When the words are hiding

Cooking my way through a creative slump.

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My blog has been dormant all winter. I want to write—need to write—but I can’t seem to finish a piece. I have a full house, a full schedule, and no time to think. In December, I added a partner and a puppy to my home. I had two big freelance projects near the finish line. My household fell like dominos to winter viruses: first my partner, then me, and then the pup.

Under the crush of competing obligations, my old writing slots stopped working. The dog demanded my mornings. Work swallowed my Fridays. I missed one blog post, and then another. I thought about writing a post explaining my absence and then I missed that too.

“How do you complete a train of thought when something is whining at you?” I asked a friend with three published books and two young children. “I feel like I’ll never write again.”

“Believe me, I feel you,” she replied, “And I have no idea.”

I am not a fast writer. I need a good chunk of time in a silent house, preferably first thing in the morning. I want cup of coffee and a candle burning and at least two hours to set my thoughts in order. When I’m stuck, I take rambling walks to work the knots loose. The process is gratifying but rarely easy or fun. It feels like doing sit-ups: a struggle in the moment but satisfying when done.

I’ve read plenty of pieces from writers who swear by working in short bursts. Just get started. Sit down at the same time every day. Jot down ideas as they come to you. Pour out your bad ideas to get to the good ones. They’re smart strategies, but they didn’t help. The more I tried to force out the words, the more they retreated—and the more frustrated I felt.

Desperate for writing time, I’d steal away upstairs like a stowaway and hunch over my notebook. Then the doorbell would ring and the dog would wake and my work chat would ping. My thoughts would scatter like birds. I’d put down my pen with a sigh and stomp downstairs. I couldn’t make writing work the way it used to, and eventually I stopped writing at all.

My creative friends empathized, but they didn’t have the answers. “I need at least two hours and three emotional support drinks to get in the groove,” one told me. “If I can’t have that, then it feels like there’s no point.” She also told me that when she couldn’t find the energy to write, she painted portraits while watching TV. Writing felt like work but drawing felt like play.

My equivalent is cooking. All winter, unable to write, I worked my way through Tenderheart, a gorgeous collection of Asian-inspired vegetarian recipes by

Hetty Lui McKinnon

. I made peanut satay ramen, Shanghai steamed buns, sticky gochujang Brussels sprouts, and caramelized kimchi stir-fry. I made pumpkin spice donuts and ate them dripping with melted butter and cinnamon sugar.

A few weeks passed, then a few more. I became such a regular at my local Japanese grocery store that the owners came out from behind the counter to greet my dog Mochi by name. I learned how to fold dumplings and pipe donuts like a pro. I still couldn’t figure out how to write.

Baking my way through winter. January 2024.

By February, I was three months into my writing drought and deeply grumpy. I pinned all my hopes on a virtual memoir class with

Elissa Altman

that I’d signed up for before my writing came to a crashing halt. Maybe a weekly writing block and some accountability would finally get me unstuck.

On the first day of class, I settled into my nook upstairs with a mug of tea and a candle, ready for the uninterrupted creativity I’d been craving. To start, Elissa asked us to introduce ourselves and share what we’d been reading and writing lately. I said sheepishly that I was in a creative slump and that all I’d read lately was a cookbook.

“Cooking is inherently creative,” she replied. “You’re making something out of nothing. I’ve had long periods where I didn’t write. It took me time to realize that any sensory experience—walking, taking in art, cooking—is all part of the creative process.”

That was the last part of class I could follow. The intros weren’t even over when Mochi went full piranha, chomping at my computer, planting his entire face in my tea, and whining to go outside. No matter what I tried, he refused to settle. I simply couldn’t sink into the discussion with a small creature losing his mind.

It was the final straw. I logged off near tears and withdrew from the class. But as Elissa’s words sunk in, I realized that maybe writing wasn’t working because it wasn’t the season for writing. I was trying desperately to fight my way back to an older version of my creative life—and when you fight reality, reality wins every time. Maybe my creativity wasn’t lost, it was just taking another form for a while. Maybe I could just enjoy the donuts and trust that the words would return when they were ready.

These days, I no longer try to shoehorn writing into my schedule. I’m letting myself write when I can and cook when I can’t. Gradually, the puppy is calming and work is easing. The words are beginning to peek out from their cubbyholes. I’m not writing as much as I used to, but creativity doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing. Right now, it’s one part writing and one part donuts—and that’s OK.

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Writing and recipes that helped me through this slump:

Tenderheart, by

Hetty Lui McKinnon

, is the best cookbook I’ve bought in years. It’s simple enough for weeknights but sophisticated enough for a dinner party where everyone asks for the recipes.

On clearing space for creativity and Tending your one good thing, by

Ryan Rose Weaver

. “We need better guidance about how to go about making art under seemingly impossible conditions.”

Becoming a dad made me a better writer, by

Andrew Boryga

. “These days, writing happens in the 30 to 45 minute increments I can steal five days a week—on a good week.” It must have worked because he just published his first book, VICTIM, a fun and thought-provoking read.

Fallow, by

Coleen Baik

. “All that to say: maybe “being stuck” isn’t what I think it is. Maybe it’s a signal to unfocus, not try to jump back into production right away.”

Get out of your own way, by

Amy Shearn

. “The next time you feel stuck with your writing, consider focusing less on bearing down or grinding out some arbitrary word count, and focusing more on a bird store, or the night sky, or whatever makes you feel a little more alive inside.”

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Previous essays on creativity:

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One of the unexpected joys of starting over has been hearing from others on similar journeys. If something resonates with you, I’d love for you to leave a comment, drop me an email or share a post with a friend!

Liz is a writer and photographer based in Brooklyn.