Year two had been to the art gallery in town. They’d drawn self-portraits, just like my older kids had done in previous years.
All the seven-year-olds came running out of school, beaming, waving their pictures at their parents.
Except my son.
‘Where’s your picture?’ I asked, excited to see it.
‘I scrumpled it up and put it in the bin. It was rubbish.’
Cue massive mum guilt.
Had we somehow set the expectation that art has to be good to be worth doing? I didn’t think so. What even is ‘good’ anyway?
Maybe it’s the oil paintings filling our walls – both my parents are artists, and their beautiful work is everywhere. Maybe my son doesn’t yet realise that Nana and Poppa weren’t born being able to paint like that.
But I also proudly display my kids’ toddler artwork (which, by the way, is just as beautiful).

Perhaps we just haven’t spent as much time doing the thing – getting messy, experimenting, playing – as we did with our older two. Poor third child.
He’s off to art club tonight (apart from anything else because we need the after-school childcare). There has been much complaining that he ‘doesn’t like art’. I told him just to go and enjoy it.
Because I’ve never forgotten something my dad once told me:
‘If you ever feel depressed, just create.’
Create. Do the thing and let yourself get lost in the process. Let go of the outcome and just enjoy.
And it struck me that this applies just as much to writing.
If you’re writing anything that takes months or years and if you’re in the middle of a long project, you’ll almost certainly reach a point where motivation dips. You start judging yourself too soon, thinking about the product before you’ve allowed yourself to get lost in the process.
I can’t remember the number of times I said to my husband when I was writing my PhD: ‘That’s it. I quit’. Even though I’d been passionate about my subject to start with (and still am, by the way).
Maybe you’ve hit a difficult chapter and can’t see your way through. Maybe you’ve received feedback that’s knocked your confidence. Maybe you’re just tired of the whole thing and can’t remember why you ever cared.
You forget the excitement that got you started in the first place.
So here’s a small invitation for today: Remember what first fascinated you about your project. Write about your subject, not for your supervisor or publisher, but for you. Forget the audience for a moment. Forget structure. Just write what excites you.
I’m not thinking about Anne Lamott’s shitty first draft – Lamott’s advice is still about producing a draft, about writing something that will eventually become your finished piece. It’s still output-focused: write badly now, edit later. Useful, yes. But what I’m suggesting for when you need a radical motivation boost is different. I’m talking about forgetting drafts altogether for the moment. No beginning, middle, or end. No sense of what this will become. Just pure exploration and play. Write with no destination in mind at all.
Let it be a brain dump, a messy sketch – like a child’s self-portrait.
Because that’s how you find your flow again. That’s where the joy lives.
We can think about the product later. For now, just let yourself play.




















