Ode to My Absent Creativity (If I Could Write One)
Once upon a time, poetry and I were inseparable. I can’t say my first impression of poetry was a positive one because I associated it with sad Tumblr blogs, but that changed after my first undergraduate poetry class. I only signed up for the course because it was my only extracurricular option during my last semester of college. At that point, the only poem I had ever written was probably an angsty sonnet about a boy, which is mercifully lost to time.
My feelings for poetry shifted during my final semester at Black Hills State University in Spearfish, South Dakota. Spring yields breathtaking natural beauty in Spearfish, with snow-capped hills, fresh flowers budding in the canyon, the crystal creek splashing through the town, and a cacophony of songbirds welcoming warmer days. My professor knew that outdoor settings would inspire creative expression, so when the weather permitted, we held our poetry classes outdoors. Our class studied the works of famous contemporary poets, such as Maggie Smith, Ada Limon, and Ocean Vuong, learning how to cultivate our unique voices to express our truths in the world. It was there where my love for poetry blossomed, I found my enthusiasm for turning ordinary aspects of everyday life into art.
I realized that my newfound passion for writing was mainly driven by scheduled classes, my peers, and deadlines. After graduating, I no longer had anyone to hold me accountable for my writing, which led me to stop altogether—especially as I transitioned from being a college student to a college graduate.
I stayed in Spearfish for a year after graduation, but I found myself missing the rhythm of university life—classes, structured writing times, and the satisfaction of producing new writing. Meanwhile, my best friend was deep in the throes of graduate school applications. After a trip to Boston, exploring universities with my best friend, and the desire to be an actual writer, I had a realization: I wanted to pursue a degree in English Literature too. So, I applied, got accepted to a few programs, and ultimately chose to pursue my master’s degree at the University of South Dakota.
Attending graduate school during a worldwide health pandemic had its own amalgamation of challenges, but it also forced me to focus on my studies and writing. There, I was enveloped the backbreaking speed of academia, earned graduate school nemeses, and I embodied the stereotype of your average English Major: cats, coffee, 0.7 G2 Pilot gel pens, stacks of old library books littered around a worn-down apartment, and being really, really financially poor.
I found myself in a familiar scenario during my penultimate semester of graduate school where poetry was the one-of-the-last-available options for an extracurricular. The professor leading the course was the former professor to my former professor at Black Hills State, so I was looking forward to learning from their perspective of poetry as an art form.
My poetry was once again supported by the class structure, my professor, and the accountability of my peers. The muscle memory of creative writing returned, and I found myself scribbling lines maniacally into my notebooks again. Words flowed effortlessly, and my poems were published in literary journals across the county, affirming my identity as a poet. And then, one day, my muse packed its bags, said something cryptic like “It’s not you, it’s the economy,” and dipped. Four years later, I’m sitting here trying to remember how to write an ode to my creativity—or maybe an elegy…
After graduation, my career as a nonprofit healthcare grant writer took center stage, and my creative relationship took a backseat to a different kind of wordsmithing.
Grant writing and poetry share a lot of DNA, kind of like how human beings and bananas are slightly genetically related. Both require clarity, rhythm, the ability to say a lot with limited space, and every word counts. They demand a deep understanding of audience—knowing who will read your words and how those words will move them. Both aim to distill need and big ideas into something digestible, striking, and impactful.
By the time I wrapped up a workday full of funding rationales, narrative justifications, and strategically chosen phrasing, I found that my creative energy had simply been readjusted, redirected, repurposed. Every sentence I crafted meant something tangible—a program funded, a service expanded, a life changed, partnership established. That level of intention made it harder to justify sitting down to write something that didn’t have an immediate, measurable impact.
The irony here is that I never stopped writing, and poetry endures in the heart of my career in the way I structure sentences, the careful placement of words, and in the way I can make numbers mean something to a funder. Poetry never really left—it just put on a pair of clean slacks, a button up blouse, and transformed into business casual.
If you haven’t gone on a run in a few months, do you still get to call yourself a runner? If you can’t remember the last time you picked up a paintbrush, are you still an artist? If you haven’t written a poem in three years, are you still a poet?
After several years of poetic silence, am I suddenly back to writing sweeping verses with ease? Nope.
But my 2025 New Years Resolution is to write more, which is why this website exists and why I’m committing to producing content for myself and whatever audience decides to join. There’s a level of vulnerability in writing for public view that’s difficult to digest. I know I’m overthinking it; It’s rusty and unfamiliar, but it’s mine.
In fact, let’s make this a group effort: If you’ve ever abandoned a creative pursuit and then tried to claw your way back, tell me about it.
And if you happen to run into my creativity while you’re out there—tell it I’m looking for it.
All opinions and views expressed are my own
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All opinions and views expressed are my own *
