Part 2: Things start to unravel
The Wordplay Coaching Manifesto Part 2
Within a few months, I'd been given a cohort of students to mentor on my university's MFA creative writing programme. During a session, Jamie, a young Scottish screenwriter, pulled out a book: The War of Art by Steven Pressfield.
'It's about what gets in the way of creativity,' he said. 'Like, how to deal with resistance.' He handed me the book, its cover filled with reflective silver squares. 'Have you heard of it?'
I hadn't. 'You've got to read it,' he insisted.
In previous months, I'd watched my students develop their portfolios, witnessing their struggles with self-sabotage and limiting beliefs. My role was to support them, but I felt like an imposter. Who was I to guide writers when I didn't have a creative practice myself? I was a literary critic, not a 'proper' writer.
'You're a phenomenal reader,' a colleague once told me. 'You've got this capacity to listen and get under the surface of what they're trying to express.'
But I didn't want to be 'just' a reader. I wanted to write.
Witnessing my students had cracked something open. I yearned for what they had: that immersion, that aliveness, the possibility that comes with creating.
The conversation with Jamie had been a call to action. Without realizing it, his provocation invited me to expand beyond the safe confines of what I knew.
Galvanised, I started writing stories, stealing time between lecture preparation and after my young daughter was asleep. It was harder than I'd expected. I faltered daily, feeling the painful gap between what I imagined and what I produced.
Like many seeking transformation, I turned to quick fixes that promised results without requiring fundamental change. I devoured how-to books on craft and technique. I joined online communities, hoping someone had discovered the secret shortcut. I read and re-read The War of Art, believing inspiration alone would drive me forward.
When these failed, I tried scheduling more strictly, setting word count goals, attempting to optimise my creative process the way I'd optimised my academic work. I even invested in an expensive writing retreat.
None of it worked. My writing remained stilted—not because I lacked talent, but because I was approaching creativity the way our achievement-oriented culture had taught me: as a problem to solve, another credential to acquire.
Keeping my writing secret infused it with shame. Keeping it separate meant I wasn't giving it my full attention or the devotion it deserved.
I was dividing myself into fragments.
Inside, I started to unravel.
This fragmentation extracted a heavy toll. My concentration in faculty meetings slipped and the intellectual clarity I'd prided myself on began to be clouded.
Academic tenure, the thing I’d worked so hard to attain—security, status, a clear career track—began to feel like a burden. I found myself envying my students not just for their creative freedom but for their authenticity. While they wrestled openly with their craft, I maintained a facade that felt more hollow by the day.
The career plan and goals I'd had my whole life began to dissolve as I questioned who I was. At the same time, there was clarity in this dissolution. I was becoming someone willing to access difficult terrain in the quest for expression that felt true.
In a therapy session, I finally admitted the obvious: I'd reached a tipping point.
‘I've noticed something,’ my therapist said after I'd detailed my latest failed writing attempts. ‘When you talk about your academic achievements, there’s always this note of obligation in your voice.’
‘That's because writing matters more,’ I admitted, surprising myself.
‘What if your academic success isn't just a distraction from your creative desires, but actually the very thing preventing them? What if the identity you've built is directly at odds with becoming the writer you want to be?’
The question hit like lightning. Those academic successes, the qualifications, the work I'd pushed myself to do: they were illusions I'd built to ensure my survival. They'd given me security and won me approval. But now, they felt flimsy and insubstantial.
I understood the root of the problem: I’d constructed my entire identity around external validation. My need for safety had created a life that looked impressive but felt increasingly empty. This wasn't about finding more time to write or better craft techniques. It was about dismantling the belief that my worth came from external achievement rather than internal alignment.
I knew what I had to do, even though it terrified me.
I resigned.
It would be the first time I'd leave an academic job—but it wasn't the last.
I had no idea what to do next. All I knew was that creativity—and a greater sense of integrity, encompassing all of who I am—had to be at the heart of it.
What’s next?
If there’s something you’re longing to create (a writing project, an artistic creation or new venture) but need more courage and guidance, I’m here to support you expand the power of your self-expression.
Here’s how I can help:
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Read my manifesto for creative courage (free). Learn about the core principles I work with in my own creativity and business and follow in serial form the journey of how I came to found Wordplay Coaching.
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