1-Year Later: What Writing a Book Taught Me About Creativity

the book that's writing me

One year ago, I took a leap into the unknown. I sat down for a five-day sprint to write Creative Dysregulation, not knowing where it would take me. That experience taught me more about creativity—and myself—than I ever imagined.

I’ll start by saying: I’m grateful I did the challenge. I truly believe it changed my life for the better. And yet, this past year, I wrestled with waves of resentment—not just toward the book, but toward those five days. Only by going into that resentment was I able to reap the benefits of what I’d created.

For those who are new to my work, here’s the short version: I wrote and published the first version of my book in five days. Creative Dysregulation is a term I coined to describe the experience of struggling to express creativity—when, at some point in the process, you become overwhelmed by physical, emotional, mental, and/or spiritual dysfunction and blockage. And if you're like me, all of the above.

The term resonated. Enough people connected with it that I felt compelled to keep going—diving into research, leading workshops, conducting 30+ research calls, and using myself as a guinea pig at 10x the intensity.

My resentment stemmed from the same place most resentment comes from: I over-gave while suppressing my emotions along the way.

In the beginning, the project felt electric. I was fueled by curiosity and enthusiasm—plus a near-daily stream of emails and DMs from people thanking me, congratulating me, sharing their own journeys with creative dysregulation. It felt like a perfect balance of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation.

This is great! I thought. I’m onto something.

But eventually, my enthusiasm waned. And yet, I kept pushing.

Naturally, the emails and DMs slowed. And even when they did come in, they didn’t hold the same weight. I had already begun the inevitable decline from “yayyy this is awesome!!! to gahhhh fck this” in the creative process. Yes, a scientifically proven process.

I started feeling beholden to this book, convinced I should rewrite it.

Not just for “the people.” Not just to make it better.

Beneath the surface, it was actually something much deeper: I should rewrite it in order to be proud of myself.

One friend sent me a voice memo:
"Kelly, I don’t think you need to rewrite it. What if you just let it be? It’s done. It’s good enough."

No. Not possible.

I couldn’t believe that a five-day sprint could produce a book that was “good enough.” The only way I could stomach its existence was by framing it as V1—a Minimum Viable Book. When people told me they were buying it, I’d apologize for its incompleteness, reassuring them a better version was on the way. Was it?

This apologetic wonkiness was reinforced when I told a hot-shot literary agent—someone who represents some of the biggest names in personal development—that I wrote my book in five days and was seeking representation.

Her eye-roll was so obvious that I instantly wanted to hide.

My book and its insane origin story both liberated me and embarrassed me.

On one hand, it was so freaking cool to have written something that flowed straight through me, something that genuinely helped people. I can count at least 15 people who told me my story inspired them to start their own projects. In fact, six books exist today because my story got out there. I don’t want to discount that. It also catapulted me into a new chapter of confidence in my work, perspectives and ability to help others.

But on the other hand, it made me feel like a lonely outlier in an industry that takes years and years to break into. I felt like my title should be Author-ish.

I knew I could do better. I knew I could produce something more refined, more helpful, more polished—if only I gave myself months, or even years.

And yet, every time I tried to return to the manuscript, it felt torturous. The fuel, the magic, the (healthy and sustainable) motivation had vanished. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t return to the page with curiosity and love. It had all become too serious, too important, too heavy.

My identity, my reputation—my very sense of having made it—felt wrapped up in this damn book. Showing up to the manuscript felt like showing up at the start of a marathon with all of my injured past selves trailing behind me, roped together.

My little 18,000-word, $4.99 book was suddenly carrying the weight of my entire creative worth.

Whoa.

By August 2024, I finally admitted it to myself: Damn. I’m still creatively dysregulated.

A few months later, I humbly took my own creative regulation self-assessment as a non-biased participant.

According to my own framework, I was medium-high dysregulated in identity integration, emotional resilience, and motivational clarity.

I always knew that by writing about creative dysregulation, I’d meet it head-on.

And yet, I kept forgetting. Over and over again.

So I stopped trying to fix the book. I stopped trying to make it great. I stopped trying to bring a concept into the world.

I just did what my own book preaches to do. I felt.

I felt the anger, the grief, the embarrassment, the self-judgment. I felt the weird loneliness of being an author who put in five days of effort—and the quiet shame that would rise in my chest when “real authors” gave me that confused look after I’d timidly admit, yeah… just five days.

I turned toward all those injured past creative parts trailing behind me.

I met the littlest ones, the ones who just wanted to hold the book in their tiny hands and say, Look! I made a thing! and be loved for it.

I met the ones who feared being graded and ranked against others, who wouldn’t let me feel a sense of belonging to the author groups that I’m now a part of. Holding myself back from connection because, well, I’m not a real author, right?

I met the parts of me terrified of actually standing in my own authority. The ones who refused to let me be proud of myself, who couldn’t accept that, actually—yes—this book was helpful and valuable. And still is.

It is so hard to love ourselves exactly as we are. Exactly where we are.

Without me knowing it, my book had become a mirror for my humanness.

It was both perfect and imperfect. Incomplete and whole. Wonderful and a work-in-progress.

It showed me where my vulnerabilities lie. How I crave both belonging and individuality, recognition and invisibility, mastery and messiness. How I oscillate between wanting to be taken seriously as an original thinker while simultaneously wanting to blend in and be like everyone else.

It showed me how I’ve spent my life trying to prove my worth through what I do—and how, no matter how much I accomplish, some part of me still waits for an external stamp of approval that will never come.

Because the only person who can give it to me is…me.

It showed me how much of my creative energy has been spent managing perceptions rather than simply making what I want to make. And making them how I want to make them.

And yet—what a gift.

Because the truth is, I don’t want to be the person who needs an agent’s approval to feel worthy.

I don’t want to be the person who apologizes for what she’s made before it’s even in someone’s hands.

I don’t want to be the person who keeps waiting for an external authority to deem her work “good enough” before she lets herself love it.

I want to be the person who stands proudly in the work she creates—whether it took five days, five years, or five decades.

I want to be the person who understands that creativity is not just about what we make, but who we become in the process.

And if this book has taught me anything, it’s this:

Creative regulation isn’t about eliminating self-doubt or perfecting the process. It’s about learning to dance with the paradoxes of creation—confidence and uncertainty, urgency and patience, pride and humility, completion and evolution.

It asks us to embrace the paradox of our existence— that we are innately creative beings with the capacity to bring forth anything we imagine. And yet, we must do so through our humanness. As creative life force energy moves from our souls and through our bodies and minds, it bumps up against beliefs, trauma, and the woundings that would have us think we’re something less than capable and worthy. And in a strange way, this is ultimately why I believe we create.

We do not create so that we can have a bunch of books with our names on them. That is a secondary benefit.

We create because the act of creating changes us.

We create to transform—to let our ideas, projects, and visions call forth our wholeness, our confidence, and our capacity.

Because when we commit to a creative process, we are not just making something—we are becoming someone. A truer, fuller version of ourselves.

But only if we do the courageous work of going inward.

Only if we welcome what arises.

Only if we meet the parts of ourselves ready to be re-integrated.

Only if we see our projects for what they truly are: mirrors.

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Kelly’s Note:

So, where am I now with the book?

After stepping away for several months and having deeper conversations with friends, I’ve decided to fully re-commit to the rewrite.

Not because I think V1 is invalid—it absolutely serves a purpose. But I’ve connected with a much bigger why. I see now that Creative Dysregulation isn’t just about creative struggles—it’s about embodied agency. The ability to create what we truly want in our lives.

At its core, creative dysregulation is a nervous system response—often rooted in childhood attachment patterns, where authenticity was suppressed in exchange for love and safety. The rewrite will go deeper into this, first as a book for adults, with a companion workbook designed to feel like creative therapy meets shadow work.

And with the help of others, I intend to bring this work into schools and families, supporting young people before the dysregulating damage is done.

All of which is deeply connected to a larger mission that I have been increasingly sensing is within me: to support the widespread understanding of secure attachment and authentic self-expression as foundational pillars for human and collective flourishing. Something I will be writing a lot more about soon 💛