Did Academia Kill Your Creative Hand Too?

When the structure and perfectionism of the academic world burn you out, do not give up on your writing, just give yourself the break you need.

Years of bustling about university campuses from one giant auditorium to the next, attending long lectures on politics and history, and writing over 150 thousand words in papers and essays alone, killed my love for writing.

The notebooks filled with musings and personal essays started looking more and more anemic from lack of inspiration. The stacks of poems on torn bits of paper that filled multiple folders were now gathering dust in a forgotten drawer.

Writing became a regimented chore. There was a structure to be followed, a topic to adhere to, a formula to execute to please the professor, and an “A” to chase after for that perfect GPA. The obsession with grades, followed by the thirst for graduate school funding and acceptance, kept the juices flowing but in only one direction. After ticking all the boxes and landing in graduate school, I had no steam left. Running on empty, I trudged through a massive Master’s thesis that I did not believe in, but what skills I had amassed until now served to mask my utter lack of interest in what I was writing.

My dream of becoming a writer felt like a long-forgotten fantasy because the blank page did not taunt me, the river of words that had seemed relentless was now dried up, and inspiration turned to boredom. I bought myself a shovel and buried that dream, and on the tombstone that I had neatly arranged on top of it nothing was written, because I could not find the words.

Unknowingly, I had pursued a scorched earth policy with myself for the past two years, extinguishing all thoughts of creative writing. Writing was part of a job, and outside of these parameters, not a word was to be put to the page. I had a glaring case of burnout, but I did not know it. I thought that I had chosen the wrong path and that I had been a fool to believe that I could ever write anything that mattered. Just as I had burned every last morsel of interest in a writing career, new hope started sprouting. Inspiration started trickling back, uninvited and unexpected, but it was there to stay.

I did not actively attempt to revive the creative writer inside, but neither did I block their return. The signs of change were apparent, and I embraced them. My thoughts started veering towards topics of discussion within fitness and art, and instead of shunning them, I gave them some time, and the words came back. My mind had healed from some of the stress, it was ready to give it another go, and I listened.

Flexing the creative muscle again has been infuriating and liberating. The skills I had honed for years have evaded me, and I must live with the realization that I need to gather them again, nourish them with blood, sweat, and tears, and allow them to flourish. Somehow, this ordeal is also the greatest gift I could have given myself. Now, the blank page taunts me again.

What changed?

I stopped. Taking a break allowed me to miss the craft of writing. It allowed me to dissociate from the rigid structure of the academic paper. It also allowed me the space to think and write about topics other than politics and international relations, which are my area of expertise.

Over the years, I took the ability to write about anything for granted. I will not be making the same mistake again, because I know now what it feels like to feel tapped out of words. The best I can do is keep moving forward, avoid burnout, and write about whatever I damn well please. Whether I am writing for an audience or not, crippling thoughts of perfection, a relic from the academic days, no longer haunt my attempts at drafting articles.

Thank you for reading! If you are interested in becoming a Medium member, you can do so through this link, and I will receive a small commission, or you can buy me a coffee if you would like to support my work :)

I would recommend reading Diana C.’s piece on writing succinctly and six-word memoirs.