A while ago, I made a video about recovering creativity using a digital avatar that emulated appearance and voice. I was playing with AI and a possibility that felt new to me at the time. The result wasn't as good as being there in the video myself. As an experiment, though, it was fun.
That's why I like returning to it. I wanted to talk about finding the courage to create, while trying something I wasn't sure would work. There was a connection between the subject and the attempt, imperfections included.
The question that interested me then still feels useful: how do we reconnect with the part of ourselves that wants to make something, even when nobody has asked for it and we don't yet know whether it will turn out well?
Start by listening to what's there
We can spend so much time answering messages, consuming content, and dealing with tasks that when a free moment finally arrives, it's hard to know what we'd like to do with it. Our minds are still busy.
In the script, I suggested two practices Julia Cameron popularized in The Artist's Way: Morning Pages and the Artist Date. The first involves writing three pages by hand in the morning, letting whatever comes up reach the page. The second means setting aside a weekly solo outing to do something that sparks curiosity or enjoyment.
I write on a computer. That's my adaptation, and I find it helpful to think of that time as clearing the counter before cooking. A worry might appear, or half an idea, or a list of things I need to buy. It doesn't all have to become literature.
If you'd like to try, you can start by writing for a few minutes without correcting every sentence. That text is for you; it doesn't need to become a post or go through an AI to look more polished. Sometimes, among all the tasks, something appears that you've wanted to do but kept leaving for later.
Go looking without having to produce
A bookstore, a market, a wandering walk, a meal somewhere new. I like that kind of outing because it brings you back to noticing. You can pay attention to a smell, a conversation, a combination of colors, or a different way of approaching something ordinary.
You could also cook, listen to music outside your usual rotation, or take pictures with your phone. The invitation is to choose something out of curiosity and give it time. If an idea comes from it, great. If you simply had a pleasant afternoon, that mattered too.
Everything that nourishes us doesn't have to turn into content. Sometimes an experience needs to stay with us for a while before we know what to do with it.
Separate what you enjoy from what you expect of yourself
Some activities fall away because somebody told us we weren't good at them. Others disappear because we started measuring every attempt against the best work we saw around us. After a while, it's easy to confuse “I find this difficult” with “this isn't for me.”
It's worth asking what you enjoyed doing before you worried so much about the result. And allowing the answer to change.
In my case, I found a space that felt distinctly mine in food and cooking. For a while I thought about music, drawing, or chess, but I came to understand that some of those activities were also ways of connecting with members of my family. Cooking began to occupy a different space: studying, experimenting, combining things, paying attention to what happened, and trying again.
I'm not a chef. Even so, cooking develops a creative part of me that I enjoy and can keep exploring. I like remembering that whenever I feel I should earn some credential before taking an interest seriously.
Try something that's a little scary
When I talk about courage, I mean a manageable kind of fear: showing a draft, starting a small project, recording a video, or trying a technique you haven't mastered yet.
For me, starting to create content was one of those steps. The avatar was part of that exploration. I saw its possibilities, its limitations, and something I appreciate more after trying it: being present in the video myself. There are nuances in how I tell an idea that I couldn't carry over into that format in quite the same way.
If I'd waited for a perfect first version, I wouldn't have learned that. An experiment can be useful even if you later choose another path. It helps to keep it small enough to finish, look at, and decide what you'd like to try next.
Leave a little space unfilled
In the script, I talked about reducing passive content consumption. Today I'd make that concrete: put the phone away during a coffee, or go for a walk without filling every minute with something to listen to.
It may feel strange at first. Then you might notice something you usually pass by. That attention also helps you recognize connections: a conversation reminds you of an idea, a flavor makes you want to try a combination, a question opens up a project.
I don't need to explain those encounters as signs of destiny. It's enough for me to think that when we pay attention and do things, we have more chances to find something that interests us.
Find a rhythm you can keep
Creating needs a place in the week too. A little time for writing, an outing, a recipe, a rehearsal. Something concrete enough that it doesn't always depend on time and enthusiasm arriving together.
You can notice which practices help and which feel forced. If it doesn't happen one week, adjust. If an activity stops interesting you, explore another. The idea is to find a way to keep making things, with room to change.
For me, recovering creativity has a lot to do with trusting that relationship again: noticing what you enjoy, allowing yourself to try, and learning to live with a result that's still imperfect. It might begin with a dish, a page nobody will read, or a video with an avatar that doesn't quite convince you.
Here's that video about recovering creativity. It has something I like about early experiments: it shows an attempt. Sometimes that's exactly what we need to find the courage for our own. Sending you a hug.