“No artist is pleased… There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.“ – Martha Graham

‘Joy’ and ‘joyful’ are words I use almost daily to describe what creative work should be. I have a chart on my desk that places joy at a circle’s centre, while tasks that support that activity spiral outward, creating barriers – tasks many face but often pay others to handle.

Yet even when those barriers fall away, the creative act itself can feel far from joyful. This morning I must finish part 29 of a 30-part series, and it’s been laborious, boring, and the output is not great. I’m not sure an editor will even want to touch it. But kids like the story, so it must be finished.

Despite not being a writer, I spend more and more time writing. I’ve reached what learning theorists call “conscious incompetence” – that humbling phase where your growing taste shows you exactly how far you still have to go. This gap between taste and ability is far from joyful, but the practice continues.