The Creative Price

I first became aware of the price of creativity as a kid, when I saw a well-known actor being interviewed.

At that point, the actor had had a lengthy and successful career. But he admitted that after finishing a film he suffered from an inescapable feeling that he would never work again. Even though offers would roll in, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d be exposed as a no-talent fraud.

I soon discovered that he was not the only person who felt this way. In fact, I realized, it hits all kinds of artists.

I’ve been composing music for 50+ years. When I started out, I was simply enjoying the process of creating and learning. Occasionally, I would have writer’s block. Mostly, it was from a lack of technical skills. So, I relied on “inspiration” to help me continue. As I gained more experience, I developed the skills to further my compositions, without depending on pure inspiration. Writer’s block became a thing of the past.

The word inspiration is a bit abstract. For starters, different people experience it in different ways. Who knows what inspires an artist? From one piece to the next, I might be inspired by different influences, moods, or events in my life.

Mostly though, I don’t need anything more than a blank score page to be inspired (my favorite kind of inspiration). I begin by improvising at the piano and look for some melodies, chords and rhythms that capture my interest. I establish a main theme (usually a brief three-to-four note motif), then begin the lengthy process of developing that motif into a full-blown composition.

Development of a theme is no mean feat. It demands all the technical skills of composition to build a seamless, flowing narrative (music being an abstract thing unto itself). My goal is to say everything I know about what that motif can become — without overly repeating myself or deviating too far from the main theme.

As I gained experience as a composer, my pieces became more complex.  As a younger composer, I focused mainly on melodies and chords. I’d write what simply sounded cool and hip to me. With more advanced skills, I shifted to developing the form of a piece. That demands a much longer commitment in development and concentration. A typical piece — like a concerto or tone poem — can take months for me to complete. And it’s not exactly a party. It’s just me, my piano and a blank score page. (Which is to say, a lot of alone time.)

When you spend that much time with a creative endeavor, you go deep into the realm of abstract thought. The good notes live right next to the bad notes. It’s your job to sort them out and see which ones actually belong in the piece. All while wrestling with your “muse” — the force inside that compels artists to create.

The muse knows no limits. It wants you to create and not stop. Many times I’ve sat down to compose thinking, “I’ll just write for a few minutes.” Then look up to see that hours have passed. It’s a great feeling to be lost in what Bob Dylan calls “time out of mind.” But I’m sure Bob would agree, it has its price. The muse can lead you to miss meals, lose sleep, and generally not take care of yourself.

Along the way, an artist can become overly attached. The best music evokes deep feelings. And even though I’m employing technical skills to create it, for me, the end result is all about emotion. So, when composing I stare headlong into a swirl of emotions. Over long days and many months, that can be exhausting.

So, I guess it’s not surprising when “post-creative depression” arises. As that last note falls into place, I feel immense satisfaction. But a day or two later, malaise seeps in, sometimes followed by a descent into depression. My symptoms run from sleeplessness, lack of appetite, gut problems, low energy, and even anxiety attacks. Not to mention, a fear that I might not compose again (though I always do!).

Again, this is not exclusive to composers. Why do so many actors relate to Death of a Salesman? Because after a demanding role even top professionals, like the one I saw interviewed, wonder when or if their next gig will show. Not unlike Willy Loman’s anxiety about his next sale.

Writers, painters, choreographers, architects, etc. all live on this precarious creative knife-edge. As do sports teams that work all season to win a championship, only to experience the elation/depression cycle. Even astronauts. Once you’re back on Earth, what’s next?

I see the post-creative crash as the hidden tax on a life spent chasing the creative storm. When you spend months sorting the good notes from the bad, you aren't just arranging sounds on a page; you’re channeling an immense amount of emotional and psychic energy through your own nervous system. The muse demands everything you have. And when the work is finally done, it leaves behind an empty silence.

Of course, the alternative to this creative price — a life locked out of that fantastic, untamed world — is far more costly. The malaise, the anxiety, and the empty space left behind are simply the terrain we must cross to bring something new into existence.

For me, I expect this after every piece. It’s just part of the process. I often wish that weren’t the case, but it’s the price we pay to access the beautiful, amazing world of creativity.

Rich Shemaria

May 26, 2026