Reigniting the Flame of Creativity

When putting the cart before the horse is a good thing

Today we’re excited to present a beautiful new essay from

Anthony Pica

, who’s experienced a fascinating transformation since beginning to write with Foster, going from feeling like The World's Most Uninteresting Man to someone more like Neo in “The Matrix” — superpowers galore!

Foster offers free, public Writing Circles open to anyone who’d like to get some writing done in a focused container. Join us as we drop into what feels most alive and write from that place – perhaps you’ll experience a fascinating transformation of your own. RSVP to upcoming sessions here.

I'm kneeling on the kitchen floor playing with my son and daughter. Four-year-old Marcus activates his orange mechanical dinosaur and it skitters across the tiles. One-year-old Rachel crawls to me in a panic, reaches up, and grips my leg. The toy is the scariest thing in her life right now. I tell Marcus to stop, but he doesn't understand why I'm upset. I hold Rachel as she burrows into my neck, hugging me for the first time. I feel a warm wave of love I haven't experienced in a while. But it doesn't last long because the dinosaur threat is gone.

So I grab the dinosaur and make it run across the floor again. My son looks at me with a WTF expression, even though he doesn’t know what the “F” means. My daughter clutches me, she needs me again, and a feeling of belonging washes over my body. I know one day my daughter will be grown and independent, but I want the feeling of this moment to last forever.

Every day around the world, billions of moments slip by uncaptured, lost to time. Fleeting instances of love. Flashbacks to childhood memories. Realizations of nature's beauty. While oral storytelling is older than recorded history, passed down alongside the crackle of flames, there are an astronomical number of moments that have been forgotten because they never hit the page.

In the mid-90s, as the internet era dawned and I entered middle school, I found myself drawn to writing. I wrote essays and poems and hip-hop lyrics, discovering different ways of expressing myself. I wrote code to control computers. I designed a language using a kind of homemade cryptography to trade secrets to my brother without our parents knowing what we were saying.

From a young age we have an inclination to transfer our thoughts from the mind into “the real world.” We take what’s in our imagination and inscribe it onto a physical medium like paper. But as we age and responsibilities build, and as the once-distant view of adulthood comes into focus, it’s not uncommon for our creative endeavors to fade into the background.

In 2009, I narrowly missed a perfect 4.0 GPA because my final college project was deemed too unconventional. While I saw creativity and innovation in my approach to designing and writing my paper, the professor saw a deviation from his prescribed rules. So as I transitioned from the end of my formal education to the beginning of my career, the purpose of my writing shifted from being a joyful act of exploration to achieving specific outcomes like getting good grades or acquiring new customers. Instead of being a means of self-expression, writing became a task driven by external expectations. It felt like I was writing because I had to, not because I wanted to, and in the process, my creative flame suffocated.

Meanwhile, I was also developing an admiration for people who could effortlessly recall personal anecdotes that perfectly matched the current conversation. I saw this form of storytelling as a powerful way to express ideas — a superpower I wanted to wield. Even though oral storytelling wasn’t my natural strength, I began to wonder if writing could once again serve me as a means for creative expression. This desire sparked a flicker of inspiration, but it would take another decade for the flame of creativity to fully reignite.

Fast forward to February 2020 and I'm in the headquarters of my software startup. I jot a note on the whiteboard in the middle of the office that reads, "Going on paternity leave, see you in a couple weeks," not knowing it would be more than a year until I saw my co-workers in person again. A few days after the goodbye note, I'm in the hospital with my wife and newborn. The anxiety of becoming a first-time father is surpassed only by the news of an impending pandemic. Thoughts of survival skitter through my mind. But my wife is trying to rest, so I open a note-taking app to talk to myself.

I write in my phone, “While at the hospital, I'm looking at our dogs through my smart home cameras. They have no idea I'm watching them. What if otherworldly beings are looking at us in a similar way with technology we cannot begin to comprehend?” Another note I jot down is, “There is no sound more beautiful than that of a sleeping baby.” 

As the fragmented nights of sleep from new parenthood began to blur together, I find myself writing more frequently. In my journal there are answers to questions like, “How would I know if my beliefs are wrong?” and scribbles of odd thoughts like, “My mirror is my therapist.” Writing creeps back into my life in a new way, as a magnetic energy pulls me back to a state where I feel the desire to express my inner world onto the physical page. The creative flame again begins to flicker.

Now it's 2021 and I’m feeling isolated from parts of the outside, locked-down world. I want to connect with others who share an open-minded, curious passion for expression. Hoping to find a space where I can feel a sense of belonging and nurture my creativity, I look to join my first digital community. The search doesn’t last long. Almost as if the universe hears my calling, I come across a post about a writing collective called Foster. I apply even though I feel reluctant because I don't consider myself a “real writer." I have an intro call with someone from Foster and a couple of days after that I receive an acceptance letter. I'm surprised they let me in.

Yet from the Foster community I receive a warm welcome, a kind of digital hug, as Real Writers™ introduce themselves to me. I feel a touch of validation and belonging as we journal on prompts like, “What would you write if you had no fear?” and discuss the resistance that holds us back from expressing ourselves. Thought-provoking feedback in the form of questions like, “How did you react to her telling you this?” inspires me to delve deeper into my emotions. I don’t feel ready yet, but with the community’s support, I find the confidence to transfer this new identity from my mind into the real world by adding the word “writer” to my online bio and launching an online newsletter.

Now, I face a new challenge: I need more ideas to write about.

So I search my life for personal stories to share. But I don’t find any. “Is my life that boring?" I ask my mirror. I haven't traveled the world. I can only speak one language. I'm not solving a world problem. I don't have a PhD. I feel like the World's Most Uninteresting Man. I hunt for stories everywhere, but the page remains blank. I enjoy note-taking and writing and storytelling and sharing experiences, so I'm not giving up. Like the James Webb telescope searching for signs of life in the distant sky, I am determined to find a damn story to tell.

At a picnic, I look up and notice a tranquil scene. I jot down, “A beautiful day is nothing to waste. The green on the blue and the white, makes for such a beautiful sight.” Nothing remarkable in itself, but it's the moment I realize I can write about anything. Anything. Just a couple of sentences or a few words can act as a portal to transport me back in time to that picnic and my experience enjoying time with friends and family on a beautiful spring day. If you catch me on my phone, it's not because I'm scrolling Instagram, it's because I'm memorializing the moment by jotting down a few simple words. Writing can capture memories just like a photograph. Line by line, I’m sowing seeds of stories to tell.

Slowly, I realize I am becoming more observant and mindful in my daily life.

I describe things in my head as if I’m writing for someone else to read, noticing details as if seeing them for the first time through the eyes of a child — like the stark contrast of a green tree canopy dancing against billowing cotton clouds on a sapphire canvas. I capture moments that unearth emotions once buried in the ordinary hustle and bustle of life — like a deep sense of gratitude from hearing family and friends laugh at a picnic under that blue expanse. I have discovered that writing is an act of heightened awareness, a magical force that intensifies one’s perception even before words hit the page. I feel like Neo in “The Matrix” as I block out noise, slow down time’s arrow, and see the beauty in the universe.

I don't know why I didn't have this power before or why I lost it along the way, but I have it again. Calling myself a Writer — before I felt I was ready or “good” at writing — meant I needed things to write about, which prompted me to be more attuned to what’s happening around me. I put the cart before the horse, as the saying goes, but in this case it's in a positive context. Because I identify as a writer, I see and remember all kinds of moments in my life that I might have otherwise taken for granted or forgotten, like the time I used a toy dinosaur to trick my daughter into hugging me. My life feels more fulfilling even though my only change has been to write more often. I've just become more aware and grateful of what was already there. I’ve written enough words to fill a book, and I’m just getting started.

I'm not a writer because I have stories to share; I have stories to share because I'm a writer.

These days when I think of being a "writer," I don't necessarily picture myself sitting at my desk, gripping a pen or tapping a keyboard. Instead, I feel a sense of connectedness with the universe, appreciating the beauty and wisdom around me. I see myself remembering precious moments with my family and friends and how they made me feel. I see myself (re)discovering the value of everyday experiences and finding inspiration and fulfillment in the simple, often overlooked moments of life.

As I pick up my daughter to carry her to bed, her gray crystalline eyes pierce mine for five whole seconds and I freeze before she melts into my chest and hugs me. She's manipulating me because she doesn't want to go in her crib, and it works because I keep holding her. I flash back to the moment on the kitchen floor with the dinosaur when I felt a sense of not being needed by her one day, but I’m not worried. The flame of creativity is ablaze. And I know that through the power of writing, the feeling of a precious moment can last forever.

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