Find Creativity In Your Writing By Ditching Expectations

The weight of expectation can be lifted by homing in on tiny details and reveling in the joy of the moment to unlock freedom and creativity in your writing.

All writers reach a point when words elude us. We may feel stuck, inadequate, dysfunctional. It’s as if the amount of words we produce represents who we are. Writing becomes an act of doing.

We are to do in life, because doing is what’s expected. Not doing can be emotionally devastating. We’re lost when we don’t know what to do. For a writer, nowhere is disorientation from not doing more apparent than with not writing.

The Hummingbird: A parable

Years ago, one late-winter day, Portland’s first sun-filled sky had arrived. When I lived in soggy Oregon, the first sunny day after an epic wet-weather streak felt like a national holiday. The brilliant blue sky dazzled. Golden daffodils were starting to bloom. Robins gathered twigs for nests.

That morning, my then-husband Mark went to Home Depot. Perhaps the promise of spring had sprung on him, too. In the bag were two bird feeders: one for robins and blue jays and another for hummingbirds. I didn’t think much of the feeders, other than it would be nice to see some critters around the yard. He also got red hummingbird juice mix.

Something about the nectar concoction didn’t seem right to me. I went online to see if I could figure it out, and thank goodness I did! I discovered that store-bought red nectar is poison for hummingbirds. The red dye is made from petroleum.

Hummingbirds consume 25 percent of their diet from nectar, including flowers. The rest of their nutrition comes from tree sap, insects, and pollen. The best homemade nectar is an ordinary blend of one-part white cane sugar to four-parts water.

Love at first sight

Mark made a batch of nectar, filled the feeder, and hung it outside the living room window. Within an hour, a tiny hummingbird showed up! I squealed with excitement, and like a hopeful shop owner who’d just opened for business, I called the bird our first “customer.” From then on, all subsequent visitors to the feeders were known as customers.

Before then, I don’t recall observing a hummingbird up close. Its wings were moving so fast they were nearly invisible. The beak was a needle. It was so adorable and tiny! Like Cupid’s arrow through the heart, I instantly fell in love.

After the little bird darted away, I found myself eagerly staring out the window, waiting for my next customer. Ten minutes later, another one appeared. I was mesmerized by how cute his miniature body was, coupled with extreme agility.

As a writer whose life had been measured by production and word count, I felt out of my element, silly even, for having this story unfold with me as actor and not purveyor. There was an unexplainable connection. Some characterize these kindred creatures as spirit animals. I’d never felt this connection until then.

Eureka!

To make myself known to the hummingbirds, and see where the story led, I sat outside on the deck for hours. I started to photograph them; I took thousands of pictures. I observed them in flight as they darted around the trees in our yard. I was willing to be with the details of the story, without a single expectation of where the narrative would go.

I was aware at the time that these moments were the first in years where I was being with a story — living in the story — and doing nothing to fabricate the narrative. I was just watching hummingbirds and spring clouds drifting by. I felt an imaginative freedom I’d not felt for a long time.

Then came my Eureka! moment. I realized that when creativity was attached to expectations, I struggled. I saw how writing, something I once naturally engaged in without strife, became a burden when it evolved into necessity and expectations of productivity. The more I expected, the more words eluded me. The more words eluded me, the more I expected. No wonder I’d been stuck!

Unlock creativity in your writing

Right then, I heard the now-familiar whir of a hummingbird. Less than six inches from my face, he hovered. My heart raced. Though its wings were beating as fast as propellers, his shiny, emerald-green body was completely still. A bright pink throat reflected in the sun.

I looked into his eyes and he stared into mine. He was as curious about me as I was about him. He floated closer, slowly, and closer still, until he hovered three inches away, in front of my eyes. I stayed completely still. My heart pounded. We had a clear connection of being. This was an unfolding story of love I never could have contrived, no matter how hard I tried or forced it. Nothing could have been done to create the story; I just needed to be with it to receive it.

The same is true for words. Whenever I get stuck, I recall the hummingbird, because again and again, I navigate creativity in writing against the mightiness of a blank page. Do I force words merely to assuage a weight of expectation? Fight to fabricate a story that might not even exist? Or can I marvel at the tiny details, unexpected joy, and just be with stories as they unfold?

When my words are stuck with nowhere to roam, I remind myself of the hummingbird’s presence. They’ve become my writing talisman. They are signs of good luck and wisdom. A hummingbird’s fluttering wings move in an infinity pattern that convey steady, seamless flow. They signify internal resilience and energy. Joy and adaptation. Magic and motion. Being, not doing. All of which I — and my writing — are hungry for.