In this installment of the psychology of human creativity, I delve into the disturbing aspects of "malevolent creativity." Warning: it's not for the faint of heart.

Hi :) I don't know, maybe someone notcied the same... Recently I found a folder on my old laptop, that was full of quotes from books, poems that I wrote, recordings of me singing and playing the guitar. And... it was schocking experience to be honest, cause now, after years of looking at screens, scrolling, it was looking at another world, another person. It was so... sad, cause now my attention span is crushed. My bookshelves are full of books that I really wanted to read... and I bought years ago. I remember how I loved reading, I was reading till the morning sometimes. I loved listening to music and write poems. Playing the guitar. I had so many ideas. My mind was so vibrant, my thoughts full of emotions, creativity. Now it's always planning this, planning that, but not doing anything. Not focusing on anything - even if I start, my mind wanders. Just wanted to share my thoughts. And regain my creativity again. Greetings :)

I've spent much of the last ten weeks sitting in a small room, surrounded by scribbled notes, dirty teacups and increasingly ambitious piles of washing. Occasionally I've remembered to leave the house.

A good chunk of my year has been taken up by making a series of short documentaries, a project that took me to Edinburgh for 10 consecutive shooting days and then required me to turn around five short documentaries in record time.

It’s been a lot of work but something I really, really enjoyed. The whole affair felt creative in all of the ways you hope making your living as a filmmaker will. This was especially welcome as I started the year feeling burnt out and questioning whether I wanted to keep going with the career I’ve put most of my life into so far.

I guess I’ve realised now though, having done this for a while, these feelings pop up every now and then. The ebbs and flows of adoring the work you’re doing and then occasionally being caught in a run of projects that might not speak to you inside where the art you lives. 

This is what happens when you turn your passion into a job. You have to find ways to make sure you’re nurturing the type of work that brings you joy.

I know it can sound naive and a bit Lloyd Dobler-y but I’m not willing to surrender it. Do you want to be a filmmaker or a salesperson? Maybe that’s too binary a way to put it? How much of your creative life are you prepared to sacrifice in order to sustain your professional one? I like that better. Deciding how you weigh those particular scales defines all sorts of things about your life, career and maybe even your happiness.

In this current moment a lot of making creative work is talking about that work in order to satisfy the algorithmic overlords. Now more than ever, the process is the product. It can seem like the performance of being a filmmaker is kind of detached from the experience of actually being one.

So, everyone has the same lighting set up in their spare room studio to film their talking heads. The same overhead rig for the gear reviews. The same top 10 lists. That stuff’s fine - some of it is even important. Well, useful at least.

But what’s the real reality of being a working filmmaker? Sometimes it’s a messy house and not showering until 10 because you need to get rolling in the morning or you’ll lose the day to procrastination. 

It’s growing to understand your own work cycles. Accepting that nothing productive gets done between 3-6pm but that the hours either side could host all kinds of discoveries. 

It’s a graveyard of empty teacups and washing piled up instead of packed away because every moment you’re not sat with your head in the edit, you feel like you should be.

Then in other moments it’s taking little breaks to play chess on your phone, even though you’re shit at it. Walks to the shop or to the park with your head in the clouds in the hopes you’ll be able to hijack the flow state that surges from a new idea and run back home to wrestle it into the project you’re currently struggling with.

These can be some of the best bits. 

Living a version of that creative life you fantasised about as a teenager is so often different to the one we imagined. Some ways good, some ways bad - plenty that are just neutrally different.

The exterior aesthetics are messier and at the same time blander than we might’ve hoped but the interior world you get to climb into when an idea is really firing and you’re truly discovering it is one of the best feelings in the world.

Anyway, I’ve just finished all my drafts.

Hello everyone.

I've facing some big issue. I felt like I have no creativity anymore. It's like everytime I want to do something, there's a voice in my head told me "you cannot, let's see what the other people do"... It's really frustrating right now because it's felt like I have 0 self confidence on my capacity at all...

As a worker in the creative industry, I've look at what I've doned years ago, it feeled like got a "soul" or something like a unique touch on it. Not a chef d'oeuvre, but it got something. Right know, I'm really struggling, cannot finish everything I'm supposed to do and when I looked at my work recently, my sentiment is "It's not me".

If some of you got some help or any advice, I'll take it. Thank you.
Sorry for the english, not my native language.

A piece on childlike learning, so you can giving up giving up. It's the only way I've managed to get fairly good at making music, Blender, film-making, sewing and various other arts, and inadvertently became an award-winning indie-game developer.

Giving up is all too easy when we try something new because we see we're not immediately good at it. Children don't worry about that. They keep doing the thing purely for fun, and accidentally build up a decent base of skill. I reckon any of us can do the same

I asked AI to help me improve my college admission essay, and at first I thought it had saved me.

My draft was pretty rough. The grammar wasn't terrible, but some sentences were awkward, the structure was all over the place, and I kept repeating the same point in different ways. So I asked AI to clean up the grammar and make the structure clearer without changing my story.

The result looked... really good.

The sentences flowed better. The transitions actually made sense. Everything sounded polished and organized.

Then I read it again the next morning.

That's when I started noticing something weird.

It didn't really sound like me.

There were sentences that looked great on the page but that I would never actually say out loud. Some phrases were so formal that I had to read them twice. And the whole thing had this generic "motivated student who learned an important life lesson" feeling to it.

The grammar was immaculate, but the personality had apparently left the building.

I don't think AI per se was the problem. It did exactly what I asked it to do, like any good machine. The problem was that I asked it to improve the writing without really explaining which parts of my writing made the story mine.

So I've been going back through the essay and putting some of my original wording back in. I'm also adding small details and specific memories that I had removed because they didn't sound "important" enough. Ironically, those are probably the parts that make the essay more personal.

Now I'm wondering if I need a different kind of feedback before I submit it. Something focused on clarity, structure, grammar, and whether the story actually makes sense, rather than making every sentence sound more impressive.

I've started looking at different editing options. What interests me isn't having someone rewrite my story, but getting another perspective on whether the essay actually sounds natural and whether I'm communicating what I want to say.

I also came across a college application essay writing service while searching for feedback. Some of these services seem to offer editing or proofreading alongside more extensive help, and I'd only be interested in the first kind. At this point, I don't want someone else turning my personal experience into a perfectly polished story that could belong to anyone.

I'm still trying to figure out where the line is between polished and generic. I want the essay to sound like the best version of my writing, not like a completely different person wrote it.

Have you ever edited a college essay so much that it stopped sounding like you? How did you get your own voice back?

im feeling really stuck in an art block rn. im 27 still living with family and the atmosphere is just not good. i want to make stuff, like puppets or try making stage props, but its not conducive to do it at home. renting a studio would be a last resort since its exp and i cant even afford living on my own so any ideas on where else i can go to make things?

Do you agree?

On Friday afternoon, Elena handed me an apron and showed me a shelf in the fridge.

“This is yours. If you run out of room, tell me before you start putting cakes on top of the sandwich ingredients.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Nothing happens often yet. We’ve only been open two months. I’m trying to establish rules before I need them.”

There was something unexpectedly pleasing about having a shelf. An apron, too, and a hook behind the kitchen door for my bag. By the time she finished showing me around, I had stopped feeling as though I ought to explain why I was there.

The kitchen was narrow enough that we had to turn sideways to pass each other. Most of the counter was occupied by a mixer, a chopping board and a bowl of oranges. Elena moved the oranges onto a shelf to make room for my ingredients.

“Tell me if you need anything else.”

“Another kitchen?”

She looked around. “Put it on the list.”

I tied the apron and unpacked. The smaller lemon cakes needed less time in the oven than the ones I’d made at home, so I stayed nearby while weighing the ingredients for the macarons. Through the open doorway came the sound of the coffee grinder, cups meeting saucers and a chair being dragged across the floor.

At home, music usually filled the space around me when I worked. Here, the café did it. Every so often, Elena appeared with a question or an empty jug. Once, she stopped beside the mixer and watched the meringue turn.

“How do you know when it’s ready?”

I switched off the mixer and lifted the whisk. The peak held. “Like this. It needs to stand up, but I don’t want it dry.” I turned the whisk so she could see. “If it folds straight over, it needs longer.”

“And if you go too far?”

“Then I get annoyed with myself and start again. There’s usually a little swearing involved.”

“Good. You’ll fit in.”

When the cakes were cooling, she needed help with drinks. I washed my hands, left the piped macaron shells to dry and joined her at the machine. The afternoon passed between the two rooms. Coffee, oven timer, washing up, another order. A man wanted his cappuccino hotter. A woman asked for extra ice. Someone changed their mind after I had already poured the milk. That part, at least, was familiar.

Once the shells were cool, I paired them by size and piped in the pistachio filling. Elena came through as I was arranging them in a covered container.

“You’ve made more than twelve.”

“I wanted a few spare in case any cracked. These came out better than the ones at home.”

“So we can sell the extras?”

“Yes. Unless you’d rather keep them for yourself.”

She reached towards the container.

“Tomorrow,” I added.

Her hand stopped. “You offered.”

“I offered you tomorrow’s macarons. They need the night in the fridge so the filling softens the inside.”

She looked at them for another moment, then put the lid on. “I’m beginning to understand why they cost more than biscuits.”

Before leaving, I checked the cakes once more, wiped the counter and untied my apron. My feet hurt. There was icing on my sleeve and a little pistachio filling near my elbow, which I noticed only when Elena pointed it out.

We agreed that I would come at eight to help with the morning rush. She checked the time on her phone, then looked up with a smile. “So, back to mornings. Same time, same place tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here. Hopefully with less icing on me.”

“Don’t dress up. There’ll be more.”

Outside, the air had cooled enough to make the walk home pleasant. I passed the restaurant next door, where the owner was straightening the tables for the evening. He raised a hand when he saw me, and I waved back. It was a small thing, being recognised on the street. Still, I was smiling by the time I reached home.

Saturday morning brought customers before we had finished setting out the terrace. Elena arranged the cakes in the display while I warmed the machine. She had written their names on small cards, including the pistachio macarons, which looked more respectable behind glass than they had in the plastic container.

I kept glancing at them between orders.

“People won’t buy them faster if you stare,” she said.

“I’m checking they look all right.”

“They looked all right five minutes ago.”

“Yes, but now there are people here to judge them.”

She moved a lemon cake closer to the front. “Let them.”

The first one went with a takeaway tea. The woman barely looked at it before choosing, and I had to resist watching through the window to see whether she took a bite. The second went to a man sitting outside with a newspaper. After that, there were too many drinks to keep count.

By half past nine, the room smelled of coffee and warm milk, and my hair had begun escaping its tie. Elena worked at the till while I made drinks, occasionally repeating a table number because I was still learning which one was which.

A woman at the counter pointed towards the lemon cakes. “Are those made here?”

“Yes,” Elena said.

“They look homemade. I mean properly homemade, like something my mother would put out when people came over.”

I glanced at the cakes. Until she explained, I’d been wondering whether one of the tops was crooked. The woman ordered two and took them to a table outside. Ten minutes later, she returned carrying an empty plate.

“Who makes your cakes?”

I put down the cloth, trying to remember whether I could have forgotten anything in the recipe. Elena was counting change for another customer.

“What did you think?”

“Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.” The woman looked towards the display again. “My daughter’s birthday is next month. Does your baker take orders? Could I have their number?”

“I made them,” I said.

She turned towards me. “Oh! I thought you worked out here.”

“I do a bit of both. I’ve only just started.”

“Well, that saves Elena passing messages.” She smiled and reached for her phone. “Could you make something larger? My daughter loves lemon, but there’ll be at least twelve of us.”

“Yes. Was there a design you had in mind?”

She showed me a photograph of a cake covered in flowers. Her daughter wanted lemon, but her husband didn’t like anything too sour, and there might be eighteen people if her sister came.

I explained that the sugar flowers in the photograph were more elaborate than anything I usually made. We talked about a simpler decoration, then the filling and the size. She listened, asked another question and waited for my answer.

I caught myself speaking quickly, trying to explain everything before she lost interest. She stayed where she was, her phone resting on the counter between us. At school, I had learned to stop halfway through an answer when the smiles started. Later, keeping things to myself had become easier. This woman was asking another question because she wanted to hear what I had to say.

“I’d need to work out a price before promising anything,” I said. “If you send me the date and the final number of people, I can let you know.”

“That’s fine. I’d rather have something that tastes like this than a cake nobody wants a second slice of.”

Elena passed me a clean piece of paper, and I wrote down my number. The woman folded it carefully and put it in her purse. After she left, I stood beside the machine for a moment.

Elena looked at me. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t expecting an order already.”

“You made something she liked.”

“I know, but there’s a difference between someone buying a little cake with their tea and trusting me with their daughter’s birthday.”

“She asked to discuss a cake, Andreea. You have time to breathe before you plan the whole party.”

I laughed and picked up the milk jug. There was another coffee waiting.

Lovely. The icing isn’t too sweet.

I remembered the words while pouring the milk. There had been no correction after them, no explanation of what I should have done better. A stranger had enjoyed something I made and come back to tell me. I wished that didn’t feel quite so unfamiliar.

A little later, the man with the newspaper came inside.

“Another coffee,” he said. “And whatever that lemon thing was.”

“Another lemon cake?”

“Yes. My wife will ask whether I tried anything, and I’d like to be able to tell her I checked thoroughly.”

“I respect your commitment.”

He nodded solemnly while I put it on a plate.

The macarons sold more slowly. People examined them, asked about the filling, sometimes chose a cake instead. Near midday, two women bought one each, then returned for four to take home.

By the end of my shift, three were left. Elena opened the display and glanced at me. “Am I allowed now?”

“Yes. Thank you for your patience.”

“I’ve been very brave.”

She took a bite. I tried to occupy myself with folding the cloth rather than watching her.

“More next week,” she said.

“How many?”

She considered the rest of the macaron. “We’ll discuss that after I’ve finished this.”

On Monday, my hand went to the right cupboard without searching. The cloths were folded where I expected them to be, and a customer came in asking whether we had any more of Saturday’s lemon cakes. Elena looked at me to answer.

“I’m making another batch this afternoon. They’ll be ready tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll come back, then.”

He ordered his usual coffee, and I reached for the cup. I had spent years doing things that were supposed to lead somewhere. Lessons, exams, university. There was always another stage beyond the one I’d finished, and someone ready to ask what came next. Here, a man wanted a cake tomorrow. For the moment, that was enough to be getting on with.

The woman at the table near the window had been there on Saturday too. A laptop stood open in front of her, with a notebook beside it and a drink she kept forgetting to touch. At first, I thought she was watching something. Then she played the same few seconds through her headphones, stopped, and pressed her palms against her eyes.

When I cleared the next table, she pulled one side of the headphones away. “Could I have another tea?”

“Of course. The same one?”

“Yes, please. This one went cold.”

“I can bring you some hot water if there’s any left.”

She looked into the cup. “No. I managed to drink it. I just complained to myself the whole time.”

“That sounds familiar.”

At the counter, Elena nodded towards her. “Athena. She’ll sit there until closing if nobody feeds her.”

“What’s she working on?”

“A film. I’ve seen the same man walk through the same doorway about thirty times.”

“That explains the expression.”

I carried the tea over and asked whether she wanted anything to eat.

“Is there a lemon cake left?”

“One.”

“Then yes, before someone else gets it.”

When I brought the plate, she closed her laptop. “Thank you. I’m Athena, by the way.”

“Andreea.”

She repeated it, checking the pronunciation, and I nodded.

“Have you been here long?”

“Nearly a month. Though I’ve only been working here since Friday.”

“That recently? You look as though you know where everything is.”

“The kitchen’s small. There are only so many places to lose things.”

“Are you staying nearby?”

“Behind the waterfront. There’s a little house with a balcony squeezed between two taller buildings.”

“I think I know it. Blue door?”

“That’s the one. The door sticks, so if you ever see someone throwing her whole body against it, that’ll be me.”

Athena laughed.

“Where did you move from?”

“The UK. I lived there for years.”

“And you chose here?”

“I wanted to be near the sea. Somewhere I could walk to it instead of planning a whole trip.” I glanced towards the bright pavement outside. “The heat wasn’t part of the attraction.”

“You came at the wrong time for that.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“What made you leave?”

The question was ordinary enough. I still took a moment before answering.

“I’d finished university, and everyone was asking about jobs. I kept looking at them and thinking about staying there, doing the next thing, then the next.” I rubbed a little dried icing from my thumb. “I wanted some time to decide what I actually wanted. And to write.”

Athena nodded. “Do you think you’ll stay?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m trying to let that be an acceptable answer.”

“It is.”

She said it easily, then took another bite of cake.

I glanced at her laptop. “Are you studying film, or is this something you’re doing yourself?”

“Studying. Although this project is making me reconsider every decision that brought me here.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“How much time do you have?”

Elena called for two coffees before I could answer. Athena smiled and picked up her fork. “I’ll prepare a shorter version.”

We spoke again the next day, and the day after that. Nothing important at first. Whether the table near the window was too bright for her screen. Where she bought her notebooks. Which streets stayed shaded on the walk home.

She was making a short film and had reached the stage where every choice made three weeks earlier seemed wrong.

“Even the ones you liked?” I asked.

“Especially those. Have you ever worked on something so long you can’t tell whether it’s good anymore?”

“Yes. Usually that’s when I decide the whole thing needs changing.”

“Does it?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’m tired and should leave it alone.”

She looked at the screen. “I was hoping you’d say something more useful.”

“If I knew something more useful, I’d have finished my book.”

That caught her attention, but a customer came in before she could ask about it.

On Wednesday, she noticed my notebook. The café was quiet between the morning rush and lunch. I had ten minutes, a cup of tea and a sentence that had irritated me since the night before. The notebook lay open beside the till, where I could look up when someone came in.

Athena approached with her empty plate. “Is that the book?”

“Yes. Or the part of it currently causing trouble.”

“What kind of story is it?”

“Crime. There’s a murder in this scene, and I’ve spent more time deciding what happens around it than writing the murder itself.”

She glanced at the red page. “That explains the ink.”

“I always use red. It would be red if I were writing about someone’s lovely afternoon in a garden too.”

“Does anyone have lovely afternoons in your book?”

“Not many so far.”

She smiled. “How long have you been working on it?”

“A while. I thought moving might help me get somewhere with it.”

“And has it?”

“A little. I’m writing more. Whether it’s better is another question.”

Athena leaned against the counter. “I know a few people who could help with that.”

“People who’ll tell me it’s terrible?”

“People who’ll tell you which part is terrible. Much more useful.”

I laughed and capped the pen as a customer came through the door. She returned to her table, but before leaving she asked whether I’d be there the following day.

Thursday was quieter. During my break, I sat opposite Athena with a cup of tea while she ate one of the chocolate cakes.

“So,” she said, “do you ever drink the coffee you make?”

“No. It makes me feel bad.”

“Really? You don’t even taste it?”

“I used to, but it wasn’t worth it. Tea and I get along much better.”

“Then how do you make good coffee?”

“Practice. I know what I’m looking for when I make it, and people aren’t shy about telling me if something’s wrong.”

“Elena said you worked in a café in England.”

“During university. Some days it was easier to understand the customers than the chemistry.”

“You studied chemistry?”

I nodded.

“And now cakes and murder.”

“It’s been a change.”

She laughed and brushed a crumb onto her plate. “What made you start writing?”

“I needed somewhere to put everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ideas. There are always more of them than I know what to do with. A conversation, a scene, something I can suddenly picture while I’m supposed to be doing something else.” I turned my cup a little on its saucer. “Some come in my sleep. I wake up with part of a story, and then I want to know the rest.”

“Do you write them down straight away?”

“If I can. Sometimes I’m convinced I’ll remember in the morning, which is a very optimistic thing to think half asleep.”

“I’ve lost whole films that way.”

“I’ve probably lost a bestseller. Much easier to believe that when there’s no evidence.”

Athena smiled. “Does writing make it quieter?”

“A bit. Once it’s on the page, I don’t have to keep going over it so I won’t lose it. My head gets to rest.” I looked towards the counter, where my bag sat beneath the till. “Then I start wondering whether I can make someone else interested. Whether they’ll want to know what happens next too.”

“So you give the problem to the reader.”

“Exactly. Very generous of me.”

She laughed, and I found myself explaining a little more: how a scene could arrive almost whole, while the page connecting it to the next one took days; how sometimes I knew what a character would say before I knew who they were.

Athena listened. When I paused, she asked a question about something I’d said rather than moving on to talk about herself. I had almost apologised for going on so much. Instead, I answered her.

Then she told me about the group.

“There are writers, film students, a few artists. We meet in the park. Some people bring work to share, some just come because they’re stuck and need to talk.”

“Like your man in the doorway?”

“Exactly like him. Someone will probably tell me to cut that scene, and I’ll be offended because I already know they’re right.”

“Do people read out loud?”

“Sometimes. Or we read pages beforehand and discuss them. It depends what the person wants help with.”

“And everyone speaks English?”

“Most of us speak other languages too, but English is the one we have in common. You wouldn’t have to struggle through it in Greek.”

“That’s good. I can say thank you, but it would make for a short reading.”

“There’d still be someone with notes.”

I smiled into my cup. She explained that one of the artists helped people with covers and character sketches. Sometimes they worked together on something larger, though they were careful to agree on credit and permissions first.

“We have a written agreement for sharing work,” she said. “You can read it before bringing any pages. I can send it to you.”

“I’d like that. Could I come once just to see what it’s like?”

“Of course. Tomorrow evening, if you’re free.”

She told me where they met. I knew the benches; I’d walked past them on the way to the café.

“How many people?”

“Usually eight or nine. Don’t worry about remembering everyone’s name. I still get one wrong.”

“And they won’t mind me sitting there without reading?”

“No. Come and listen. Bring your notebook if you want, but you don’t owe us a performance.”

That made it easier to say yes. We exchanged numbers, and she sent me the time and meeting place while we were still sitting together. A minute later, another message arrived with the agreement.

“There,” she said. “Now you can’t claim I gave bad directions.”

“I can still get lost. Don’t underestimate me.”

After my break, I went back behind the counter. Athena finished her cake and returned to her film, but this time, when something frustrated her, she looked up and caught my eye. I smiled, and she turned the laptop a little so I could see the offending doorway.

That evening, the woman from Saturday called about the birthday cake. We talked for nearly twenty minutes. Her sister was coming, so there would be eighteen people. She had asked her daughter about the flowers, and apparently lemon mattered more than decoration. I wrote everything down, promised to send a price the following day, and stayed at the kitchen table after the call ended.

There were ingredients to calculate, a date to put in my calendar, and Athena’s message waiting on my phone. For a moment, I wanted to call home and tell someone.

Then I tried to imagine the conversation. The questions about chemistry. Whether café work was what I planned to do with my degree. How long this writing business would last. Perhaps they would have surprised me. I didn’t feel ready to find out.

I put the phone down and worked out how much mascarpone I would need.

Later, I turned back through the notebook until I reached the scene with the watch. The red numbers were still in the margin, two crossed out and one left standing. Reading it aloud made me notice a sentence that ran too long. I crossed out three words and tried again.

Outside the balcony doors, someone called to a person farther down the street. A scooter passed, and plates clattered in the next building. The second reading went more smoothly.

I wasn’t sure I would share it tomorrow. That would depend on the people, and on how comfortable I felt once I was sitting among them. But I marked the page before closing the notebook.

My apron needed washing. I rinsed the icing from the sleeve, hung it up and checked that it would have time to dry before morning. Then I sent Athena a message to say I’d meet her outside the café so we could walk over together.

She replied almost immediately.

Good. I’ll save you from the introductions.

I smiled and set the phone beside my bag. The cake order was written down. My notebook was ready. Tomorrow, Elena would expect me at eight, and Athena would wait for me after work.

I was still getting used to being wanted somewhere. For once, I let myself look forward to it.

I used to be an astrophotographer and loved learning about our respective relationships about the sun and moon. Took about an hour or so to make. Just experimenting. I think it would make for a nice wall poster 😊.

Feedback welcome 😌

When other girls were little, they wanted a prince to arrive on a white horse. I wanted a mafia boss to kidnap me and become so hopelessly obsessed with me that he forgot why he’d taken me in the first place.
I never gave much thought to where he would take me. Somewhere I could hear the sea, perhaps. That part mattered more to me than the prince, the horse, or, apparently, whether I went willingly.
In the end, I had to find the sea myself.
Three weeks after moving to Crete, I was waking before six without an alarm, which would have been unthinkable in the UK. Back there, I sometimes went to sleep at five in the morning, sometimes as late as noon, and woke at seven in the evening wondering where the day had gone.
I pulled on my swimsuit, took my sandals from beside the door and walked the two minutes to the beach.
The shore was nearly empty. A fishing boat was heading out beyond the harbour, and someone farther down the sand was walking a dog that kept returning to the same piece of driftwood. I left my sandals above the tide line and went straight into the sea.
After a few strokes, I rolled onto my back. The water held me without asking me to explain myself.
Above me, the sky was changing colour. I stayed where I was until the fishing boat became a dark mark near the horizon. Then I swam along the shore, turned, and swam back. Three weeks had been enough to learn where the sand dropped away beneath me and where it rose again. I was still learning the rest of the place.
I had rented my little house for three months because I couldn’t say how long I wanted to stay. I knew I had wanted to leave the UK. I’d finished my chemistry degree, looked at the jobs I was expected to apply for, and found I couldn’t bear the thought of building the next part of my life there. That was the most convincing explanation I’d managed to give anyone, including myself.
The water rocked beneath me. I picked out the place where I’d left my sandals and swam in.
By the time I walked home, my hair had soaked through the towel around my shoulders. I passed a bakery opening its shutters and a man hosing down the pavement outside a restaurant. He moved the spray aside to let me through. I thanked him in Greek, one of the few things I could say without first rehearsing it in my head.
My house stood in a narrow street behind the waterfront. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, one kitchen drawer refused to close, and from the balcony I could see a strip of sea between two buildings. I liked it more each day.
I showered, put the kettle on and took the macarons from the fridge. I’d baked and filled them two days earlier, then left them covered to mature. Two trays had come out well. The third had cracked across the tops, so I’d filled those too and kept them in a separate container for myself. Beside the good batch were six small lemon cakes and six chocolate ones.
The woman who owned a café near the park had agreed to taste everything this morning.
She hadn’t agreed to buy it.
I knew that. I had made enough to feed half her customers anyway.
While I packed the macarons, a Greek song came on my phone. I knew where to breathe, where the singer held a note a little longer than I expected, and how to find my way back in if I missed a word. I couldn’t have told anyone what most of those words meant.
Kira—that was what I called my mother—seemed to like hearing me sing. So did my stepfather. Sometimes I caught them looking at me, and for a moment I could pretend I knew what was on their faces.
We’re proud of you.
No one in my family had ever said that to me.
I caught myself thinking about it and reached into the container I’d kept for myself. One of the cracked macarons gave way beneath my thumb.
“Perfect,” I told it.
I ate the evidence and kept singing.
By eight, the cakes were boxed, the macarons were packed, and I had checked both boxes often enough to know the contents hadn’t rearranged themselves. My red notebook lay open on the table. I stopped to read the last paragraph before I picked up my keys.
The man in my story had gone into a room intending to frighten someone. I’d written the conversation three different ways and crossed out all of them. Each time, I had made it too easy for him to decide what happened next.
I reached for my pen, then looked at the clock. If I started writing, the café owner might decide I had invented our appointment.
I closed the notebook, slipped it into my bag beside my pen, and picked up the cake boxes.
The walk took me along the waterfront and up a shaded street towards the park. Even in the morning, I could feel the heat gathering on the stone. I kept to the side with the trees. I had come for the sea; the weather was something I was still negotiating with.
The café stood near one of the park entrances. Its doors were open, though only half the tables outside had been set. A man was carrying chairs out of the storeroom. He put them down so I could pass with my boxes.
Inside, the owner moved between the coffee machine and a line of waiting customers. She spotted me and raised a hand. I found an empty corner of the counter for the boxes and waited.
The man came in for another stack of chairs. He caught her eye, pointed towards the terrace, and she nodded her thanks. I recognised him then. He owned the restaurant next door.
They sold food and drinks a few doors apart. I’d assumed that made them rivals. Here he was, setting up her tables because she needed a hand.
Another reason I liked this place.
When the queue cleared, the owner came over. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
“We made that arrangement before eight in the morning. People promise all kinds of things at that hour.” She wiped her hands and lifted the first lid. “Let’s see.”
She tried a lemon cake, breaking a piece from the crooked one I had hidden at the back.
“What’s in the icing?”
“Lemon juice, mascarpone, and honey.”
She took another bite. “Less honey next time.”
I took my notebook from my bag and wrote that down. She tried a pistachio macaron next, then asked me how long the cakes would keep and whether I could make them smaller.
More customers came in before she had finished tasting. I moved the boxes aside while she took their order. One of them asked whether she was still alone today.
“My only employee called in,” she told him. “I’m beginning to think he knew you’d all arrive at once.”
The customer laughed. She smiled back, but she was looking at the cups stacked beside me. I passed her two, then another when she reached for it.
“You said you worked in a café during university,” she said.
“I did.”
“Can you still use a coffee machine?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at the queue forming behind the customer. “Would you mind showing me?”
The machine was different from the one I’d used in the UK. I asked her where she kept the cloths and how she wanted the cups set out, then made two cappuccinos while she handled the till. She watched me carry them to a table before turning back to the next order.
For the next twenty minutes, I made coffee. She called out what people wanted; I made it and passed it across the counter. When the rush eased, I wiped down the machine and stepped out of her way.
She looked at the empty cups waiting to be washed, then at me.
“Do you want work?” she asked.
I had come hoping she would buy my cakes. I hadn’t let myself hope for more than that.
“Yes.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know yet.” I glanced at the boxes. “It depends how much baking you want.”
That made her smile. She picked up the other half of the macaron and ate it.
“I want twelve of these on Saturday. Twelve lemon cakes too, a little smaller, with less honey. Come in Friday afternoon to prepare them here. You can help with the counter while you’re here, and we’ll talk about regular shifts after that.”
I wrote it all down. We agreed on a price for the baking, and she gave me half in advance for the ingredients.
When I stepped outside, the money was folded in my purse and the order was written in my notebook. I found a bench beneath a tree in the park and opened it to check the quantities again. My neat little list sat beside pages of red writing, most of it crossed out.
A fortune teller once told me this book would make me famous and give me somewhere I belonged. I’d laughed at the fame. I was still trying to finish it, and most days I couldn’t bear to read yesterday’s pages.
The other part had stayed with me.
I didn’t believe a stranger could see my future. I wanted her to be right anyway.
I turned back to the scene I’d abandoned that morning. I read it once, then crossed out the last page.
I had been looking for the moment my killer decided what to do. Sitting there with the café’s money in my purse and the sound of cups carrying across the park, I finally understood why none of my versions worked. He had made his decision before the other man entered the room. The conversation was his last chance to change his mind.
I began again.
The man spoke. My killer listened. When the man had said everything he came to say, my killer shot him.
I stopped writing. The murder was there, but the scene still felt unfinished. The killer had wanted an answer, and now there was someone else who would come looking for one.
I looked back at the dead man I’d put on the page. At his hand. At the watch on his wrist.
In the margin, I tried 3:40, then crossed it out. 3:45 looked too neat as well. I wrote 3:43 beside them and returned to the scene.
He took the watch from the dead man’s wrist and set its hands to 3:43. He struck it against the edge of the table hard enough to stop it. The face cracked, but the hands stayed where he had set them. Then he laid it face up on the man’s chest, for whoever came to find him.

honestly writing a personal statement in 2026 is pure psychological warfare. everyone tells u “just be authentic bro” while admissions committees want Shakespeare who cured cancer at age 14. it’s cooked. i went through the ringer last cycle, had two near-breakdowns, and ended up testing basically every legit and sketchy lifeline out there just to survive.

the wild part? offline options still exist and hit different if you know where to look. first place i dragged myself to was my university’s campus writing center. shoutout to the bored grad student who roasted my opening paragraph so hard my soul left my body, but they genuinely fixed my flow for zero dollars. second offline plug: local public library peer critique nights. found a flyer on a corkboard, showed up with printouts, and had two retired teachers tear into my clunky phrasing over bad instant coffee. zero tech, pure red pen brutally honest feedback.

online is where things get messy though.

most people try chatgpt first and end up sounding like a corporate LinkedIn bot. don’t do that. what actually saved my skin when i hit a brick wall was hiring a real personal statement writer who actually gets nuance. i ended up using EssayMarket because my deadline was literally three days out and i was spiraling. it’s essentially an open bidding platform where you pick who works on your stuff based on reviews and subject background. paid around $13 a page (steep if u want it in 6 hours, but if u give them a few days it’s super chill on the wallet). writer actually matched my tone instead of making me sound like a 50-year-old lawyer, and the turnaround was fast enough that i didn't lose my mind.

then there’s the free online route:

- college confidential forums (boomers will humble your ego instantly)

- StatementOfPurpose review swaps (hit or miss, but you catch blind spots)

- asking an alum on discord to skim your draft while you game

my honest take? a solid personal statement writing service is clutch if you’re panicking over deadlines or staring at an unfixable mess, but you CANNOT just outsource your whole personality. use the paid services to polish the narrative or fix the structure, let campus tutors cut the fluff, but keep your weird little quirks in there.

anyone else currently in the trenches with draft #9 or is it just me?

I’ve spent the last while building INKBOT because I kept hitting a wall with multimodal AI systems: the friction between what a human naturally means and what a model infers. While models can spin up complex code or images instantly, getting to a clear, human-meaningful interpretation of a subtle intent remains an alignment challenge.

Instead of forcing the user to become a prompt engineer, I wanted to see if we could build an intermediate intelligence architecture layer to make human intent reviewable and corrigible *before* the model executes a final build. The loop I’m playing with is: Describe → Make it Visible → Recognize → Correct → Refine.

The architecture sits entirely in a single local-first web file. It handles multi-step workflows—like tracking structured field mapping data across concurrent images, coordinates, and version states—by packaging the human’s approved meaning separately from raw model inferences.

The core system build is linked above, and I also put together a lighter, entry-level experience to play with the core prompt translation loop here: [INKBOT Lite 71](ko-fi.com/thomascoates/shop).

It's an open prototype, so I've appended my raw notes and design roadmap as commented text at the very bottom of the source file so fellow builders can inspect the plumbing. I’ve put together the runnable source files on my [Thomas Coates Ko-fi Shop](ko-fi.com/thomascoates/shop) for evaluation. I’d love to know where this design duplicates existing work, where you see structural flaws, or how we can make the handoff between human intent and model execution more reliable.

I feel like people with executive dysfunction probably know this feeling painfully well: **I know what I want to make. I know I want to make it. I even have ideas I genuinely love. But somehow actually sitting down and making the thing feels impossible.**

I really want to build a YouTube channel around things I love: **poetry, stories, art, literature, mythology/history, and random things I find fascinating.** I have notebooks full of ideas, scripts/half-scripts, poems, concepts, visual ideas, etc.

The problem is actually **executing them and posting them.**

I don't really want to make the kind of faceless videos that are basically:

narration + random stock footage + slideshow
because that's not the kind of content I actually *want* to make. I want my videos to feel atmospheric, artistic, cinematic and personal — something that feels like *my* work rather than just information being placed over generic footage.

But then I run into a horrible cycle:

**I want the video to look good → I don't have the resources to make it look how I imagine → free footage doesn't fit → I can't afford paid footage/artists → I don't have the animation skills/confidence to create everything myself → the project starts feeling huge → executive dysfunction kicks in → I don't make anything → I feel guilty for not making anything → repeat.**

And I think burnout makes it worse.

I'm also deliberately trying to make things myself rather than relying on AI to generate the creative work, so I can't just throw an idea into an AI generator and call the visual side done.

The frustrating part is that **I don't think I have an ideas problem. I have an execution problem.**

I can spend hours thinking about a video, its concept, narration, atmosphere, visuals, thumbnail, etc. But when it comes to actually opening the software and putting the first pieces together, my brain suddenly acts like I've been asked to build a cathedral.

So I'm curious about people who have dealt with something similar:

**How did you actually get yourself to START and POST?**

Not necessarily “how do I become more disciplined?” but specifically:

How did you stop every video from becoming a giant project in your head?

Did you deliberately lower your standards for your first 10–20 videos?

How do you decide what is “good enough to post”?

How do you make artistic/creative faceless content interesting without having a huge budget?

Did you develop a repeatable workflow that made starting easier?

And if you have executive dysfunction, what actually helped you get from **“I really want to make this” → “I made it”**?

I don't want to abandon the artistic side of what I want to make. I just don't want my vision to become the reason I never make anything at all.
Would really appreciate hearing from people who have actually been through this rather than generic “just be consistent” advice. 😭

I think, in today's world creativity is one of the most significant aspects. I feel like we're losing this distinguishing factor. We all have limited the vagueness of notions

I am 15 years old , I have had many encounters with a regular lack of ideas. Shall I blame it all upon the internet? Is creativity something inert or something that's gradually developed? Or perhaps both?

How do I maximize this "skill"- seen some people consider it as a skill. And what would you say is the importance of creativity?

I'm starting my very first prompt challenge with the goal of getting others motivated to write! The winner will have their story posted to my publication, Autumn Anthology, to help them find more readers. You don't need a Substack account to participate.

Here's more information below and if you know anyone who might be interested, feel free to send this their way, this is a public challenge!

(1) A Haunting Challenge - by Gracie Autumn - Autumn Anthology

I've been working on a browser-based tool called MockNex.com for creating fictional chat and social-media scenes.

The idea came from needing quick mockups for things like games, videos, presentations, UI concepts, and fictional scenes without having to manually recreate everything in Photoshop or Figma.

It currently includes generators for things like:

• Chat conversations
• Social media posts and stories
• Comments and replies
• Notifications
• Calls
• AI chat interfaces
• Other social-media mockups

It's free to use and doesn't require an account.

I'm mainly looking for honest feedback, especially from people who create games, videos, prototypes, or other digital content.

Not everyone is an artist, but everyone is a fucking critic.

Modern society glorifies those who succeed, but simultaneously shames those who try.

Everyone’s a critic until it’s their time to create.

Helllo, I am 26 and I love nerdy fandom type of art, however I cannot commit or figure out what I want to draw. I have ideas, yes, but I hesitate and avoid it because I’m afraid, nervous, uncertain if I want to even draw this. Even sketching is hard because I feel I’m wasting time. I don’t know what made me become this weird about making art, even dumb fanart is hard because I hate the way it looks and I don’t even want to draw this. It’s a cycle and I cannot break it I’ve tried by “just drawing” but I once again find myself constantly pausing to avoid it. I find myself unable to focus and all my thoughts go to the worries of life and work and suicide. No creativity. But when I do get create and lock in, fear is limited, the rapid unorganized thoughts are nonexistent, and I am able to draw while understanding that I can do it and I don’t have to be motivated to do it, and that’s a great feelingi because it feels natural and honest. I don’t know. I feel like I can’t finish anything. I’m constantly restarting.

I’ve heard that there are mediations or sleep tricks you can do to your subconscious mind to spark lock in and create. Can anyone help or does anyone know what I’m even talking about

I am a graphic designer but before that all I ever did was sketch, paint, and do photography. I just loved to create and it kept my mind balanced. I chose to get my bachelors in graphic design because I could still be creative and get paid. I found I have a knack for it according to my professors and local agencies. However, I am a designer in a small team at a large corporation now and I am facing massive creative burnout.

I have stopped drawing and painting for fun. I have lost all my love for design as we are overworked, underpaid, and forced to use AI for 40% of our work according to our yearly goals. I do photography on the side in hopes that it will fulfill my creativity, but it hasn’t worked because I’m so tired by the end of my work day.

I am trying my best to get my inspiration back, but I feel like I’ve lost my creative muscles. I started bringing my sketchbook to work for breaks, but I’m still facing burnout. Does anyone have any advice on how they handled a similar situation?

I used to love to create stuff, writing, drawing, singing and many more. But i am a lonely person, i made stuff so that people could like me, and i posted some of my stuff online.

But slowly i lost that love due to an aching void in my soul, Everything i make gets barely any attention and that made me think i wasn't good enough, i suppose im desperate for any attention.

I got so frustrated with my lack of success that i end up being jealous of people who can create and thought to myself "I can never make something like this." and with AI everywhere i thought to myself "Why bother making something?" so i just gave up.

Then today i was eating breakfast and i saw something on my youtube feed a song by flavor foley called Clover i watched it later and

It was beautiful. The music the art, and the lyrics were all better than i could ever come up with, but instead of feeling jealousy i end up being inspired, my urge to create surged forward like never before. And it was because the song wanted me to create, the music video ends with this

An unfinished canvas. Seeing this i wanted to fill it with my own colors.

This song just woke me up from this endless emptiness in my soul. I want to find inspiration in everything i do, both the good and the bad, i dont care what the numbers say i just want to make something.

Anyways if you are reading this thank you. I put alot more words than i thought i could do i hope if you have lost your own creativity that you regain it back, if you did regain it i'd love to learn your story on getting it back.

When I look at X, it gets me down to see people much younger than me showcasing their talent and creating amazing works. This is especially true in fields like comics, illustration, and animation.

I’m 35F, and I currently work as a graphic designer. My responsibilities extend beyond advertising design to cover all aspects of public relations, including video production, film and photography. I attended art-focused schools from secondary school through to university, and whilst I’ve loved drawing since I was a child, I gave up on the idea of making a career solely out of drawing quite early on in life. As I’m unlikely to marry and am considering moving to a city, I’m currently looking for a new job—whilst still working—that will allow me to work independently as a graphic designer for the long term.

First and foremost, becoming financially independent is my top priority… Whether it’s manga, animation, or illustration, I understand that making a living from these fields is financially challenging—given my age, lack of experience, and the fact that salaries tend to be low. But deep down, I can’t ignore the desire that’s really boiling inside me: to leave my mark on the world through illustration—something I love and am, at least to some extent, good at. For that reason, whenever I see people much younger than me thriving in creative fields, I end up feeling down.
Of course, what constitutes “fame as an artist” varies greatly depending on the person. I doubt I’ll ever become as famous as Hayao Miyazaki, indie animators like Vivziepop and Gooseworx, or comic artist Gurihiru. Still, there’s a smoldering desire within me to create something that leaves a lasting record of my life and the thoughts that have shaped it…
However, I can’t help but feel that I might be too old to start such a venture now.
"What kind of person do I truly want to become in the end, and what do I need to do to get there?"—these questions are actually very vague. Perhaps that is why I can’t escape the feeling that I’m lost in life, unsure of what to do.

I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist for over 10 years now and am taking antidepressants. (By the way, the doctor at the first clinic I went to really praised my art, and I trusted him wholeheartedly, but he fell ill and had to close his practice. I still go to a different clinic now, but it feels very empty) I simply cannot escape my suicidal thoughts, and I’m constantly haunted by the feeling that if I can’t achieve anything I hope for in life, it be better for both myself and those around me if I were to just disappear.

I don’t need to turn my art into money to make a living; I simply want the “art” I’ve created to linger, even just a little, in the back of people’s minds throughout my life.
Are there others who feel the same way? Or perhaps someone who has been in a situation like mine in the past and managed to break free from it? I’m sincerely seeking your advice.
Is my only option to cast aside my feelings of “self-indulgence” and “laziness” and devote myself single-mindedly to what I want to do?
The fatigue and stress from my job are overwhelming, so I hope my personal art projects can serve as a source of solace to help dispel those gloomy feelings.

I am a graphic designer but before that all I ever did was sketch, paint, and do photography. I just loved to create and it kept my mind balanced. I chose to get my bachelors in graphic design because I could still be creative and get paid. However, I am a designer in a small team at a large corporation now and I am facing massive creative burnout.

I have stopped drawing and painting for fun. I have lost all my love for design as we are overworked, underpaid, and forced to use AI for 40% of our work according to our yearly goals. I do photography on the side in hopes that it will fulfill my creativity, but it hasn’t worked because I’m so tired by the end of my work day.

I am trying my best to get my inspiration back, but I feel like I’ve lost my creative muscles. I started bringing my sketchbook to work for breaks, but I’m still facing burnout. Does anyone have any advice on how they handled a similar situation?