On Writing / / By

When a Book Gave Me Permission to Begin

On reading the book “The Artist’s Way” at the right time

The Season I Picked Up This Book

I had just turned thirty and was asking myself what actually brought me joy. Writing kept coming up. So on a Saturday morning in July, I searched for the best books on writing. The Artist’s Way appeared at the top of every list.

E-reader displaying "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron beside a colourful notebook and a pen on a wooden table.
The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron

Reading on a Saturday in July

I was wearing a brown-coloured co-ord short set. I had my breakfast late and decided that I would dedicate my entire day to reading.

I closed my bedroom door so I wouldn’t be disturbed and filled my steel water bottle so I did not have to get up if I was thirsty.

I finally lay on my bed and clicked open The Artist’s Way from the bookshelf in the Moon+ Reader Pro app on my phone.

As I read the first few pages of the book, I realised that this was not a book explaining the craft of writing but advice on how to put aside our excuses and just get started.

It had been two hours since I started reading it, and I couldn’t put it down for the life of me.

I was reading the program for the second week about reclaiming personal interests when my breathing slowed. I started to wonder if I was really spending as much time doing things I really loved, like reading, writing, and travelling.

My mother called me from the kitchen, saying lunch was ready.

I checked the time on my phone and was surprised to see that it was already two in the afternoon.

I had my lunch in fifteen minutes, eager to get back to the book.

I started reading again and came across the section where the author mentions that the biggest block to creativity is perfectionism.

I clutched my phone tightly.

I thought about how just yesterday I stopped myself from drawing a beautiful house in my sketchbook because I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to do it perfectly.

I sat up straight on the bed.

It was 8 pm when my mother told me that dinner was ready. I told her that I would eat later, as I did not want to interrupt my reading flow.

It was an hour later when I finished the book.

I put my phone in the metal basket that hung by the bed and just stared at the ceiling.

I realised that the only person who was stopping me from writing was me.

The Artist Date

It was the 9th of November 2025. It was my artist date day, and I had planned my expedition a week ahead.

I decided to go to the bookstore in Paradise Circle, which had been my go-to place for books ever since I was a child.

It was three in the afternoon.

I wore my green-coloured crop top and dark blue wide-leg jeans and applied kajal and mascara.

I always dress up when I go on artist dates, as I have established that I am the most important person in my life.

I hopped on my bike and rode to the bookstore. I reached there in about 10 minutes.

I opened the door to the store and was immediately greeted by the enticing smell of paper and wood.

I squealed with delight at the sight of so many books.

I slowly walked down the aisles of books, touching the spines.

I found a murder mystery book peeking out from the adjacent shelf.

I have always had a soft corner for mysteries, something I wrote about in Order in Chaos: Reading Agatha Christie When I Was Failing.

It was named I Know Where You Buried Your Husband.

I picked it up and saw a blurb on the back cover that said it was a highly engaging feminist read about five female friends.

I immediately decided to buy the book.

I looked at my Fossil smartwatch and realised that it had been an hour and a half since I came.

Time well spent, I felt.

I was humming to myself when I left the store and walked to my bike parked in front of the building.

Publishing Without Permission

I was sitting at my wooden desk at home. It was a Sunday evening.

My first essay, Choosing Solitude Without Apology, was open on WordPress on my laptop.

I had already revised it three times and even read it out loud, as they taught me to in my content writing class.

I was wearing a black nightdress that was so comfortable that it made me forget I even had it on.

My laptop was propped up on the wooden laptop stand.

My rose-toned keyboard and mouse sat before it.

The cursor hovered over the publish button.

I picked up my pink mug with white hearts from the wooden coaster and took a sip of Thums Up.

I had spent a lot of time last month building my website, taking care of everything from the background colours to the font sizes for this exact moment.

I scrolled back to the top of the essay.

I read the first paragraph.

Then the second.

My hand reached for the keyboard. I could tighten that sentence, clarify that word choice, and—

I stopped.

I pulled my hand back.

I always do this.

Reread until I find new problems and fix problems until I find new ones. Never finish.

I scrolled to the publish button.

I took a deep breath and clicked.

I immediately refreshed the page to see it live.

I straightened my shoulders as I saw my essay live on my website.

Where This Has Left Me

My blog has five essays now.

Three of them are good, and two are still learning.

But I published them anyway.

I still have The Artist’s Way on my e-reader now.

But I do not need to open it anymore.

I am already doing what it told me to do.

If this resonated, you might enjoy Letters From a Slow Writer, my occasional newsletter on autonomy, solitude, and living deliberately.

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