What Teaching Art To My Grandchildren Has Taught Me About Creativity & How it Saved My Writing.

There are days when I wonder what I have left to offer the world—when the page feels like a mirror reflecting back all my defects and doubts. On those days, I feel small. Forgotten. Like the best of my ideas might already have spilled out and frankly they weren’t all that great.

But then, I sit down at the table with my grandchildren.
Out come the paints. The beads. The glue and gel plates.
We don’t worry about what it’s “for.” We don’t talk about markets, algorithms, whether people are going to like it or reviews. We just make stuff.

And suddenly, I remember why I started. I wanted to try something new and have something exciting to learn every day.

Children don’t overthink creativity. They don’t ask if it’s good enough. They don’t agonize over whether the colors clash or if the idea will sell. They just dive in—messy, fearless, and wide open. Watching them, I see how much I’ve forgotten. And how much I still have to learn.

My twelve-year-old granddaughter made a gelprint the other day—layers of color, pattern, a hint of chaos that somehow held together. I overlaid it with a quote by Picasso: “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.”
And there it was. The whole truth in one little print and we popped it up on Pinterest. And it made both of us happy.

Teaching them art doesn’t just remind them to create. It reminds me that creativity isn’t about control. It’s not about waiting for inspiration or chasing perfection. It’s about showing up. Trying things. Following instinct and most of all, letting go and having fun.

Their hands move without hesitation. Their ideas come without apology. And that kind of freedom? It’s contagious.

Since I teach them weekly, I’ve noticed something—the days after I teach, my writing flows easier. The pressure to get it “right” lessens. The voice that says you’re too old, too late, too stuck grows quieter. Because the same part of me that guides them to layer color or cut shapes is the part that once wrote stories in the dark for no one but me.

Creativity isn’t a straight line. It’s a circle. What I give to them, I get back. And when we create side by side, something sacred happens:
I stop trying to be brilliant.
And I remember how to play.

Please comment on how you keep things fresh for yourself.