Energy of Action

May 15, 2025


There’s a quiet truth every artist eventually learns: movement creates momentum. Not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the small, steady acts—sketching through uncertainty, showing up even when the spark feels dim, stealing moments between the noise of everyday life. It’s in that motion that something begins to shift. Creativity doesn’t strike like lightning—it accumulates, quietly, insistently.

The more you move, the more things begin to connect. Ideas you thought were isolated start speaking to each other. One painting leads to another. A line of poetry echoes in a melody. What starts out feeling like effort slowly turns into rhythm. And if you stay with it long enough, rhythm reveals something deeper: your voice, your themes, your truth.

We often romanticize the artist’s life as a series of breakthroughs and inspiration. But in reality, the most meaningful work rarely arrives in flashes. It emerges through repetition, through showing up when nothing feels special. Discipline, not drama, is what leads to depth. When you keep going—especially when it’s hard—you begin to move past the easy answers. The clichés fall away. The work deepens. And so do you.

In that continued motion, the work begins to open up. You take risks you wouldn’t have taken before. You make connections you didn’t see coming. What felt like simple practice turns into a kind of transformation. And the energy you’ve poured into the work—it stays. It lingers. It becomes part of the piece itself. People can feel it, even if they can’t name it.

It’s strange, but true: the more energy you give, the more you seem to have. The act of creating doesn’t drain you—it fuels you. What looks like exhaustion from the outside is often something else entirely: momentum. A self-renewing cycle. You stop waiting to feel ready. You stop hoping for perfect conditions. You trust that if you begin, something will come. And something always does.

Artists train their creative muscles the same way athletes train their bodies. Not in occasional bursts, but through consistent, often unremarkable repetition. And over time, that repetition becomes its own kind of magic. The work begins to speak. It reflects back what you’ve put in—the hours, the doubt, the risk, the persistence. It holds that energy. It radiates it.

And people notice. Not always with words, but with feeling. They know something’s there.

So if you’re stuck—if things feel stagnant or slow—don’t wait for inspiration to come knocking. Move. Scribble something messy. Sing something strange. Build something without knowing where it’s going. Start before you’re ready.

Because creativity isn’t waiting for you to feel inspired. It’s waiting for you to begin.

And when you do—when you keep showing up, again and again—it will meet you there. Stronger. Clearer. More alive than you remembered. And that’s where the real work, the real magic, begins.