skills. In an article, Art in Schools Inspires Tomorrow’s Creative Thinkers, Without the arts, education’s grade is Incomplete,by Jeffrey Schnapp, he discusses how creativity and the arts are essential to reading, writing and arithmetic. They are all interconnected like the spider’s web, the fabric of life.
Creative people ask the hard questions such as, how can I get ideas, information and communication from one person to another. What would happen if I stepped aside from the familiar and public confirmatory? What new thing or idea could I imagine and create?
Without this, there would be no internet, computers, cell phones, televisions, radios, cars, refrigerators to name thousands of others. Not to mention all the entertainment we use daily from music, television, books and games (like Candy Crush, which I am currently addicted). And don’t forget the photographs, paintings, textiles, clothing, furniture and house styles we use.
So, tell me, where don’t we use creativity, our talents and the arts? Isn’t it odd that when you look at creativity this way, how silly it seemly to take money away from the creative endeavors in schools and choosing to put kids in competitive venues and watching test scores instead. Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to the individual and society to have balance between the three?
According to Schnapp, Nazi Germany and the Taliban both tried going the route of eliminating creative thinking and art. I think we know the rest of their stories.
My writing coach, fiction, song writer and poet, Melissa Green, runs a non-profit organization in Lancaster, Pennsylvania called, Write from the Heart. Her goal is to inspire the creative spirit and to support those who have encountered resistance or fear when trying to express their creativity through writing. As I meet other writers under her wing, I am often amazed at hearing the insidious ways many were drilled from childhood that being creative was wrong. Being artistic was not appropriate. I, thank goodness, came from a very creative, artistically supportive environment. I can’t imagine growing up in that kind of environment.
Last evening, Melissa presented a short quote from Hugh Prather’s, I Touch the Earth, The Earth Touches Me. It is: “There were seventy five people in the lobby and only a seven year old girl was finding out what it felt like to sit on a marble floor.” At first this seems absurd. But think about this. What if everyone took the time to explore and contemplate the merits of sitting on a marble floor? What if Orville and Wilbur Wright hadn’t explored the merits of travel by air?
Today, be extra creative! Even if it means putting an extra potato in your pot roast.
Listening to the Sounds of Nothing ~ Approx. 4–5 min read
Monument Valley
Monument Valley National Park spans the corners of Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado, and rests within the Navajo Nation. I’d never been, but something about that red earth called to me. I wasn’t interested in the usual dirt drive tourists take. I needed more. I needed connection.
My husband and I hired a Navajo (Diné) guide and climbed into his jeep. He took us to parts of the valley off the beaten path. About two-thirds through our tour, nearly axle-deep in rich orange sand, he stopped the engine.
“What do you hear?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. I had never heard nothing before. My heart beat faster.
“Exactly.”
He grinned, turned the key, and we continued through the quiet, swerving toward a towering sandstone alcove. Once parked, he motioned for us to follow.
Inside the alcove, the temperature dropped twenty degrees. He told us to lean against the stone wall, and we did. The rock was smooth, cool, grounding. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to leave.
Again, he asked, “What do you hear?”
This time, I heard our breathing echoing in the stillness. Then he began to sing. Words I didn’t understand in a rhythm that seeped deep into my bones. His voice reverberated across the alcove in a way that felt like a secret between the rock and my soul.
He stopped. “Isn’t that something?”
I couldn’t answer. My body felt full and hollow at the same time. He nodded, understanding.
“We have to go back,” he said.
I didn’t want to. This encounter changed me, inspired me, and saddened me as well. What did it mean?
The Gift
Later,we detoured to a cliffside overlook where you can view ancient dwellings carved into the stone. As I walked the path, an elderly Native woman and a teenage girl approached me. The woman held a necklace—glass beads and juniper berries with a wire dreamcatcher pendant.
She said something I didn’t understand. The girl smiled. “It’s a gift,” she said. “From my grandmother.”
I hesitated. Was this a tourist trap? A silent exchange of expectation?
Maybe I looked wary because they grew more insistent. So, I took the necklace and said thank you. They both smiled, then disappeared up the path.
After taking my photos, I returned to find a tin can on a folded blanket with a few bills and coins inside. I dropped in a twenty, unsure if I’d just honored or violated something sacred.
And that’s the word that felt right–sacred. I felt at one with the universe, hearing something most people will never hear—nothing. And it was powerful.
The necklace hangs on my wall, a quiet reminder that in stillness, we touch the sacred.
Deborah Sickle Hill 