Create Like No One’s Watching (Because They Aren’t)
There’s no standing ovation waiting in the wings.
No instant feedback.
No flood of comments confirming you’re on the right track.
It’s usually just you.
Your screen. Your doubts. And the slow work of making something out of nothing.
But that’s how it’s always been.
“Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don’t have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough.”
—Stephen King
And when belief is scarce, you have to build it from within.
Because the truth is, no one else can want it enough for you.
Their encouragement might carry you for a moment, but the long haul is internal.
You have to be the one who cares the most. Especially on the days when you don’t.
The Truth: You’re Creating in a Vacuum
When Maya Angelou wrote I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, she worked alone in a rented hotel room. A Bible, a bottle of sherry, a legal pad, and a thesaurus—her only company.
She wasn’t chasing applause. She was chasing the truth.
If you’re in this for validation, the process will eat you alive.
The silence isn’t failure—it’s the forge.
And in that forge, something wild happens: your voice gets clearer. Your instincts sharpen. You stop mimicking, and you start becoming.
How I Learned to Keep Going
When I wrote Spellbound Under the Spanish Moss, it didn’t start with fanfare or a book deal.
I had this odd little Southern Gothic world in my head, and it wouldn’t leave me alone. I wrote the first draft while living in Lebanon as the revolution began. Protests filled the streets. Burning tires blocked the roads. But I had to get the book out of my head and onto the pages.
When it finally launched? It was quiet. No bestseller list. No spotlight. But slowly, like moss creeping over forgotten stone, the story found its way to readers. And that’s when it hit me:
The joy wasn’t in being seen. It was in making something worth seeing.
And even now, every time I sit down to write, I remind myself:
I’m not writing for a million people. I’m writing for the one who needs it most. And most days, that one is me.
How to Fall in Love with the Process
Here are five ways to create meaningfully, even when it feels like no one’s paying attention:
1. Build Ritual, Not Expectation
You don’t need to be in the mood—you need to be in motion.
Create cues that tell your brain: it’s time.
📌 Try this: Light a candle. Put on the same playlist every time. These small rituals build momentum—and momentum beats motivation.
“I only write when inspiration strikes. Fortunately, it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.”
—W. Somerset Maugham
Ritual gives you access to the work, even when inspiration ghosts you. The Muse doesn’t always text back.
2. Track Your Consistency, Not Your Clout
Did you show up today? Did you put in the reps? Did something click?
That matters more than retweets.
📌 Try this: Don’t log word count or views—log effort. Track how often you kept your own promise to create.
Over time, that promise becomes a pillar. Something unshakable.
3. Study the Struggle, Not Just the Success
Hemingway rewrote the ending of A Farewell to Arms thirty-nine times.
Toni Morrison wrote before sunrise while raising two sons.
Joan Didion regularly doubted her ability to write anything worth reading.
Great work is often born in private battles. Not all of us have the unflappable confidence of Kanye West.
📌 Try this: Read author biographies and writing journals. The early drafts. The rejections. The real stuff. You’ll find comfort in their misfires.
4. Make Small Wins Visible
Every finished sentence, every hard scene rewritten, every “I almost quit but didn’t”—they all count.
📌 Try this: Keep a “Victory Jar.” Write down each small creative win and revisit them on the days when your imposter syndrome gets loud.
Celebrating progress doesn’t mean you’ve settled. It means you’re building.
5. Treat the Process Like Sacred Ground
Not sacred like fragile—sacred like vital.
Your creativity doesn’t need to be optimized. It needs to be honored.
“To write well, express yourself like the common people, but think like a wise man.”
—Aristotle
📌 Try this: Once a week, go analog. Write by hand. Doodle. Take a walk without headphones. Let your ideas stretch their legs.
This work is alchemy. The transmutation of the ephemeral into something resembling eternity. Treat it like it matters. Treat it like your words will echo into eternity.
Why It’s Worth It
When you stop chasing recognition and start nurturing the work itself, something shifts.
You become more resilient. Less reactive. More prolific.
Because you’re not waiting anymore—you’re building.
And that kind of consistency? It compounds.
Even if it feels like no one’s watching now—eventually, someone will.
And when they ask how you did it, you’ll know exactly what to say:
“I didn’t need an audience to begin. I created because I had to. My desire to create overwhelmed the doubt that fought against me.”