When you feel creatively adrift.

There comes a time when the flame that once fueled our stories begins to fade. The writing desire exists, but the creative energy feels distant, muffled. I call this the seasonal shift.

Whether you are in the spring, summer, fall or winter of your writing life, the creative energy that propels your writing can diminish – even to the point of blockage. My thoughts of “I want to write” were coupled with “Why isn’t my brain and my heart working together?”

We view the world based on experiences and possibilities. When young, procrastination was common, and I’d think, “I have time.” After years of first drafts (and now, semi-retirement), I finally have time, but the spark appeared to have died.

I tried everything to regain the full-impact, coursing through your veins energy. I walked, listened to inspiring webcasts, verbally rewrote shows I was watching (to my husbands annoyance), and I walked some more. To no avail. Without writing, I felt hollow.

Then reality slapped me in the face.

Creativity never dies, it matures.

As we age, whether you are ten or 90, our bodies morph into something different: Limbs lengthen; skin pimples; waistlines thicken; faces wrinkle. And with each physical transformation, our minds work differently.

From the (exhausting to watch) energy of a child
to the reflective wisdom of an adult, we change:
physically, emotionally and mentally.

Years ago, ideas tumbled over one another, filling digital notebooks. I wrote more than one story at a time. Each line sparked excitement and new possibilities. I now realize the process was a cacophony of white noise, each work vying for my attention, and none getting the full amount it required.

Still. It was wonderful, and I can still taste the energy. Yet, something had to change.

The current may shift,
but the river of creativity never runs dry.

If this sounds familiar — whether you’re twenty or ninety — take heart. Creativity evolves. The energy you once poured into your work may now belong to curiosity, to observation, or to craft itself. The key is to follow your new writing flow instead of chasing the old one.

Today, I lean toward stories that hold quietness:  cozy mysteries or gentle historical tales (with wry humor and twists.) Not the high drama of my youth, but the layered humanity of my ordinary life. It’s a softer light, but bright enough to write by.

Rekindling your creative spark

If you feel creatively adrift, try this:

• Remember: your spark hasn’t died, it’s transformed.
• Write short — letters, fragments, reflections — without aiming for a finished work.
• Explore different genres: cozy mystery, slice-of-life, quiet historical fiction.
• Read outside your comfort zone; it often rekindles new rhythms.
• Look backward: old notes or unfinished ideas might now fit who you’ve become.
• Let time work for you — slower writing can yield deeper resonance.

Will my spark change again? Possibly, but for now, I’ll follow the current that suits me. (Tomorrow may be a different story.)

Trust your evolving spark — it still has stories to tell.