A Note to the Reader
Sometimes the advice we read about creativity—or even about how to live—can feel like a quiet judgment on who we are and how we move through the world. I wrote this note to myself after reading a beloved author call creating only for yourself “a mistake,” and feeling… something else entirely.
In this case, the example was writing. But really, it’s about the creative process, the idea of mistakes, and how we choose to see them.
Note to Myself: On the Idea of Mistakes
When I read a well-loved author calling it “a mistake” to create only for oneself, I felt myself react. That word, “mistake,” got to me.
I am learning to create. So I keep reading what others say about the creative path.
So far, I’ve learned this:
If I let them, they will make me go to bed crying every night. Or they’ll convince me to quit.
So instead, I’m experimenting with seeing what they call mistakes as… options.
Because…
I don’t see a tendency as a mistake.
I don’t see crawling before walking as a mistake.
I don’t see leaning too far one way before finding balance as a mistake.
I don’t see having done something I genuinely enjoyed doing, even if no one else noticed, as a mistake.
Hmm. What do I see as a mistake?
Who cares.
I want to see what others call my mistakes as a step. A stage. A necessary part of becoming.
No need for punishment. No need to go back and redo.
Maybe just an opportunity to consider what’s available to me for the next step or two.
My journey so far includes many years of making peace with the idea that maybe, just maybe, I would be my only audience.
I know I want worlds as my audience. But: would I still create if I knew for certain no one else would ever notice?
It took me several years to accept the answer, though it was loud and clear: yes.
So yes, I create for worlds. I create for you, my dear reader.
Even as I’ve accepted the possibility that you may never read it.
Or that if you do, it may not resonate in ways you find valuable.
I know I want you to notice it.
And I want you to find value in having noticed it.
A Note to the Part of Me That Wants to Quit
I see how people often reward work that tells them what to think or feel—even when it’s reductive.
That frustrates me because I aim for nuance, respect for intelligence, space for ambiguity.
And yet… “preachy” content succeeds because it simplifies.
It gives structure and moral clarity.
Preaching wins attention.
I want an audience.
But I don’t want to preach.
What am I to do?
A Note to the Part of Me That Wants to Be Understood
I also see how creators, even ones I admire, slip into preaching—subtly implying that if others don’t adopt their perspective, they’re making a mistake.
That brings up something in me, because I want to make room for sovereignty, for play, for experimentation, letting each creator choose their own path in a buffet of options.
But in a world where we’re trained to seek “the one right way” and copy-paste best practices…
What am I to do?
A Note to the Part of Me That Feels Behind
This one is harder to name.
I notice I’m not tempted to preach, and instead of feeling like a strength, it leaves me uncomfortable, doubtful, even insecure.
Like there’s something I’m missing, some fire I don’t feel.
Like I’ve already been left behind with no hope to catch up.
What I Usually Try to Do
Each time I create, I ask myself:
Am I preaching, offering, or inviting?
→ Revise or hold back if preaching.Am I meeting others where they are?
→ Trust your voice, trust your choice, and trust your audience.What mistakes have I made so far?
→ Remember: they are choices. Choices. Choices. And you can choose again.
My Emerging Attitude About Mistakes
I want to honor each stage of my creative evolution as valid, necessary, and true to its moment — whether I create only for myself, only for others, or somewhere in between. I call them options.
I know where I want to go.
I may not get there.
So why not enjoy the steps?
What Value I Got From That Author’s Piece
Wow. I did learn something from her.
She left me with a new set of questions:
What mix of creating for myself and for others feels true today?
And how might that change tomorrow?
And maybe one day, I’ll find myself preaching to a large audience—and loving it.
But for now, I don’t have to pretend my tendencies or stages are failures.
Ancora Imparo.
Resist the pressure to judge.
Resist the framing that every detour is a mistake.
Honor each stage of the work, and keep learning.
If I ever forget, remember:
I am still learning.
With love and appreciation,
— Me.
Have you ever felt uneasy about what others call “mistakes”?
Have you found your own way to frame them?
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From Her Journal | Process and Drafts | All Posts in The Notebooks
