The Artist’s Way (aka How I Accidentally Joined a Cult and Found Myself Again)
You know The Artist’s Way or at least you’ve come across it once or twice on a dusty bookshelf at a thrift store next to a cracked copy of “Eat, Pray, Meh” or maybe a friend swore it changed their life. Maybe you actually started the journey of completing this book and made it to Week Two before giving up and claiming "Mercury in Retrograde" sabotaged your progress. Me? I bought it for myself as a Christmas stocking stuffer. Yes, I bought my own stocking stuffers because I’m an adult, and frankly, if I don’t gift myself the weird, brilliant shit I actually wanted, who will? That year, I was in an artist funk with caregiver burnout, trying to balance dreams and dishes, grand plans and gesso. So I saw the book and thought, “Why the hell not?” What better gift than reigniting the fire in my own creative self that has slowly dimmed over the years?
Fast-forward to New Year’s Day…. Champagne’s gone flat, the ink on my resolution list is still fresh and hasn’t even dried yet. And there I am, with my copy of The Artist’s Way ready to conquer all my demons and the world. You’re supposed to read one chapter a week, then do the exercises and play along nicely with the author. I, of course, flipped through the pages looking for the one magical answer that would be that light bulb moment that would instantly change everything while thinking “These exercises are dumb and a complete waste of time.” So I skipped them and just kept reading, or maybe more appropriately I should state, skimming. Spoiler: that approach was about as effective as trying to clean up glitter.
But even after my meager attempt at completing The Artist’s Way, two things did stick - writing my Morning Pages and going on my weekly Artist Dates. I’ve been journaling since middle school with boxes of notebooks chronicling everything from heartbreak to bad haircuts. But Morning Pages? They’re different. You write three pages first thing in the morning, unfiltered, unedited, unapologetic. You’re not solving world hunger or outlining your five year plan to conquer the world. You’re just dumping anything and everything from your brain even if it’s three pages of “I have nothing to say” or “This is so fucking stupid.” The point of committing yourself to completing this exercise the first thing in the morning, every morning, is the action of doing. And yes, I can whole heartedly tell you that it works. It’s like unclogging the drain before the day starts, pouring out and purging whatever random thoughts and feelings that are floating around inside your brain at that moment, both good and bad, and throwing them out into the universe. And when I skip a day of writing? Believe me, you do not want to cross my path on those days, even the dogs avoid eye contact and I’m in a funk the entire rest of the day, completely off my game.
I can say, without a doubt, that the Morning Pages were probably the only thing that helped me survive and push through the loss of my Mom. Every Morning Page became a sacred conversation - with her, with myself, with whatever divine force I believe still listens. There were a few days that I just cried into the paper, sometimes I wrote rage, but without fail, every morning I kept writing. It kept me grounded, it gave me hope to keep moving forward without her. And it reminded me of how lucky I am to have had such an amazing woman as my Mother.
And then there’s the Artist Date. Think of it as a solo playdate with your inner creative self with no one else invited, just you and your inner artist. It could be something completely silly like rearranging beads by color while blasting the Thompson Twins or spending the afternoon building with Lego. Or they can be deeply indulgent like dropping an irresponsible amount of cash on art supplies you absolutely don’t need but do deserve. Or my favorite, finally crossing off visiting Joshua Tree from my bucket list. It’s simple to do since there’s only one rule to follow - it’s for you, with only you, and it’s sacred.
Flash forward to a random Facebook post about a year after I gifted myself the book for Christmas. While doom scrolling one evening, I came across a real life Artist’s Way group that was forming in Tacoma. Fourteen weeks, in person, with strangers, every Friday night for almost three months. My gut said “join” while my anxiety about having to endure the torture of a group setting said “don’t you dare.” I contemplated going on this crazy journey for a few days, knowing that trying to do it solo was a spectacular failure, but the thought of having to pour out my heart and soul to strangers made me want to vomit. I signed up anyway.
First meeting: me, 50 other hopefuls, and that electric buzz of “What the hell have I gotten myself into?” I walked in quiet, observant, my inner introvert firmly in control. People always assume I’m extroverted because I sell at art shows or from my teaching days of workshops full of stranger. But in a new group, I’m the one hugging the wall, analyzing everyone like I’m casting a true crime documentary. We met in a church, of all places. Sometimes upstairs in the sanctuary, sometimes downstairs in the basement, which made it feel exactly like a secret speakeasy. My dad called it that. Steve naturally dubbed it my weekly cult meeting. And honestly? That wasn't too far off.
We were told this process mimics the 12 steps of recovery, and this proclamation was pretty spot on. Every week cracked open something new, from “Ah ha” moments to forgotten memories, feelings and emotions. And every week, someone dropped out. By the end, half the group was gone. Not because they were weak, but because this shit isn’t easy, being forced to randomly and unexpectantly be confronted with things from your past, actually having to face your inner critic, asking yourself questions that you wanted to ignore.
After my first meeting, I created something I hadn’t made in years: a handmade journal, with my own two hands, full of intention because unlike days of past, this journal would be for me. It took me back to my early years when I was just starting out at the weekend markets, before life made me forget how good it feels to actually make something just for myself. It was like calling a lost part of me back home. In a way, it was like that wide eyed, rebellious, ambitious young artist was reemerging from my past, reminding me of how amazing it was to be a talented artist. I started wearing the big silver star ring from my twenties again, I let my hair grow out again —wild, now gray, but still proud. I painted my nails matte gray as a tiny “fuck you” to conformity like I did back in high school during my Depeche Mode days. It felt like slowly reassembling an old self I thought I’d outgrown, but who was really just waiting for me to come back.
Later in the course, we had another creative task, creating a collage for ourselves. I guess you could call it our "mood board" for this journey we were on, a visual representation of our crazy journey. Our group had a "collage night" down in the speakeasy, a potluck full of amazing food paired with stacks and piles of magazines and almost every other embellishment you could think of for constructing our collages - of objects and imagery that caught our eyes, mementos of the past, and tokens to symbolize our dreams and hopes for the future. For me, this task came at the perfect time - I hadn't made any artwork since my Mom had passed, and it allowed me to overcome this creative block that had almost paralyzed me for months. It was liberating, insightful, and cathartic all mashed together onto a canvas. I spent the next week in the evenings at home adding texture, colors and some resin, truly making this collage MINE.
And then there was Week Four, the media blackout: no television, no news, no social media, no reading - in a way silencing the distractions of the outside world. Do you know how loud silence is when you’ve filled your life with noise for years? The withdrawal was real the first couple of days, but so was the clarity. Without the endless scroll and doom narratives, the endless soundbites and constant flow of mostly needless information, I found myself cooking more, painting more, being present. I realized how much time I was wasting on garbage and how much of life was I was missing while I was busy refreshing apps and becoming more and more angry at this ass hat of a President and his minions trying to destroy my country. I didn’t realize how much more peaceful life is when you shut out the constant bombardment of the media and wanna be influencers. I can proudly say that I’ve kept those boundaries I set during that week, well mostly - I still check the weather (I mean I do live in the PNW), but I don’t live in the chaos anymore and I don’t allow myself to get sucked into all that bullshit. I choose what comes into my space now, and that space is much more calm and comforting.
For me, the chapter that ripped the band aid clean off was the week we confronted ANGER. I grew up in an emotionally neutral environment where everything was “fine,” and if they weren’t, we sure as hell didn’t talk about it. Anger wasn’t something you expressed, it was something you swallowed and tucked away someplace. Smile, nod, keep the peace. Be the good son, the fixer, the one who smooths things over, that was how I was raised to deal with not only family but the outside world. But here’s the thing about suppressed anger, it doesn’t disappear. Instead It ferments, it simmers, it curls up inside of you like a dormant volcano and waits, silently building this unbelievable amount of pressure. Someone once told me I was like a tsunami. And you know what? They weren’t wrong. On the surface, everything appears calm, unbothered, to the casual observer even serene. But underneath? That water is slowly, gradually pulling back, gathering force. If you’re paying attention, you can feel the undertow building, the subtle warning signs most people ignore. And then one day, usually without warning, the wave hits - fast, violent, completely overwhelming. Years of swallowed rage, disappointment, self abandonment, all of these things that had been quietly hidden are suddenly unleashed in one beautiful, terrifying, all consuming flood. And just like a tsunami, when it’s over, I retreat. Quietly, completely spent, with unrecognizable wreckage and a path of destruction left in my wake.
Reading The Artist’s Way will not stop the next tsunami from coming, but it did make me realize the beauty and strange magic that anger actually holds. Julia Cameron reframed anger not as something shameful, but instead as a compass, a tool, a force that points directly at what’s no longer working and what needs to change, allowing you to see the world with crystal clear clarity and purpose. It shows you where your boundaries have been crossed, where your voice has been silenced, and where your life has veered away from your truth. And perhaps most importantly, the tools to turn this powerful and destructive force of nature into a more manageable wave of emotion instead. When I stopped judging my anger and started listening to it, I realized it wasn’t there to hurt me nor anyone else. It was there to wake me the hell up, to give me clarity, the power to make the changes in my life that I needed to make, and weirdly peace.
In the final weeks of the course, we faced the ghosts of dreams past. I remembered being a twenty something, dreaming of my name up on that billboard in lights, freedom, art, and beautiful sunrises over distant lands. And the truth is, those dreams didn’t die, I just stopped giving them water and the nurturing to thrive. The Artist ’s Way gave me back permission to try again, to take up space, to create not because it’s trendy, but because it’s my voice, my truth. To stop making work just to make a sale but the permission I needed to start making work again that sets my soul on fire.
It’s reclaiming that excitement in bringing to life work that truly expresses ourselves, that we actually believe in - and taking that chance that we’re bringing to life what is in us, with the faith of knowing that we don’t have to reach the masses but instead we need to connect with those who understand and appreciate our voice and talent. And having the space and time to LISTEN, to allow the ideas to flow freely, to truly create from the heart. I was taking the first steps towards moving forward, setting everything in motion, throwing perfection and expectations out the door and just doing. I used to believe that change involved taking this gigantic leap of faith, throwing caution to the wind where I should’ve been focusing on the process of making, not caring about how it was made, obsessing about the details, or wasting so much damn time on endlessly planning the perfect results - which in reality was my subconscious trying to set up yet another roadblock. And self sabotage? I admit that I am the king of this skill, of being on the cusp of success, of finally feeling like my hard work is finally paying off, and then stopping myself in a variety of ways of actually crossing the finish line, this strange mix of fear, of success, and failure.
This course didn’t save me. Let’s be honest, it kicked my ass into gear and gave me back my confidence. It peeled me open, held up a mirror and forced me to truly look into my heart and soul and dared me to say “yes” to myself again. So if you’re stuck, creatively dry, grieving, angry, numb, or just ready to punch a TikTok art “influencer” in the teeth because their hot glue ‘hack’ got 40k likes while your artwork made from blood, sweat and tears is received with absolute silence, this might be your book. Just be warned, The Artist’s Way journey isn’t touchy feely and sure as hell won’t coddle you. But if you let it, it will change you. Sometimes gently, other times painfully, but always beautifully and nurturing.
I wanted to share with you one of the exercises, writing our own Artist’s Prayer, a mantra to hold onto when doubt, fear, or that ever persistent perfectionism creeps in. Julia Cameron refers to this as spiritual electricity or the acceptance of a higher power, not so much in the religious sense. I’ve never been an organized religious person before, and to be honest I have a large distrust of people and organizations that do not accept my choices in who I love, nor the hypocrisy and antiquated rules that most religions preach. With that being said, I have always believed in a “higher power” based in love that connects all of us at some level. For this book, the author presents the concept of our creativity being a gift from this higher power. For me, I called this my Divine Creator with the concept that creativity is our gift from this higher power, and our gift back is to use that creativity and let it shine brightly in this sometimes dark and chaotic world.
My Artist’s Prayer
Divine Creator –
Thank you for the gifts you have given me
To express my creativity –
My hands, my words, my love, my truth.
Use my creativity to help heal myself
And to bring joy to others.
My creativity is a blessing
For me to share these gifts with others
In whatever way that you guide me.
Your faith in me allows me to continue
Down whatever path you choose for me
To express both the dark and the light
That surrounds all of us.
Give me the strength to know
That you are always with me,
To protect me, to lead me,
To always guide me in the right direction.
Everything that I create,
Each idea and my inspiration
Comes from the gifts that you
Have so generously given to me.
Allow me to fulfill the destiny
That you have given to me –
Always made with love and joy
And built with honesty and intention.