Why the Shower is My Creative Church
You know that moment when you’re in the shower, mid-rinse, soap in your hair, and—bam—a genius idea hits? Suddenly, you’re untangling not just your curls but the mysteries of your latest creative block. For me, the shower is not just where I get clean; it’s where I get clear—on ideas, on goals, and sometimes, on why my latest crush hasn’t texted back. (Spoiler: He’s just not that into me, and that’s okay.)
Turns out, there’s a scientific term for this: the “incubation period.” When your brain is free to wander—like on a run, during a drive, or, yes, in the shower—it often finds solutions to problems you weren’t consciously tackling. Water therapy, but make it creative. Some people have vision boards; I have my water heater.
Walk, Don’t Scroll: Why Movement Ignites Magic
Growing up in La Jolla meant daily doses of coastal eye candy: turquoise waves curling like ribbon candy, surfers zigzagging across the water, and seagulls stealing sandwiches with zero shame. (Gulls are either the worst or the best freeloaders, depending on your perspective.) Walking those beaches isn’t just nostalgic for me; it’s essential.
When I hit a creative wall, I head to the trails hugging those golden cliffs. The rhythm of my steps combined with the metronome pulse of the waves reminds me that creativity thrives on motion. Hemingway swore by long walks, and even Taylor Swift is rumored to gather lyrical inspiration strolling around New York. If it worked for a Pulitzer winner and a pop icon, who am I to argue?
Practical Tip: Try to "unplug" on your walks. Trust me, TikTok doesn’t count as inspiration. (Unless you’re writing a think piece on the resurgence of early 2000s trends—hi, low-rise jeans.) Watch the path ahead. Notice textures, smells, even patterns in the clouds. Some of my best phrases have hit me mid-stride, usually when I'm least expecting them.
Set the Mood: Playlist Therapy for Creativity
For years, I believed I needed absolute silence to write. Picture me, Lydia Deetz from Beetlejuice, sitting in all black, scowling at noise. But then I realized that sometimes, silence is its own kind of chaos. That’s when music became my accomplice.
Before I sit down to write, I make a playlist that matches the vibe of what I’m working on. If I’m writing about a relationship, it’s Bon Iver and Maggie Rogers, because nothing encourages poetic melancholy more than acoustic storytelling. (Pro tip: If you pair Jack Johnson with candlelight, you’ll feel wholesome even if you’re writing a spicy hot take.)
The trick is curating sounds that fuel your flow without overpowering your thoughts. If you work better in silence, try ambient noise instead. Ocean waves? Forest sounds? I have them on tap, literally. I recorded some during my brief stint in Costa Rica, where I wrote to a soundtrack of howler monkeys and crashing waves.
Practical Tip: Have a “go-to” playlist ready for when you're stuck. Mine is a mix of surf-inspired acoustic tunes and instrumental beats with just the right amount of whimsy. When Jack Johnson croons, the words follow.
The Ritual of Pen and Paper
Some mornings, before I even touch my laptop, I grab a legal pad and a pen—the old-fashioned kind that smudges ink onto your fingers, proof you’ve been doing the thing. There’s something tactile about a blank page, its analog charm daring you to fill it.
This morning ritual is my creative warm-up. Usually, I journal fragments of things: a snippet of dialogue that floated into my mind, memories of tide pools or cliffside sunsets, or even what my breakfast oatmeal tasted like on an emotional level (yes, food has feelings). These jottings don’t have to go anywhere—most won’t—but they prime the pump. Think of it like stretching before a workout: not absolutely necessary, but wow, does it make everything feel smoother.
The results aren’t always profound. Once, I spent two pages describing my neighbor’s cat and his inexplicable grudge against me. But on rare mornings, that slipstream sweet spot appears—an idea tumbles free, wild and alive, like a rogue wave shaping itself perfectly—and I’m ready to roll.
When All Else Fails, Go play in the Tide Pools
This sounds ridiculously local-girl cliché, but bear with me: Growing up in La Jolla, I spent weekends tide-pooling with my mom, observing hermit crabs, starfish, and anemones. It wasn't just a childhood pastime; it was boot camp for curiosity. Those quiet moments spent looking closely—watching a crab switch shells or seaweed shimmer like emerald tinsel—taught me to find stories in the smallest details.
Now, when I’m creatively stuck, I take a mental journey back to those tide pools. What am I missing in my environment right now? Is there an emotional ecosystem in my story, too? Literal or metaphorical, looking beneath the surface almost always reveals something sparkling.
Practical Tip: You don’t need ocean access to channel this mindset. People-watching at a coffee shop or garden-gazing in your yard can be just as revelatory. What’s the tiniest detail in front of you that you can follow to a bigger truth? If you have a "tide pool” in your world, use it.
Nourish the Vessel: Creative Snacking as Self-Care
I know what you’re thinking: Isn’t “creative snacking” just a fancy way of justifying my third piece of toast? Maybe it is, but hear me out. You can’t pour creativity from an empty cup—or stomach.
Somewhere between deadlines and imposter syndrome, I learned that snack breaks aren’t procrastination; they’re refueling missions. My go-to? A plate of Peter Pan-worthy “Lost Girl” snacks: sliced fruit, dark chocolate, almond butter, and trail mix so heavy on the nuts it might as well be bougie bird food. These quick bites keep my energy steady and somehow make me feel like a coastal fairy princess (minus the wings).
Practical Tip: Keep convenient “thinking snacks” on hand. The key is finding something nutritious enough to sustain you but indulgent enough to feel like a treat. Writing is no picnic, but that doesn’t exclude snacks.
Conclusion: Creativity Isn’t Magic—It’s Magic You Make
It’s easy to imagine creativity as this elusive, muse-driven thing that topples out of the ether and onto your keyboard. But the truth? Creativity is more like a tidepool ecosystem—it thrives on small, consistent rituals and a curiosity about the world. Whether I’m lathering up in another shower revelation, hitting a beachside trail, or serenaded by Jack Johnson on my Spotify, my rituals aren’t just habits; they’re a lifeline.
So here’s my advice: Don’t wait for creativity to choose you. Choose it. Shape your days around it. Whether that’s journaling, snacking (yes, I’ll defend this forever), or hunting for magic in the miniature, your practices will sustain you. And when that genius idea finally comes crashing in, you’ll be ready, pen in hand—or shampoo in hair.
