Why Industry Has No Place in Sustainable Creative Expression

We often talk about creativity as if it only matters when it can be measured, shared, and preserved. But the truth is, sustainable creative expression doesn’t require industry, charts, or audiences. It requires only us, showing up with curiosity and letting what’s inside find its way out.

Imagine a world where creatives of every kind release their work without expectation. Photographers post images that disappear after a day. Songwriters share melodies and lyrics that vanish once they’re sung. Writers write words that dissolve like mist, and painters draw their brushstrokes only to watch them fade.

In this world, the point isn’t to keep the expression, but to make it. To send it into the ether simply because it’s what we do. Not for accolades, not for permanence, but because we must.

It’s a downright fantasy, but there’s something freeing about releasing work that doesn’t need to do anything for us at all. Letting go of permanence, we give up the burden of asking, Will this define me? Will this earn me something? Will it prove I belong or have value?

This kind of expression reminds me that creativity at its core isn’t about preservation. It’s about presence.

Industry teaches us that art must have a purpose, such as to generate revenue, to build a brand, or to position us within a genre or marketplace. Industry demands permanence. It asks us to frame, package, and market what might otherwise be a fleeting impulse.

But when creativity becomes a product, we risk losing the very soul of it. We begin to write, paint, or photograph not from curiosity, but from fear. We may fear being overlooked, or not measuring up. We may fear failing to meet expectations. The problem is fear is the enemy of sustainable creativity.

As a creative person in the real world, I’m endlessly pining after something that continually slips through my fingers, never guaranteed to stick around or stay constant. The practicalities of life bump up against my desire to clasp my fingers around the song I want to write. I’m reminded that I don’t always have the time, energy, or space to chase creativity to the extent I’d need in order to feel fulfilled.

When creative expression becomes more like obsession, it can feel like a weight. That weight drives us to want to abandon the act of creation altogether. It’s too heavy for a life well lived. And when it also becomes the source of tension, such as with family members questioning our dedication or the quality of our work, or the money we spend without clear reward, it can drive our music completely into the ground. The very thing that drew us to write in the first place becomes the thing that pushes us away.

When I’m writing with the intent of maintaining a career, my songs inevitably become commodities. Their ultimate purpose is to feed me — literally and figuratively. I attach expectations to my creative output that are measurable: how many songs I finish, how well they perform, whether they open doors or keep opportunities alive.

It’s no wonder we admire artists who seem to create as if they are untouched by external validation. Those are the ones who appear to write, paint, or perform simply because inspiration strikes, not because the marketplace demands it. I believe those artists awaken our own wild, fierce, and passionate authenticity. They call us back to the spark that made us want to create in the first place, before we measured, before we judged, before industry had its say.

Some of my best friends working in the music industry are tormented by the pressure to deliver. They long for the taste of making the music their eight-year-old selves once dreamed of making — before deadlines, contracts, or career strategies entered the picture.

And some of my happiest musical friends don’t work in the industry at all. They’re professionals in other fields who spend their free time making the music they love, unrestricted by the need to pitch or promote in ways that feel inauthentic.

Often when I talk with truly great artist managers, their advice seems to completely honor the art form, despite their need for music they can sell. It’s their job to nurture and develop artists to express what makes them unique. They say things like “Put blinders on and make the music. When you’re done, think about the intention of it. Maybe it’s because you want to perform, to challenge yourself, to embrace the exposure and vulnerability of sharing your art, and to do it for your own growth.”

As natural as the urge to write songs is to share them with others. I believe that urge precedes the desire to make money from them, or gain notoriety from them. There are countless ways sharing songs can look, though as artists and creators, we don’t often consider that our way may be different from the masses. Sometimes it’s as simple as putting your music out in the world without a proper plan, and seeing what happens. Maybe it’s dressing in a sci-fi outfit, staging an experimental performance, and leaning into a vision only you could imagine. If that’s your vision, do that. The point is to get clear on why you want to do it at a few different levels before going down the pathway of, “This is what people who make music do, so I guess I should too.”

Artists put immense pressure on ourselves to think too far ahead. In doing so, we lose the joy of writing and creating in the first place. Instead, give yourself permission to enjoy the process and write, collaborate, and explore. You should feel good about the next step you take, and it’s okay to realize what that step is later.

So pause and ask: Where is the hesitation? Sit with it. Consider: What job am I hiring my writing and my production to do? Is it to bring joy? To be a release? To act as a creative outlet in your life? That doesn’t need to come with expectations. And if you do have aspirations beyond that, that’s wonderful, but just make sure they’re yours. Don’t absorb the expectations of others, or of the industry.

If we want our creativity to last a lifetime, it must be rooted in freedom, not industry. Sustainable creative expression grows out of practice, play, and connection. It thrives when we can create without the weight of proving ourselves or the pressure of permanence.

The act of making is what matters most. Art doesn’t need to stay in the world forever to be valuable. It is valuable because it was made.

Stay creative,