Committing to Creative Work in an Age of Noise

25 Sept

“You have traveled too fast over false ground; now your soul has come to take you back”.
— John O’Donohue

The Quiet Hours

A recurring conversation with one of my closest friends is about time or more precisely, the constant, low-grade anxiety of feeling behind. We talk about the pressure to do more, be more, keep up and wondering when our work will reach the heights of success we aspire to. But we also talk about the quiet rebellion of not giving in to toxic productivity. Of trying to move differently, and trusting our own rythyms and timelines. This becomes ever more necessary when juggling uncertainty, feeling as though youre in survival mode or experiencing the dull ache of being away from the studio. Like many artists, I’ve been in a season of many where everything feels stretched — time, energy, resources.

When life begins to feel like that I make small but deliberate efforts to reclaim time around work, responsibilities, and the general pull of life. At times these pockets are small: a couple of hours before the house wakes up, 30 minutes before catching the train, a short walk without my phone. But they are often the best parts of the day. Something opens in them, meaning even one line in a notebook transforms a flicker of an idea into a flurry of ideas that propels me into the next day. It makes life feel less like survival and more like living.

Within the pages of Daily Rituals by Mason Currey lies a quiet testament to the sacred rhythms artists have embraced, crafting their work in the hidden folds of ordinary days. I dip into it often, especially when that familiar feeling creeps in: that I should be more “on track,” more productive, more like some imaginary version of a successful artist. That book reminds me that writers, painters and composers across the centuries have made their work around life, not outside of it. In late-night bursts, during lunch breaks, in the quiet hours after putting their children to bed.

It always reminds me that all of those reclaimed minutes and hours in each day that I remove from the daily grind of life amount to a lot over time.

But these quiet hours remind me that something essential is still alive underneath it all. This isn’t about output. It’s about presence. And in 2025, when every second feels monetised, optimised, or absorbed by something external, even a sliver of your own time is quietly radical. So the real question becomes: How do we find and protect time for what matters most?

Why Time Feels So Different Now

Time hasn’t simply become scarce — it has splintered into fragments that rarely feel whole. We live in a culture that pulls our attention in a thousand directions at once. Screens buzz, tasks pile up, and pressures mount. The old advice to “just manage your time better” feels almost cruel now, especially when life’s demands—caregiving, burnout, financial strain, or the heaviness of the world—are weighing on us.

Oliver Burkeman puts it well in 4,000 Weeks: “We’ve been granted the mental capacities to make almost infinitely ambitious plans, yet practically no time at all to put them into effect.” This tension — between our deepest creative desires and the constraints of reality — is the quiet struggle many artists face today.

We inherit models of artistry built on the assumption of uninterrupted days, endless motivation, and unfettered access to studio space. But those models belong to other times, other lives. In our present, creativity often slips through the cracks — brief bursts between jobs, quiet moments after bedtime, or the rhythms found while moving through daily life.

So what does it mean to make art now, amid this fractured time? Perhaps it’s less about discovering more hours and more about reclaiming the ones already there, no matter how small.

The Myth of the 9–5 Creativity Window

Creative culture loves to tell us that “real work” demands long, uninterrupted stretches—the writer’s retreat, the studio residency, the 9-to-5 painting schedule. But the truth for many today is far different. Creativity often unfolds in the margins, in ten-minute flashes during a commute, in the night’s quiet after the world has gone to sleep.

Rebecca Solnit reminds us to “leave the door open for the unknown, the door into the dark,” for that is where the most vital work often begins.

Your creative rhythm may not fit these traditional molds — and that’s not a flaw, but a sign of adaptation. The goal is not to squeeze yourself into someone else’s timetable but to notice when you feel most alive and to honor that timing.

Are you a morning bird or a night owl? Do ideas spark on a walk, or in the midst of chores? There is no universal blueprint. There is only your way.

Your Time is Immeasurably Valuable — Even When It’s Small

One lesson that has become clear is this: it doesn’t have to be a lot of time. It just has to be yours.

Even fifteen or twenty minutes of undistracted creative space can transform not just your work, but how you relate to yourself. You don’t need to catch up or perform at some imagined standard. You need to reconnect.

Ask yourself gently: When does the world go quiet for me? What might it look like to give even a sliver of that time back to yourself? What have you been holding off on because you think you need more time than you really do?

If it matters, even a moment is worth protecting.

It’s Not Laziness, It’s the System

Let’s be clear: struggling to find time for art is not about laziness or poor planning. It’s about systems that are ill-suited to the rhythms of creativity, rest, and depth.

Making art is hard when you’re juggling multiple jobs, navigating mental health challenges, managing neurodivergence and burnout, caregiving, moving, or simply surviving. Sometimes the bravest act is to return, even briefly — to the page, the canvas, or the seed of an idea — even if only in your mind.

It’s a Relief to Remember It Takes Time

In an age of instant gratification, it’s easy to forget how long meaningful work has always taken. Michelangelo spent four years painting the Sistine Chapel ceiling. James Cameron began dreaming Avatar in 1994 and waited over a decade for technology to catch up, releasing it in 2009.

We don’t remember these creations for their speed, but for their lasting impact.

Maybe you’ve felt it too — the impatience, the rush, the quiet sense of always being behind.

This writing is born from that discomfort, from a quiet belief that the most meaningful work cannot be rushed. It is not only a personal conviction but a cultural reckoning.

If nothing else, Slow Burn offers a gentle permission: to slow down, to take the long way, and to trust that your creative work is still unfolding — even if unseen.

Time Is Still Yours

I’m still figuring this out. Some days the quiet doesn’t come, the ideas feel distant. But I’m learning to honor the small windows — the early coffee before emails, the half-hour after dinner, the walk that turns into a poem, the bath where something stirs.

This is not about hustle. It is about remembrance: of who you are, what calls to you, and the work that waits patiently for your return.

Your time is still yours — even if you have to reclaim it one moment at a time.