A few years ago, while living in the immediate aftermath of a cancer diagnosis, I claimed a word that became my rock, my steady, my anchor. All the things you need when your world has been turned upside down. The word was hope. I gripped tightly to that word and held to it with all my might. I trusted in the promise its definition implies. I preached it. I shouted it from the valley and from the mountaintop. I wrote a book about it.

If you’re reading the above paragraph fearful that I’m about to write another one telling you I’ve abandoned that word along with all of the reasons I touted its praises, do not be afraid. I will not be writing that paragraph because I have not let go of hope. I have, however, been considering a rebranding of sorts. Not to leave hope behind, but to add to it. If hope was the ammunition I used to combat despair, then I guess you could say I’m considering adding to my arsenal. A more diverse supply of options to wage the war all creatives face.

I am certainly not the first to approach the life of a creative entrepreneur as a war. My favorite and most recommended book of all time is The War of Art, by Stephen Pressfield. No other book has better equipped me to get my act together creatively, and continue to put one foot in front of the other, marching toward the front line of whatever battle I am facing as a writer. If you haven’t read it, stop reading this blog and go get it right now. I’ll be here when you return.

One of my favorite things to do in life is encourage other creatives. I find great joy in watching others do their thing, and selfishly, it always inspires me to go do my thing in response. Much of the encouragement I am able to give is through writing, but I’ve also coached/mentored a whole lot of artists through the years, either through workshops, camps, classes, or private clients. It is always a privilege and I don’t approach those situations lightly. If someone is entrusting me with the opportunity to weigh in as they chase their dream, I am paying attention, big time.

Over the years, I’ve worked closely with a variety of people in pursuit of a variety of creative projects. At some point, usually when we’ve completed our time together, I typically ask for feedback regarding our working relationship. What I’ve found interesting is how the response offered most has been the appreciation for my honesty regarding their situation and my vulnerability in sharing my experiences that relate to theirs. This leads me to think most people don’t want to simply be told how to do something better, or be given a three-step process for how to reach a particular goal. No, I think what they really want is for someone to remind them they aren’t alone in their pursuit of something amazing. They want to hear stories of when someone else was chasing the same kind of dream, fell flat on their face, and then had to figure out how to get up again.

The ones who are serious about doing the work don’t just want you to tell them what it felt like to reach the top of the mountain. They genuinely want to know what it took to get there. The moments when you wanted to quit and didn’t. The storms that rolled in just as you were about to find a foothold, causing you to slip and slide helplessly back down to a place you thought you’d left behind. The kinds of conversations which seem to be most beneficial and result in actual progress for whoever I’m working with, are the ones where I haven’t sugar-coated what this creative life entails.

All of this leads me to the decision to take a new approach to my own creative journey in 2026 and to how I choose to share that with the world. Closing out one year and beginning a new one has always been a good time to make changes, but for me, this time of year will forever be linked to the day life changed on a dime. December 31st, 2025 will mark five years since I heard the words, “You have cancer.” Since that moment, there hasn’t been a day that hasn’t been impacted by my diagnosis. I’ve made it through what I hope is the worst of it, but continue to fight daily with medications and living with the physical aftermath of surgeries and treatments, not to mention regular occupational and physical therapies, bloodwork, and scans. There are many days that leave me weary and worried. Thankfully, there are more days when I am determined and purposeful. Days when I still believe in the value of doing my own creative work and encouraging others to do whatever creative work they feel called to do.

So, here’s what 2026 will look like for me. My regular posts (weekly on Mondays) will be found on my Substack, The Honest Creative. I will link these posts on my social media accounts (Instagram and Facebook) and will share them via email with my subscribers. Other than that, you likely won’t see much of me personally on social media next year, unless it is to promote some kind of creative work I want the world to know about - mine or someone else’s - or an occasional family update that seems social-media-appropriate, which is feeling rarer by the day.

I will also be releasing some content that will only be available to paid subscribers. Don’t panic - the monthly fee will only be $5. My reason for this is the ever-changing way in which artists are paid for their work. We creatives are trying to figure out how to continue doing what we feel called and compelled to do, while still paying the bills. I am a firm believer in artists getting paid for the work they do and personally find great joy in supporting the artistic work of writers whose works I regularly consume. There is absolutely no pressure to do so, but if you feel compelled to support the work I do on this platform and receive the “extras” I’ll make available only on Substack, feel free to upgrade to a paid subscription.

I hope you’ll continue on this journey with me. There are lessons to learn, opportunities to grow, battles to fight, and victories to celebrate. I’m choosing to share my life with you more vulnerably than ever before, in hopes that you will be inspired and equipped for your own creative pursuit. It might not always be pretty, but it will be purposeful; curated not for the sake of appearances, likes, or rewards, but for the sake of offering something a fellow traveler might find helpful on their own journey.
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Thanks for being here.
Gina

I've been avoiding this post. It's the post-show post. This particular post needs to be written during the post-show dip, but is so hard to write when you're actually in the dip. The post-show dip always happens, and can result in a myriad of emotions and choices and countless hours spent processing every minute detail of your life for the previous weeks you've lived in show-land. It's a lot. And it has been one of the most wonderful post-show dips I've ever had. 

For the past two years, I have been on a journey with my friends Lee and Tony to bring a show we've written to the stage. Walnut Ridge happened over two weekends at The Nebraska Communities Playhouse (NCP) in Hickman, Nebraska. It's the second time NCP has staged one of our shows - something we are incredibly grateful for. It's a big ask for a theater like NCP to take on a new work, and I do not take their investment lightly. I am also currently the Co-Executive Director at NCP, which can both compliment and complicate the process, but all in all, the staging of Walnut Ridge was a success and an experience I will never forget. 

Now, the work begins. What work, you might ask? So. Much. Work. There is the work on the show - always a work in progress, until a certain point I suppose, but for now, we refine, we record, we promote. There is the work on the organization I work for - again, always a work in progress. What can we do better? What needs a complete overhaul? What are we doing well? And there is the work on me - like the other things, always a work in progress. Which brings us back to the post-show dip. 

The season immediately following the completion of project in which you've invested considerable amount of time, energy, and resources, can be one of the most beneficial parts of the creative process. If we let it. The personal and professional growth that can happen during a post-show dip is unlike any other I've experienced. This potential for growth seems to be exponentially possible when you're in a position of leadership. I don't want to paint an unrealistic picture here 'cause it ain't always pretty. It can be brutal. The praise is empowering and inspiring. The criticism is deafening and defeating. It all comes with the territory, and if you can't find a way to deal with it, get out. 'Cause it will eat you alive if not handled with care.

As far as the creative work goes, the post-show dip always brings with it both a sense of accomplishment and the feeling that there is more I want to do.  I suppose that's the sweet spot for a creative - to simultaneously feel satisfied and hungry for more. To have your calling confirmed by both the glow of the embers symbolizing the completion of one work, and by the chance to chase the spark that escapes the dying fire, floating off to ignite a new one. 

The problem with the post-show dip is getting out of it. I've seen a lot of folks accomplish a creative goal and then are never heard from again. It's quite possible they were a one-and-done.  They had a goal, met it, and moved on to something completely different. And that's okay. What grieves me is when an artist has poured their heart and soul into something, unleashed their work, and then, in the aftermath, has decided it just isn't worth it. It's too painful. The pain might come from the physical, emotional, spiritual, or financial toll doing the work has taken on you. It might come through the hurtful and heartless critiques you've had to endure. It might come from the ridiculous idea that you probably aren't an artist creating anything that offers "real" value to the world. Wherever the pain comes from, it is real and deep and crushing. 

If you happen to be that artist today, may I offer some advice? It comes from over 40 years of unleashing creative work out into the world and living through the fallout, still alive, willing and able to talk about it. Here are a few things I've learned along the way. 

1. Your art won't be for everyone. Some people will love you, some will like you, and some are crouching at the door, ready to pounce. Be grateful for the first two groups, ignore the third. You will never make them happy. Remember, the response to any creative work is subjective. Some people are just blessed by the opportunity to enjoy someone else's art, plain and simple. Some people come because they think real art must compel the audience to dive deep into the emotional recesses of their brains, unearth some childhood trauma, or advance some big agenda. And some people just want to escape their own life for a bit and feel better when they leave than they did when they walked in to the experience.  No matter the reason they come, you aren't responsible for their reaction to your art. Stand by what you make, make it better if you can, and leave it at that. 

2. There is some truth in every critique. Read it, listen to it, take it in. Then do the hard work of figuring out what's true and what isn't. Try to determine who has your best interest at heart and who is motivated by their own insecurities. Like I said, it's hard work, but worth it. Have the conversation you don't want to have. While you might feel a little beat up at first, chances are there is a better, more beautiful you waiting to become, after the bruises heal. 

3. Your art doesn't define you. The world wants you to think that but it's a lie. Your art is an expression of your emotions and experiences, but it isn't you. The only way to be able to tell the difference between you and your art is to know who made you and understand what you were made to be and do. And knowing the truth about who you are is the best way to silence the lies. 

I'm four weeks out from the curtain closing on Walnut Ridge, and while the post-show dip has been challenging, I sit here today, sipping a smoked fig latte, working through my to-do list, grateful for this life I live. And while the work continues on a project or two, there is also new art to make. Yes, it's good to have crawled out of the dip, my feet now standing steady on solid ground once again, ready to make stuff up. 

I've been saving it for a few weeks. I am not a patient person, but I am always patient with this particular tradition in my home. It is a small, simple comfort that brings peace to my heart every, single year. 

I buy a Yankee Spiced Pumpkin candle each year on my birthday, and save it for one very special reason - to usher in a new season. Today, the candle took it's place on my kitchen counter where I lit it first thing this morning. For more than two decades, this little ritual celebrated the beginning of a new school year, but this year, the fall scent rings in a new season, bringing the usual changing of the weather and scenery, and also some big changes for our family. 

This year, I decided on Monday, August 25th, to be "candle day."  I just returned from a trip with my daughter to Portland, Oregon where she'll move in a few short weeks. I wanted to wait until after we'd returned because once her apartment was secured, I knew it would truly feel like a new season was coming. 

I also chose today because it marks the beginning of rehearsals for a new musical I wrote with my friends, Lee and Tony.  It's based on the true story of when the Beatles made a late-night, unexpected landing at an old military air field outside Walnut Ridge Arkansas while on their first American tour. News that the world's biggest rock band had landed in this small town sent residents into a frenzy. The event was especially significant for 14-year-old Carrie Mae Snapp, president of the local Beatles fan club. What happened in the 35 hours that passed in September of 1964 changed the course of Carrie Mae's life in some pretty incredible ways.

It is a privilege that we get to tell this story and I can't wait for people to see it fully produced on stage. We are presenting it at the Nebraska Communities Playhouse in Hickman. You should all come and see it in October. I'll pause here while you go purchase your tickets at neplayhouse.com.  

Did you go get your tickets?  I'll pause again...

That's neplayhouse.com. 

Okay, now that you've made your purchase, let me tell you why this show is so meaningful to me, personally. I was immediately attracted to the idea when Tony presented it to Lee and me. We dove in and wrote and rewrote and rewrote and rewrote. We did a table read and a staged reading to help us refine the work. Over time, I have realized why I have grown so fond of the story and the characters. Let me tell you why. 

A few years ago I was challenged to come up with a personal mission statement. When I tell you it took years for me to land on what I now use as a personal and professional compass for my life, I mean years. I mean, how do you narrow down your life efforts to 20 words or less? Nothing ever felt adequate or accurate. Eventually I landed on the following statement, and while it certainly isn't all-encompassing, it comes pretty darn close to the core value that dictates how I spend a BIG chunk of my time. 

"To do creative work that inspires and equips others to do their creative work." 

When I think of Carrie Mae Snapp and the life she has lived since that magical day in 1964, I realize she has lived out a similar mission. You'll need to come to the show to fully understand what I mean, (see what I did there - go buy your tickets at neplayhouse.com) but suffice it to say she has spent a lifetime helping other people make their creative dreams come true. She's still doing that today in Walnut Ridge, Arkansas. And that inspires me to keep doing what I'm doing. 

Carrie Mae took a magical moment in her life and decided to help other people experience magical moments in theirs, too. I've had some pretty magical moments in my life. I understand those moments might not look like much to people who've achieved levels of success I might never experience, but they've sure been magical to me. Most of them have come at the end of a whole lot of work, rejection, ridicule, and perseverance, but gosh darn it, they happened. And if I have a chance to help someone else feel the way I did in those moments, then watch out 'cause I've got things to do. 

Tonight, I'll sit in the director's chair alongside a production team of humans I adore, surrounded by a cast of fellow-dreamers, and we'll dive into something that's never been done before.  How many times do you get to say that in your life? I'll get to work with people from ages 11 to 70-something and hopefully inspire and equip them do their creative work. All of this fueled by the scent of a pumpkin spiced candle. Today is a good day. 

Life has been a lot, lately. Just one of those seasons, I guess. The kind of season when the skies open and stuff pours out that you're thankful for and afraid of and overwhelmed by and excited about and on and on. There is a heaviness to it all because, well, the stuff of life can be heavy. But, I have learned there is a bad heavy and a good heavy. My perspective on both has changed in recent years. 

My mother recently moved in with us after a fall left her unable to go back home. I got scan results that weren't exactly what I hoped for - nothing worth panicking over, but enough to warrant another scan in 3 months and make me amp up my efforts to be healthy. Work has required a little extra of me. Each of these has brought its own weight with it, but the combination of those things, along with some weight that shall go unnamed, has been especially heavy. And yet, it's okay. 

It's okay because I feel like I have borne the weight of circumstances that were much heavier and survived. It's okay because learning to count it all joy has proven to actually work in changing my attitude, which is really what allows me to determine the good heavy and the bad heavy. And it's okay because I've seen how the heaviness pushes me to places I would never go to on my own. Deep places where I discover more about the God I trust. Places where creativity is awakened in me that would otherwise sleep soundly.

So, I am grateful. Not every minute of every day, mind you. But yes, there is a gratitude more accessible to me under the weight of this "good heavy" season, including the depth of beauty and inspiration that can only be found there. I look forward to discovering more in the deep, and hopefully sharing the art that rises up from there during this season. Stay tuned...
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I have a project to finish today. So, in true artist's form, I am procrastinating by writing a blog entry. I'm choosing to consider this act priming the pump so the other work can flow more easily. We shall see. This has nothing to do with the subject matter of this blog. I just thought you should know what we writers do to avoid actual work. We do other work which could wait, but we'd rather do this work than that work because our brains aren't ready to do that work yet. I've set a timer. Must work on that when the timer goes off. Seriously, I have to. I will. But, first...this. 

I recently returned from a trip to L.A. for two nights of a musical theater workshop. As usually happens when I've had the opportunity to escape my routine for a shot of creative adrenaline, I came back better. A little more clarity. A little more fire in my belly. A little less desire to ever live in California. No offense, CA friends. Just not my vibe. It was good to go and good to come home. 

What I mostly gained from this trip was the realization that I am on the right path. My creative life has shifted in the past few years, partly by my choice, and partly due to the choices of others. For the most part, I'm happy and content with the choices I've made, even if some of them I felt forced into because of health issues. As for the choices of others, well, I can't do anything about that. Sometimes you become a casualty of other people's decisions to pursue their creative lives with other people who can offer something you can't. Sometimes a colleague's life simply shifts and they have to adapt to a new reality that doesn't include you. Sometimes you have to live with the fallout of someone else's creative explosion or implosion. It isn't always personal. It feels personal. But it isn't. Not always. Sometimes it is. Those are tough to deal with. But, to remain trapped in whatever rubble you're buried in after the walls of yesterday's creative pursuits have fallen, would be doing yourself and others a great disservice. Because there is work to be done. Stories to tell. Songs to write. Art to be made. Other artists to encourage. So you dig yourself out and get back to work. 

I used to make certain investments in my creative life in hopes that the return would be measured in connections made, opportunities offered, and eventually reflected in my bank account. (That last one is laughable if you are in my line of creative work.)  These days, if going away for a few days was only to remind me of the importance of making art, then it was well worth the trip. To once again feel the deep conviction that there are places in the heart which can only been reached by the stories we tell and the songs we sing. The fact that I get to be a part of writing and telling those stories and songs is a blessing I do not deserve and a responsibility I do not take lightly. 

And speaking of responsibility, the timer went off. Time to get back to that work. 

I am a writer. Which means there is an inner struggle taking place inside me on a daily basis. To be more accurate, make that plural - struggles. You have yours too, whatever your life calling might be, but, there are struggles that are unique to a person who feels the need to process life through words, while simultaneously feeling the weight of handling those words with care. They aren't to be thrown about whenever you feel like it. They are to be curated carefully. Distributed intentionally. Unleashed into the world after giving much consideration to the reader of those words. Yes, I care about that part of it, because a foundational principle of my life is to consider others more important than myself. So I ponder. A lot. Some of you might wish I pondered more and wrote less. You can write about that on your own blog.  

Lately, I've found myself more in the pondering phase than the actual putting words on paper phase, and certainly more than the posting phase. I've grown increasingly disappointed and often angry over the lack of care given to words - especially on social media. Whether they are the "my way is right and yours isn't" words, or the "look at me and what I got to do" words, or the "if you didn't like the Super Bowl half-time show you're a racist" kind of words.  That last one kinda put me over the edge when it showed up on my FB feed. I mean, my mother didn't like the half-time show and I'm pretty sure it isn't because she's a racist. Because she isn't a racist. But someone out there thinks she is and they put those words out into the world wide web. I think she didn't like it because she's 93 and would have rather watched Frank Sinatra, had he ever had the opportunity to do a Super Bowl half-time show. It just wasn't her cup of tea. But these days, if something isn't your cup of tea, some people think you're a racist.  

I haven't been writing as much lately. Partly because I've been buried in other work, but partly because when I sit down to write, I feel a bit paralyzed by those inner struggles I mentioned. Those thoughts that make me second guess, filter, and ultimately get up from my writing chair. I don't like it. I've also been feeling like something isn't right when I walk into my writing room. So I decided to do something about it. 

Environment matters to me. Vibe. Ambience. Place. I love curating a space that makes me feel inspired, motivated, and purposeful. I've revamped my creative space many times over the years, but a few things have remained in this room that holds so much for me. The words I've written in here chronicle a life that's been a beautiful combination of joy and sorrow, achievements and failures, and mostly, the faith and relationships that have sustained me through it all. I've had some pretty cool things happen in my life as a result of what has been written in here. Awards. Number one songs. Work that has ended up in print and then gone to places I've never been. That last one really makes me smile. 

For much of the past 18 years, the walls in this room have been covered with memorabilia commemorating those achievements. Statues, plaques, photos, sheet music. I would walk in this room and those things would serve as a reminder that some people think I can do this writing thing pretty well. Some days you need that reminder because you think everything you write is complete trash, or the day before you wrote something you love and think to yourself you'll never write anything decent again. I would look up at the things on the walls and the shelf across from my desk and think, "Apparently you can do this, so get to work." And I did. If I'm being completely honest though, the things scattered throughout my writing room also reminded me of a time when the music business looked different, so looking at them make me quite sad. And sometimes angry. And defeated.

I knew something had to change because considering the hours and hours I spend in this room, I need it to be a place where I feel inspired. Moved. A space that reminds me why I do what I do. So this past week, this room got a makeover. All the awards came down. The photos from special moments when my work was recognized no longer hang on the walls, but have been replaced with family photos and meaningful quotes. I decluttered and took out books that didn't have significant meaning or weren't on my current reading list. I changed the angles to accommodate my standing writing desk, the walking pad beneath it, and the keyboard that now sits behind me, easily accessible for when words need a melody. I painted the walls a dark green, bought a small recliner that serves multiple purposes: morning quiet time, late night writing, and reading time with my granddaughter Collins, whose portable crib now has a permanent place in the corner. 

It might sound silly, but I now have a renewed sense of peace and purpose when I walk in this room.  (By the way, I make no judgement regarding what other writers have on their walls. Whatever makes your space a place you want to be in is what's important here.)  I think I needed the freedom to write what is stirring in my heart regardless of where I hope it might end up, whether that's on a page in a book, in a musical songbook, or for the world to see on a blog. And while I do still hope my words are unleashed in ways that make a difference in the world, there are also words written in here which are only meant for those closest to me. And some words written in here should never see the light of day - the just-me-and-Jesus words. 

So, here's to little writing rooms everywhere that inspire the wordsmith and hold their thoughts and scribbles. Here's to spaces that make us feel like what we do matters. And here's to another day in this room. My room. Let the fun begin.  

Every year, I try to spend a significant amount of time in December pondering what I want my next calendar year to look like. I've always been a person to dream, set goals, and plan, but for some reason this year, long before I turned the calendar page to December, I've spent a significant amount of time thinking about 2025. I suppose I have an urgency to my days and years I didn't have before stupid cancer. I know this is partly because my job demands it, but I think I also live with the sense that no "new year" is a given and I want to be as intentional as I possibly can with the days I am given. 

I work in a business where discouragement and rejection are a part of the weekly, if not daily, conversation. Creatives, in general, face a certain level of despair on a regular basis, but for those of us whose creative work is also part of our vocation, I feel like it's even more of a beast. There are loud voices in our heads telling us our work is worthless, but they are not impossible to silence. Over the years, I've found ways to wage war against the beast of discouragement and those loud inner voices. The battles I have won have led to the completion of some projects I am fiercely proud of, but not because they've won awards or reached millions of people. Not because they're amazing. Mostly I'm proud of them because they were finished. 

I also have a list of projects that remain unfinished, too. Some of those things still need time to simmer. Some need to be crossed off the list. A couple I've identified as needing to take top priority in 2025 and I can't wait to get started. And finish. 

While I love tackling my own creative projects, I have also found immense joy in helping others realize their potential and achieve their own accomplishments. I've walked songwriters through the process of writing and recording an album. I've coached authors from wrestling an idea to the ground to shaping it into a manuscript, and eventually we've celebrated the release of their book. I've helped creative organizations formulate their mission statements and clarify their vision. Every step in these processes has been an act of living out my personal mission statement of doing creative work that inspires and equips others to do their creative work. 

As I approach 2025, I am narrowing my focus a bit, choosing to dive deep into fewer creative projects that I want to see cross the finish line before December 31st, 2025.  I am also making room to come alongside four other creatives who want to see their creative projects cross the finish line in 2025. If you are interested in this opportunity, feel free to reach out to me. After communicating about your idea and how I might be able to help you, if we think we're a good fit, then let's do this thing and make 2025 a year of finishing.

Yes, there is a cost involved. Why? Well, for a few reasons. Some of the most valuable experiences I've had that got me across a finish line are experiences that cost me something. The cost results in a determination on your part to get things done. To steward your time well. To be accountable. To meet expectations. This relationship we'll enter isn't for everyone. It really is only for people who want to work hard, who want feedback, and who want a kick in the rear sometimes. It's for people who want to end 2025 with a project completed, a book in their hands, a recording unleashed, or your unique creative vision realized. 

For more info on how I can come alongside you in 2025, email me at [email protected]. I'd love to help if I can.