72 — Creative Tension

Any routine I have set up around some of my creative practices seems to be the first thing to go whenever life becomes busier, and you wouldn’t know any of it if I weren’t showing up online to openly demonstrate said practices of creativity, aka these words that you are reading. It’s been almost two years since I started sharing essays on this platform, but would I have been so diligent with my writing practice if I hadn’t committed to my paid subscribers? And would the experience have been the same if I’d just been writing for the sake of it and kept most of it on my hard drive?

A few months ago, I remember listening to a podcast with Martha Beck¹, who emphasized the profound benefits of engaging in creative activities solely for personal fulfillment, without the pressure to share or monetize the outcome, believing that such endeavors can significantly enhance mental well-being. Was it really going to feel that different? Investing in a creative practice without sharing it on the internet?

Well, I’ve unintentionally tried that.

It’s been five months since I started making ceramics, and nobody on the internet knows about it, but only my family and friends, whom I frequent in person, do. There’s no photographic proof that demonstrates my progress on any of my socials. There are no questions or follow-ups that I have to answer to as to why I have taken this laborious practice in my spare time; it’s something creative that I have been doing for myself and myself only - no pressures, or strings attached, and that has felt different.

I didn’t feel any pressure to commit to a timeline, nor to document what I was making in a visually appealing way to be presentable online. I didn’t have any intention of monetizing the results of this practice, therefore, I didn’t care if what I was making was not all exactly the same. If I missed a week, I didn’t feel guilty for anyone else if not myself, and that’s someone I could reason with. And then, when I made something I was proud of, I could send the picture to my mother or invite friends to share the success, and use the pieces I was so happy about.

I didn’t have to check if anyone had liked what I made or commented on it. I didn’t have to see its performance on a chart. It all became very simple, and good for the mind. I get it, Martha, you're hitting the nail on the head; doing something creative solely for personal fulfillment is wonderful for mental well-being.

But then a strange thing started happening.

The more you create, away from social media pressures, the more you enjoy distancing yourself from it, so you slowly start to disappear from people’s minds (and the internet).

Is that a bad thing, I ask myself?
When even your friend who is not on Instagram sends you memes from Instagram via text? Or when your local friends stop inviting you to dinners because Instagram was the only glue that kept one another connected? If you are not online, then you are not making/working/producing, and that, sadly, is the broad assumption one can generally make nowadays. If you are not constantly showing what you are doing, then are you even doing anything?

I keep thinking of the artists, writers, and filmmakers whose work I admire. Imagine if they had to show up on social media to constantly ‘be top of mind’. Imagine if Rachel Cusk had to demonstrate her practice of writing by posting pictures of her desk setup, or of the writing retreat she’d have to go to for peace and quiet, or even by posting daily Notes on Substack to stay relevant. Just-imagine-that.

Is that the difference between making content vs art?

“Art is not media. A novel is not an ‘afternoon special’ or fodder for the Twittersphere or material for journalists to make neat generalizations about culture. A novel is not Buzzfeed or NPR or Instagram or even Hollywood. Let’s get clear about that. A novel is a literary work of art meant to expand consciousness.” says Ottessa Moshfegh.²

Content plays by the rules of every social media app, Substack included, whilst true art is not to be constrained by the expectations of media or societal pressures in general. Art carries with it creative integrity and is to be pursued without succumbing to external expectations. It’s deeply personal and resists the commodification often associated with content in the digital age. Instead, it should be associated with profound exploration and consciousness expansion.

That’s how these creative projects (writing a book, shooting a film, making ceramics) could take years of quiet work to be developed, but then again, I force myself to reflect that we live in this era where your Instagram/Substack/YouTube/TikTok audience could be enough to land you a book deal, just because. Would Rachel Cusk get her book deal in 2025 if she didn’t have a social media presence? Or would her books end up living on her hard drives because the pressures of social media don’t go hand-in-hand with mental well-being and creativity?

Perhaps that’s the paradox of modern creativity: the deeper you go into your creative explorations, the more invisible you become to the outside world.

But ‘digital invisibility’ is not absence- it’s incubation.

I have to remind myself not to attribute any value to having a presence on social media. Just because something isn't posted, it doesn’t mean it’s not valuable. In fact, some of the most meaningful art might be the kind that never sees a “like”, but lives in quiet spaces, nurtured by care, solitude, and the freedom to fail without judgment.

Maybe that’s the true luxury of creativity today: to make something in silence, for no one but yourself, and to let that be enough.

1. Martha Beck interviewed by Sam Baker

2. Quote by Ottessa Moshfegh