The Fire and the Spark

I have always loved the outdoors. Hiking, camping, wild nights at the cottage or quiet ones in the backyard—I treasure them all. And one of the best parts of the outdoor experience for me is sitting around the campfire. Whether sharing stories with friends or just quietly watching the flames dance in the dark, there’s something about it that feels magical… almost primal.

A campfire, of course, needs tending. Firewood has to be added and adjusted, or eventually the flames fade. When the spark goes out, the fire dies. But if there are still embers, it can come back.

I think the same is true of creativity.

A lot of artists, authors, and creative people know this feeling all too well. The spark—the muse, the motivation to create—can burn hot, or it can disappear completely. Even the most prolific creators hit a point where what once felt easy and exciting starts to feel heavy, even impossible.

Why does that happen? And maybe more importantly, what do you do when it does?

I don’t know that I have a perfect answer, but I can speak from experience—because I went through it myself. For a long time.

Creative Child

When I was a kid, I loved drawing, making up stories, building plastic model kits—anything creative, really. It all came naturally. Looking back, I do think it helped that there were fewer distractions. No internet, no smartphones—just time and imagination.

Creativity was such a big part of who I was all through primary and high school that continuing down that path felt like the only real option.

I ended up getting accepted into a pretty prestigious animation program at an art school. This was all traditional, hand-drawn animation—not the 3D work you see now. I didn’t necessarily dream of becoming an animator, but it seemed like a good place to start.

The program itself was intense. It was designed to prepare you for the reality of studio work, which meant long hours, late nights, weekends… a lot of grinding. It was tough, no question—but the spark was still there.

Finding a Direction

At some point, I realized animation wasn’t quite right for me, so I shifted into Illustration. That opened things up in a different way—painting, concept work, trying to distill bigger ideas into a single image. I really enjoyed that shift, but even then, I wasn’t completely settled.

I started branching out more—photography, graphic design, anything that let me explore different ways of creating. Graphic design, in particular, stuck.

I didn’t have formal training in it, but this was around the time digital tools were really starting to take off—early days of things like Photoshop—and I managed to build enough skill to start landing clients after graduation.

That turned into a full-time career, mostly doing package design for a consumer products company, and I did that for years.

Through all of it, the spark was still there. Maybe not quite as strong—I definitely wasn’t drawing for fun as much—but it was accessible. If I wanted to create something, I could.

There were even stretches where it expanded again. I started a small streetwear line, did some pop-up art shows, and kept looking for new outlets. Eventually, that led me to something I’d always been curious about—video.

The Dream Job

I started taking on extra projects at work, outside of what I was technically supposed to be doing—product promo videos, internal content, anything that gave me a chance to experiment a bit. It didn’t take long before people started noticing, and eventually I was able to move into a role focused on digital content for the in-house advertising department.

All of a sudden, I was making videos full-time. Even TV commercials.

It was a pretty incredible experience, and in a strange way, animation school had actually prepared me well for it. If anything, this was even more fast-paced, more demanding, more high-pressure than what I had done before—but I was ready for it.

And from the outside, it really did look like a dream job. There was travel to shoots in some amazing places, a constant stream of new projects, and lots of opportunities to push myself creatively. I got to work with, and learn from, some seriously talented people on high-profile work.

For a long time, it was what a lot of people imagine when they think of a creative career.

When the Spark Goes Out

The problem was that over time, with so much creative energy being poured into work—and with some of the realities that come with corporate environments—I could feel something starting to wear down. It wasn’t dramatic at first. More subtle than that.

The desire to make art just for the sake of it slowly started to fade. Not completely, and not all at once, but enough that I noticed it. Enough that the things I used to reach for without thinking—like picking up a pencil—started to feel just a little bit heavier. I told myself it wasn’t really an issue. I was still creating every day, after all. I had a job that a lot of people would love to have. That should have been enough. But it wasn’t quite the same thing.

The work itself, as good as it could be, was always going through layers—feedback, revisions, approvals, changes—until it became something that worked for everyone. Something that fit. Something that sold. And that’s part of the job. I understood that. But over time, it started to take something out of me.

What used to feel natural started to feel effortful. What used to recharge me started to feel like something I had to push through. I was still producing constantly—but I didn’t feel like I was creating anymore.

And that distinction ended up mattering more than I expected. Because it wasn’t just about the work—it felt like I was losing a part of myself. The part that had always been the most me was slowly being replaced with meetings, reports, reviews, metrics… all the things that fill up space in a corporate environment without really giving much back.

I could see it happening, but I didn’t really know how to stop it. The job was still a good job. Stable, engaging in its own way. But there was a cost, and I wasn’t sure anymore if I wanted to keep paying it.

A Reset

A few years later, things shifted again—this time not by choice. Another round of restructuring came through, one that I’d managed to avoid before, and just like that I found myself on the outside of something that had been steady for a long time.

Losing that kind of stability is unsettling, no question. But alongside that, there was something else I hadn’t felt in years.

Time.

After working consistently for decades, having that kind of space was completely new to me. No deadlines waiting, no immediate pressure to jump into the next thing. And while most people in that situation would probably start looking for another job right away, that’s not where my head went.

Rebuilding the Spark

Now most people when they go through this would probably look for another job right away. Not me.

My priority wasn’t securing another job; I wanted to get my creative spark back.

I wanted to make art again. I wanted to see if I could enjoy drawing just for the sake of it again. I wanted to try to find that piece of me that was missing for so long.

Only once I was whole again could I contemplate finding work, otherwise I’d be right back in the same boat.

The Return of the Spark

So I started by enjoying it again.

I started going to galleries and consuming art, listening to artists talk and share their own experiences. I watched friends in similar situations start to make art and share it which greatly inspired me to do the same. I forced myself to pick up a brush and started painting.

It was tough at first, but after a while, something magical happened. I started to enjoy it again.

The results weren’t always ideal, but sometimes they were just what I wanted. I started showing my work to others and was getting positive feedback. Little by little I could feel the embers starting to ignite the fire once more.

Final Thoughts

That period of my life always brings me back to a line from our book The Amazing Adventures of Sisi the Mouse, where Grandma Kiki says:

Don’t succumb to the dangers of complacency.

It’s simple, yet very astute.

Comfort can be a good thing but if you’re not paying attention, it can also quietly pull you away from the things that matter. But be assured that as long as the embers of creativity still burn, the creative fire can ignite again.

It did for me and I’m sure it can for you, too.