The Barbaric Yawp

To the creative spirit: thank you for making this such an insightful year for me. You showed me worlds beyond the realm of my own nature. You expanded my perspective, again.

To the incomplete projects that ended up as only a light flickering down the drain: you showed me potential, and I’ve put you on hold until creativity gets the best of me — whenever that may be.

To the few words I managed to pen down: I’m grateful. When rock felt too rigid, paper provided a safe space for me to softly rest my woes. I splattered my heart out in ink. I am not a different person, and I don’t have any deals waiting around the corner — but I am a writer. And I’m proud I wrote, as if it were my salvation.

I remember being twelve or thirteen and reading, for the first time, “Hope is the thing with feathers” by Emily Dickinson. It wasn’t my first exposure to poetry, but it was the one that mattered most. The poem created dialogue with what I felt, and inspired so much of my writing. This post isn’t about Emily Dickinson or Hope, but I think this serves as an essential grounding point. It reminds me of where I started from.

This year has taught me that art, for me, is both sustenance and destruction. When I’m actively engaging with the creative spirit, my soul makes sense to me. I feel understood, protected, and transcended. Without it, I’m a forlorn traveller — looking for that one thing, that one muse, that will be my break. However, I’ve learned to make peace with both aspects.

Here’s the thing: writing is one thing, and taking up space is another. What I’ve found is that both exist in harmony with each other. If I don’t take up space — live outside of writing, engage in other people’s art, nature’s art, experience emotions and events — I can’t write. Or at least, my writing doesn’t evolve. And if I don’t write, what’s the point of taking up space? “But how could you live and have no story to tell?” (White Nights, Dostoevsky)

The art I’ve consumed this year and beyond has been fundamental to the development of my writing. In hindsight, I realise I’ve explored newer forms of art this year, subconsciously — in music, in literature, and in cinema. I’ve only learned how connected we truly are. No single experience of mine has been solitary. I’ve felt it once, then again — in a lyric, in a stanza, or in a character. Taken this way, art can feel invasive. Yet is it really invasive if it is a part of me? The creative spirit is not separate from any of us. The best way I could describe it is as a sense of belonging and hiraeth at the same time. I yearn, but for I yearn, I am here.

Only when you are in tune with your own creation can you be in tune with all realms. So don’t write the story you should. Write the one you want to. Most of the time, you’ll be disappointed to see insufficient rewards — only to find that the real reward is not in the material result, but in the creative process itself.

Of course, sometimes, you need to make art that connects with the world as it is. But the best art happens when you can make what your spirit craves and let it speak to people. I see two types of art: art for the self, and art for something beyond the self. But why choose? Make art for the community. The ones who’ll find meaning in your words are the ones who see themselves in you.

Perhaps the biggest project I undertook this year was completing the first draft of my book, along with beginning work toward a new poetry collection. Creating a new publication on my Substack, The Barbaric Yawp, and updating my blog more regularly are also activities that have resurrected me. These are all special to me, and as much as the thought of holding the final product excites me, I can’t say it fulfils me more than the process of writing itself.

Even with all its ups and downs, I think I can confidently say that I would choose writing again and again. This is who I’ve been for as long as I can remember, and it has become an integral part of me now. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.

So finally, to all the creatives — whether published or still working away under the shadow of your room — a very happy 2026. You’ve earned it.