There’s a passage in The Artist’s Way that has stayed with me, one where Julia Cameron introduces the concept of Kriyā, a Sanskrit term meaning “action”, but which she expands to describe a kind of spiritual crisis — a deeper, almost visceral reaction we have when something in our life is misaligned. It’s the pain that hits right after we force ourselves to endure something we shouldn’t. The exhaustion that follows overcommitment. The anxiety that builds when we ignore our creative instincts. The psychosomatic warning system that lets us know when we are forcing ourselves into a life that doesn’t fit. A kriyā is the body saying, “Enough.” It’s a warning from the self we’ve ignored for too long.
She describes how, when we ignore our truth — whether by working a job that stifles us, overcommitting to obligations that drain us, or even rescuing people who should be rescuing themselves — our body protests. We get sick, anxious, lethargic. Our emotions flare up, and our energy vanishes. Cameron’s Kriyā, in this sense, goes beyond simply taking action; it requires recognising when the actions we are taking are working against us.
Through morning pages and self-reflection, we begin to see where we are out of sync. At first, this clarity feels like loss.
“I can’t keep ignoring my health or sacrificing my time for this job.“ Or “I have outgrown this job.”
“This relationship isn’t working.”
“I don’t enjoy this anymore.”
Realising these things can be painful. We often resist. We want to keep the illusion that everything is fine. We don’t want to change — we want things to change for us. But as Cameron points out, once we eliminate ambiguity from our lives — when we become clearer about who we are, what we want, and what we stand for — we also lose illusion. And while losing illusion can feel like a loss, it is also a gift. We gain something invaluable: the truth.
And yet, truth doesn’t arrive gently. It disrupts. It can bring tears and frustration. Cameron compares this process to a spiritual seizure, an upheaval that shakes us until we let go of what no longer serves us. This is where art and self-expression come in — not as an escape, but as a way to process and understand this shift.
One of Cameron’s most striking ideas is that as we clarify who we are, our creative voice becomes coherent. When we are fragmented — when we suppress parts of ourselves to fit into jobs, relationships, or roles that don’t align with us — our creative work reflects that fragmentation. It feels scattered, disconnected. It lacks a centre. But as we strip away the false selves, as we clear out the clutter — physical, emotional, psychological — our writing, our art, begins to feel like it comes from the same person. A pattern emerges.
She calls it the snowflake pattern of the soul — a unique, intricate identity that takes shape once we shed false layers. The more we remove what is not ours, the more distinct our pattern becomes. And when we create from that place, our work has coherence, continuity. Our writing, our art, no longer feels like it was made by multiple conflicting selves but by one true self.
Also, writing (or any creative work) involves tuning into what is already within us, rather than inventing something outside of ourselves. And that means confronting our real emotions, our real desires, and our real experiences. This is why Cameron insists that creativity is not based on fantasy — it is rooted in reality. Art happens in the moment of encounter: when we meet our truth, we meet ourselves. And only by meeting ourselves can we create something original.
She seems to emphasise the following points:
1. Listen to the kriyās. Pay attention to where life feels wrong, where you are forcing things. Let yourself feel the loss of illusion.
2. Write from clarity. As you refine your self-understanding, your art will refine itself too. Your writing will begin to feel like it flows from one true voice, not a chorus of conflicting selves.
Beyond its myriad interpretations and purposes, art is about becoming someone. Becoming the person who can create freely, without distortion. And in that becoming, as we align with who we truly are, our voice, our art, the snowflake pattern of our soul will finally emerge — whole, authentic, and coherent.
According to Cameron, writing (or any creative act) therefore requires a stable sense of self. We need to know, at least on some level, who is speaking in order for our voice to emerge authentically on the page. If we are constantly shifting to accommodate external expectations, our work will feel scattered, fragmented, and uncertain — reflecting the uncertainty within us. To write from the self, we must first reclaim it. We must listen to our Kriyā, recognise where we are out of sync, and make adjustments — not just in our creative work, but in our daily lives. The more we align our actions with our deeper truth, the more naturally our words will flow.
That said, I don’t fully agree with the idea that writing requires a singular, stable self. Writers like Whitman, Virginia Woolf, and David Hume remind us that identity is not a fixed entity but a shifting constellation of thoughts, perceptions, and impressions. Whitman famously declared, “I contain multitudes” while Woolf wrote, “I am rooted, but I flow”, suggesting that while parts of us are fluid, ever-shifting, there is also a deeper, more unshakable core — something immutable that makes us who we are. Hume, on the other hand, challenges even this notion of a stable self, asking, “When you enter most intimately into what you call yourself, what do you find?” His answer: a collection of perceptions in perpetual motion, never truly fixed.
In my case, the fluidity in my writing does not stem from accommodating external expectations; rather, it emerges from exploring the fluidity of the self itself. Creativity allows me to move between different facets of my identity, to express contradictions, to embrace the shifting and evolving nature of being. Even to dream myself into another existence. Rather than seeing this as fragmentation, I see it as expansion — writing as a way of capturing the many selves that exist within me, rather than fixing them into one.
At the same time, there is work to be done in letting go of how my writing will be received. It’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking about how something might be interpreted, whether it will make sense to others, or whether it aligns with an external narrative. But ultimately, what matters most is this is how it feels to me. Writing from that space — without worrying about how it will be perceived — feels like the truest way to honour both the clarity and the fluidity of self-expression.
DIANA MARIN 