Playing With Broken Toys
Back in the 70s, my buddies and I would grab my Super 8 camera and sprint around the neighborhood making our discount versions of Star Wars. We didn't know what the hell we were doing - that was the magic of it. We'd raid my mom's kitchen for props, tape cardboard to bike helmets for space armor, and shoot these gonzo action sequences that made zero sense but felt like pure creative lightning.
The movies were garbage. But man, were they fun to make.
Something shifts when you turn your passion into a paycheck. I felt it happen during my senior year of high school, sitting in commercial art class. For the first time, creativity wasn't just about imagination - it was about deadlines, client briefs, and hitting market demographics. That class was my first peek behind the curtain of the entertainment business, showing me how the sausage gets made.
Fast forward through thirty years of writing movies, TV shows, and video games. I've learned every beat, every story structure trick, every production pipeline requirement. But sometimes all that knowledge feels like lead weights dragging down the pure joy of creating something just because it sets your brain on fire.
That's the trap of getting good at something. You stop seeing magic and start seeing machinery.
But I found a hack - a way to reconnect with that raw creative rush. I pick up instruments I can barely play. I sketch characters that look like they were drawn by a drunk toddler. I film stupid videos on my phone that would make my professional colleagues cringe.
And it feels fantastic.
Like back in middle school when my friends and I would shoot these awful stop-motion films with action figures, or record radio plays on a cassette deck, or draw comic books on notebook paper. We didn't care if it was good. We just wanted to make cool stuff.
Some of the best artists I know do this instinctively. They keep side projects that have nothing to do with their main gig. No pressure, no expectations, no rules - just pure creation for the hell of it.
If you're feeling creatively drained, try making something you're terrible at. Build a model kit wrong. Write a terrible song. Film a ridiculous home movie. Be bad at it. Have fun being bad at it. Let yourself be that kid again, the one who didn't know any better and didn't care.
Because when you create without worrying about being good, you remember why you fell in love with creating in the first place.
How's that for bringing it full circle? Now excuse me while I go butcher some power chords on my definitely-not-in-tune guitar.
