Tag Archives: creativity

Your Brain Isn’t Broken. It’s Creative

The Engine and the Armour: A Truer Story of Creativity

It starts with profound curiosity doesn’t it? That low-level hum beneath the surface of things. The sense that you can’t quite switch your own brain off. You’re in the supermarket, trying to remember if you need milk, but you’re also cataloguing the precise tone of fluorescent hum from the overhead lights, the discordant percussive rhythmic rattle of trolley wheels, and the quiet, tragic history etched on the face of the man staring at the price of coffee. For many, this is just background noise and mindless distraction. For you, it’s the entire orchestra, and you’re standing right in front of the brass section.

This isn’t a poetic exaggeration; it’s a neurological reality. Your brain isn’t just passively receiving more data; it’s wired for a different kind of processing. We now understand this as a dynamic, chaotic dance between three key neural networks. There’s the Default Mode Network (DMN), the brain’s dreamer, spinning daydreams and forging wild connections. There’s the Executive Control Network (ECN), the project manager, trying to focus and evaluate those ideas. And mediating between them is the Salience Network, the scout that constantly scans the horizon, deciding what’s interesting enough to deserve your attention.

In many creative people, the connectivity between these networks is unusually high. The dreamer and the manager are in a constant, frantic conversation, and your scout is working overtime. This is the very mechanism that allows you to see patterns others miss. It’s also why it feels like you can’t turn it off. But to frame this experience purely as a burden is to tell only half the story. The truth is far more powerful.

Chapter 1: The Addictive Pull of Deep Focus

Here’s the part the tragic artist myth always leaves out. The reason you can’t switch off isn’t just some curse. It’s because, when channelled, that relentless mental energy triggers one of the most powerful and rewarding states a human can experience: flow. Coined by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, flow is that sacred state of total immersion where time dissolves, your sense of self evaporates, and the act of creating becomes its own magnificent reward. It’s what makes the process autotelic, the joy is in the doing, not the done.

This isn’t just a feeling; it’s a neurochemical cascade. Theories like Self-Determination Theory tell us that we are intrinsically motivated by a need for autonomy, competence, and connection. The creative act is a direct line to satisfying those needs. As you engage, your brain rewards you with dopamine surges in the striatum, reinforcing the behaviour and making it deeply pleasurable. This is what makes creativity addictive in the best possible way, not just an obligatory coping strategy. You’re not just offloading sensory data to survive; you are chasing the profound, intrinsically rewarding high of mastery. It’s a private, powerful truth. Which makes the public lie we’re told all the more infuriating.

Chapter 2: The Lie of the Lone Genius

Our culture loves a simple hero narrative, doesn’t it? The lone genius, struck by a bolt from the blue, toiling in a dusty garret to produce a masterpiece all on their own. It’s a romantic story. It’s also a convenient and profoundly damaging lie. The truth is that creativity isn’t a solo performance; it’s a team sport. It’s what Brian Eno, a master of these things, brilliantly termed ‘scenius’.

The polar opposite of genius scenius is the idea that groundbreaking work emerges not from a single mind, but from the collective intelligence and energy of a scene. Think of the Bloomsbury Group, tearing up the literary rulebook over tea and fierce arguments. Think of the punk scene in 1970s London, a glorious, feedback-drenched conversation happening in grubby pubs and rehearsal rooms. Innovation doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens in conversation, in collaboration, in the fertile friction of minds rubbing up against one another.

So why does the myth of the lone genius persist? Because it’s incredibly useful. It serves a clear economic and social function. A single, tortured genius is a simple, compelling product to market. A collaborative, messy ‘scenius’ is not. More insidiously, it atomises us. By telling creatives they should be toiling away alone, it keeps them disconnected, less powerful collectively, and far easier to exploit in industries built on precarious, gig-based work. It allows a small group of cultural gatekeepers to bestow the ‘genius’ label, maintaining a power structure that is far from meritocratic. The myth of the lone genius isn’t just wrong; it’s a cage with no bars, designed to keep us from realising our collective strength.

This is why the composition of a ‘scenius’ is so critical. A homogenous scene is a stagnant one. If everyone in the room comes from the same background, shares the same reference points, and holds the same assumptions, you don’t get innovation—you get an echo chamber. The cultural river becomes dangerously shallow. True, world-changing creativity is almost always the product of friction between different perspectives and experiences. Fighting for genuine diversity and inclusion in our creative fields isn’t just a moral good; it is a strategic imperative for any culture that wants to progress.

Chapter 3: An Engine for Growth, Not Just Survival

So yes, the cost can be brutal. That survey finding 73% of musicians experience anxiety and depression is real and it matters. But it’s a profound mistake to see art only as a coping mechanism for trauma. While it absolutely can be a powerful therapeutic tool, its purpose extends far beyond mere survival. To create is to experience a unique form of well-being, what the Greeks called “eudaimonia”—the joy that comes from living a life of purpose and growth.

In an age where artificial intelligence can generate slick, novel content in seconds, this distinction has never been more vital. AI can replicate patterns, but it cannot replicate the messy, embodied, human experience that gives art its soul. It hasn’t felt heartbreak or stood in a supermarket overwhelmed by the sheer chaos of existence. Our creativity, our ability to connect, to feel, to find meaning in the chaos, is not just a nice-to-have. It is our last truly wild resource, and our most valuable strategic asset.

The Pragmatic Path: How to Service the Engine

Understanding all this is one thing. Living it is another. In an economy increasingly dominated by AI, nurturing our uniquely human creativity isn’t a soft skill; it is the most important work we can do to make ourselves indispensable. It’s not enough to validate the feeling of being overwhelmed; we need a practical toolkit to navigate it. If your creativity is an engine, not a curse, then it requires maintenance. This isn’t about suppressing your nature; it’s about learning how to handle a high-performance machine without burning out.

First, practise neurological hygiene. Your hyper-aware brain is taking a constant beating. Mindfulness isn’t some fluffy wellness trend; it’s a direct intervention. Start small. Ten minutes of deep breathing before you even look at a screen creates a vital buffer. A body scan, where you simply pay attention to physical sensations from your feet upwards, can ground you when your mind is racing. This activates your parasympathetic nervous system—the body’s own braking mechanism—and gives you a moment of quiet agency in the storm.

Second, build resilience through radical self-compassion. The “lone genius” myth leaves no room for failure, which is, of course, the most essential part of the creative process. Reframe your inner critic. Instead of seeing a failed experiment as a personal failing, see it as data. Keep a journal of small wins. When you feel that familiar pang of alienation, pause and remind yourself: “This feeling is a known occupational hazard for people like me. I am not alone in this.” This isn’t self-indulgent; it’s a strategic move to build the emotional stamina you need for the long haul.

Third, defend your environment. In 2025, our attention is the most valuable commodity on earth, and everything is designed to steal it. You have to fight back. It’s not optional. Establish non-negotiable digital boundaries. Have screen-free times or zones. Crucially, get outside. Spend time in nature—forest bathing, a walk by the sea—to recalibrate your senses away from the urban assault. Counterintuitively, the best way to refuel your creativity is often to engage in low-pressure hobbies entirely unrelated to your main work. Cook a meal, fix a bike, do something with your hands that has no audience and no stakes.

Fourth, actively build your ‘scenius’. Don’t wait for community to find you. Seek out artist groups, online or in person. Share your work, but more importantly, share your process and your struggles. Find a mentor. Offer to mentor someone else. Start a collaborative project with the sole aim of distributing the cognitive load and sparking unexpected ideas. Connection is the antidote to the existential drain of feeling like you’re the only one seeing the world this way.

Finally, look after the machine itself. The link between mind and body isn’t mystical; it’s physiological. You cannot sustain high-level creative output on a diet of caffeine, booze, digital dopamine or anxiety. Prioritise sleep as if it were a critical project deadline, because it is. Move your body in a way that feels good, not punishing. And if the overload becomes chronic and debilitating, seek professional support. Finding a therapist who specialises in the mental health of creative people isn’t an admission of defeat; it’s an intelligent investment in your most valuable asset.

Your creativity is not just your armour against an overwhelming world. It is the very engine that propels you through it. Our job is not to wish for a different, simpler brain, but to learn how to service the magnificent, complex, and powerful one we have.

The Quiet Rebellion: My Yearning For A Slower Life

I’ve been feeling this ache lately, a deep, nagging pull to step away from the world’s noise. Not to die, or even to give up, but to log off properly. I fantasise about disappearing into a life where I can grow herbs, play and write tunes, scribble poems, doodle in the margins of a notebook no one will ever read, and work a job so ordinary it doesn’t consume me. It’s not about failing but finding a kind of freedom I can’t seem to grasp amidst the constant hum of notifications and deadlines. I miss slow things, slow mornings where I can sip tea without checking my phone, slow friendships that grow over long, meandering chats, slow art that doesn’t need to be shared, slow romance that unfolds in shy glances rather than swipes. Everything in my life feels like it needs a deadline, but I’ve come to realise the best parts of being alive take time to bloom, more time than I’ve been willing to admit.

I feel like we’ve built towers of distraction, mental noise on top of something ancient and quiet, something I can still feel deep in my bones. That urge to plant, write, and just be is still there, but it’s buried under the endless scroll of my screen. I’ve found a way to cope, though, a sort of quiet ritual that helps me reclaim those slower rhythms: when my mind is loud, I write; when it’s empty, I read; when it’s racing, I walk; when it’s tired, I sleep; and when it’s sharp, I create. These small acts have become my way of pushing back against a world that demands I keep running, even when I’m desperate to slow down.

When my mind gets loud, all those thoughts crashing into each other, I grab a pen and let them spill onto the page. It’s messy; sometimes it’s just a list of worries, and sometimes it’s a half-formed tune, idea, revelation, reflection or a doodle, an exorcism of sorts, and it helps. The other day, I wrote a few lines about the herbs I wish I were growing. If only the local ruminants weren’t such constant hungry visitors to my garden, it felt like breathing again.

When my mind goes blank, after it’s been drained dry by too many emails, notifications or the desperate attention-seeking, catastrophising news cycle, I read a book or pick up an instrument to relax and play.

Last week, Anna, my very recent wife of 10 days, picked up a book at ‘Waste Not Want Not’ in Torrin, a free community recycling site under the mountain Blà Bheinn’s watchful gaze. I read the dog-eared, well thumbed copy of a now defunct magazine called ‘Perdiz’ and it was like filling a cup I didn’t know was empty, I entered a world full of humanity, joy and whimsy, a world that celebrated roller derby arse bruises, death, cannabis smoking nuns and a profound pleasure in simple existence. I’m not trying to produce anything for anyone else; I’m just trying to feel like myself again in the face of a tsunami of data and dopamine-fueled digital compulsions.

There are days when my mind races, when the pressure to keep up with everything- work, social media, and life- feels like a storm I can’t outrun. That’s when I walk. The road from Broadford to Elgol (B8083) runs past my house, it’s very hilly and demanding but commands some of the finest views on Skye, and I’ll go there, leave my phone at home and just let my feet move. I read somewhere that walking in nature can lower your stress. I think it was in some psychology journal, but I don’t need the science to tell me it works. I can feel my heartbeat slow, my thoughts settle, as I watch the leaves shift in the breeze. My perspective shifts to the world from the confines of the digitally proscribed tyrannic fiefdom of the screens.

When I’m knackered, when my mind is too tired to keep going, I let myself sleep. Not just a quick nap, but proper sleep, without the guilt of “wasting time.” I’ve learned it’s not wasting time at all, it’s how I return to myself. I’m not afraid to hit the sack at 7pm or 3pm if that’s what I need to make myself whole again.

Then there are those rare moments when my mind feels sharp, clear, like the fog has lifted. That’s when I create. Last month, I started sketching a little herb garden I might plant someday. I’m not a great gardener, but drawing those beds of herbs and imagining them growing felt like creating something real. These rituals are writing, playing music, taking photos, drawing, reading, walking, sleeping, and building, not just habits. They’re my way of holding onto the slow, quiet things I crave, even when the world around me won’t stop shouting.

I’m not alone in this longing, and that’s been a comfort. I shared my thoughts with a mate, our postman, Declan, and he told me he dreams of retiring to a cabin in the woods, near a stream where he can grow vegetables and hear nothing but the wind and the water, chopping firewood without a care for status or metrics. Another friend, Chill, said he feels the same pull to live a life measured by the crackle of that firewood, the rhythm of water against stone, and his drumming in his own space, motivated by joy in the moment, not by likes or career ladders. Hearing their dreams makes my ache feel less lonely, like we’re all reaching for the same stillness and freedom to exist without proving it to anyone.

Here’s where I get a bit stubborn: I think we need to stop letting the world dictate our pace. I’m tired of feeling like I have to sprint through life, like pausing means falling behind. But what if falling behind is the whole point? Growing a herbs takes months, I looked it up, and it’s about 30 to 80 days from planting to harvest. A tune can take years to get right; I’ve got one I’ve been tinkering with since 2023, and it’s still not finished. Friendships, the real ones, need long, lazy afternoons, not just quick texts between meetings. The world tells me this slowness is inefficient, but I’m starting to think it’s the only way to live deeply.

I’m trying to reclaim those slow things, bit by bit. I’ve started leaving my phone in another room most mornings to sit with my tea and watch the light shift. I’ve been writing more, not for anyone else, but for me, essays mostly, but also little notes, tunes, riffs, poems, and dreams of that garden without invasive ruminants I might have one day. I’m walking more, sleeping when needed, and building small things that make me feel alive. It’s not a grand escape yet, but it’s a start. I keep thinking about what success could look like if I measured it differently, if a single herb plant I grew myself, or a tune no one ever heard, was enough.

This ache for slowness isn’t about giving up on life; it’s about remembering what makes me feel human. It’s about listening to that quiet urge to plant, play, write, and be, even when the noise tries to drown it out. I’m not alone in this, and neither are you. Maybe we can all find our own small rebellions, our own ways to slow down, to live deeply, to make space for the things that take time to bloom. For me, that starts with a notebook, a walk, an instrument, a good night’s sleep, and the dream of a garden I’ll tend one day, all on my own terms.