Karly

I used to think creativity was supposed to behave predictably, almost like a disciplined houseguest who rings the bell every morning at the same time and brings a neatly wrapped idea for you to unwrap, but adulthood keeps reminding me that creativity is far closer to weather than routine. Some days it’s a downpour, some days it’s fog, some days it’s the faintest breeze that you only notice because something inside you shifts at the same moment. And then there are the quieter seasons, the fallow ones, the ones where nothing seems to grow no matter how carefully you tend the soil, and these are the seasons that scare people the most.

I’m not complaining about them, not really, because I’m deeply grateful that this is my job for now and for the foreseeable future. Even without a salary or a contract or a traditional job title, it still feels like a strange gift to wake up and dedicate my time to bringing things into the world that might interest people in the literary and arts circles, things that sit at the intersection of language, culture, curiosity and that particular soft chaos that defines Nonsense & Lit. My joy isn’t in producing constantly. My joy is in finding something that feels alive and sharing it with people who might feel a spark of recognition.

Still, I know the pressure that hovers around creative work, especially online. There’s this expectation that you should always be making, always posting, always present, always proving you deserve your space. Visibility becomes a form of currency, and the fear of disappearing makes people forget that nothing in nature blooms year-round. Even the most generous fields need rest. Even the most passionate minds need a pause.

There’s a quote from The Dreamers that I’ve carried with me for years. “Inspiration is like a baby, it doesn’t choose a sensible time to enter this world.” And I think about that line all the time, especially now. Inspiration doesn’t care about schedules or consistency or algorithms. It doesn’t arrive politely or clock in when you need it. Sometimes it bursts in at the wrong moment, sometimes it stays away longer than you’d like, and sometimes it sneaks back quietly, almost shy, after weeks of silence.

I’m learning to accept that. I’m learning to treat fallow seasons not as failures but as part of the rhythm, a gentle resetting that allows the mind to breathe. I’m learning to trust that nothing meaningful comes from forcing yourself to create when your inner world is asking you to rest. Slowness isn’t a gap in the work. It’s a part of the work.

In the end, fallow seasons don’t mean you’ve lost your creativity. They mean your creativity is gathering strength underground, getting ready to push through the soil again when the timing is right, even if that timing is never sensible, never predictable, and never fully within your control. Which is precisely why it’s magic.

PS: If you haven’t read my interview with Allie Esiri yet, I’d love for you to check it out. It’s my baby and I’m so proud of how it turned out.