Ever found yourself staring at your guitar, keyboard, canvas, or blank Word document thinking, “Well, that’s me done then”? Congratulations, you’ve officially joined the club. This is a story about losing your artistic mojo, with humour, resignation, and just a faint whiff of mackerel.
No, "block" doesn't exist. Artists make, end of story. True artists can’t stop creating. If you have gaps where you’re not doing anything at all, then accept you’re a hobbyist, not a pro. Unless you’re ill of course.
It Always Starts with Tea
As all truly epic personal tragedies do, it begins with a lukewarm cup of tea and a creeping sense that everything you’ve ever created is utter tosh. Nobody likes it online, nobody likes you, and frankly, you can’t even be bothered to pick up the camera or a pencil. Then, before you know it, you’ve tweeted something vague like “Been off the radar lately…” and boom, your mojo, like Elvis, has left the building.
There you are, sitting at the keyboard like a creative Wile E. Coyote, suspended mid-air, only now realizing the cliff ended 40 feet ago. The ideas? Gone. The spark? Extinguished. The mojo? Buggered off, probably to Magaluf with your self-worth and the last working biro in the house, and it’s green.
An Existential Cold War
“Pull yourself together, man!” you say, attempting stern inner dialogue. “It’s only writer’s block! Artist’s block! Photographer’s block!”
But this isn’t your common-or-garden creative hiccup. This is a full-blown existential standoff between you and the process. A Cold War of creativity. You open the laptop and it glares at you. You pick up the camera and it scoffs: “Go on then, try and photograph a street scene. You can’t do it, can you, you sniveling hollow shell?”
Cheers, screen. Cheers, camera.
Woe is, indeed, me.
Mojo, Interruptus
Losing your mojo is a bit like misplacing your wallet, only instead of canceling your credit cards, you’re canceling gigs, ghosting collaborators, and seriously considering a career as a postman. Not because you love letters, but because posties don’t start each day by wondering if they peaked in 2017.
You try everything. TED Talks (too sterile). Long walks in the woods (too muddy). Expensive notebooks (too blank). You even read that oily fish might help brain function, so now you stink of mackerel and regret wrapped in a bouquet of ennui and indolence.
Even mid-afternoon, daytime-TV-presenter inspired bouts of five-fingered solo passion bring little relief.
The Curious Case of Trying Too Hard
The worst part isn’t the block itself, it’s the inability to even try. The sweaty-palmed, desperate, pacing-around-in-your-dressing-gown effort.
You stand in the shower muttering: “Maybe I should do a concept album about Computer Games characters… but with banjos?” You start pitching absurd ideas to yourself: “Ambient jazz inspired by Victorian plumbing?” “Grime remixes of Noël Coward?”
You even ask your mates for help. Big mistake. One earnestly suggests, “Maybe just have fun with it again,” as if the issue was a lack of kazoo solos and balloon animals.
Thanks, Dave. Hugely helpful.
And Then… Nothing
There’s no triumphant comeback here. Not yet. No Hollywood moment. You don’t find a can of sugar-free mojo tucked behind the hummus.
Real life is messier than that. Beige. A bit smelly.
But here’s the thing: true artists never really stop. Even when they feel broken, they keep moving.
Picasso believed inspiration had to find you working. If he got stuck, he’d switch mediums, ceramics, sculpture, printmaking.
Dylan talked about dry spells where no songs came. So he’d read poetry, listen to old records, or paint until something clicked.
Hemingway always stopped writing when he knew what came next, so he’d be eager to return. Clever sod or smug wanker? Take your pic but he was clever.
Sometimes, when the wind turns against you, all you can do is tack into it.
What Actually Helps
Prioritising routine and discipline over waiting for inspiration.
Switching mediums: paint to sketch, piano to poetry, whatever works.
Walks, journaling, the odd train journey to nowhere in particular.
And the key one:
Embracing the block as part of the process. Stop resisting. Dance with the awkward sod, and just keep going. Ennui is not a lifestyle for true artists; it’s for the floppy-haired, fake middle-class ones who have a little studio in the garden.
Me? I’ve been what someone called “blocked” for 18 months thanks to illness (Long Covid, long story). But I carried a camera. I kept making. Turns out I now have a collection of portraits that are starting to look good. Now I’m working on two books and an AI art project. I’ve just released a new album, and there’s another on the way. Smug wanker, too, eh?
You too can be a chaotic, moderately functioning creative gremlin like me.
If You’ve Lost Yours Too
Here’s some advice, worth about £3.50 and a biscuit:
Don’t panic. Even Shakespeare probably stared at a quill muttering, “To be or… oh, sod it.”
Lower the bar. Make something crap. A haiku about cheese. A ketchup portrait of your dog. Doesn’t matter—it breaks the seal.
Talk to someone. Preferably over wine and crisps; it doesn’t even have to be about you. Misery loves creatives.
Stop scrolling. Instagram is a curated lie. Real life includes bins, bills, and creative burnout.
Trust the mojo. It’s a slippery little git, but it usually returns. Often in the loo.
But mainly:
Just do something else. Simply that. Make stuff.
Remember, if you’re stuck, stale, or simply shattered, don’t despair. You’re not broken. You’re just marinating.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to write a funk track about British motorway services. No, not really, but I really have written a prog rock song about game characters.
Yours creatively,
Richard F Adams
(Still searching for the mojo, but at least I’ve found my teacup)