The Ability to Create Passively

A quiet privilege hidden in plain sight.

There are so many ways to express yourself these days, and honestly, that’s beautiful. To have options, to explore different creative paths—that’s not something we should take for granted. But one thing I’ve noticed—especially on Substack and within the broader creative community—is how often people overlook the real cost of being a creative. The money, the time, the emotional labor. The effort it takes just to begin, let alone sustain something meaningful.

Being a creative—especially in the early stages—is often a thankless job. A labor of love, yes, but labor nonetheless.

Back in the day, creatives had the space to focus solely on their craft. A painter painted. A writer wrote. A musician made music. They had managers, publishers, gallery owners, PR teams—people to help get their work out into the world. Now? We live in a time where the barrier to entry seems lower thanks to the internet and social media, but the actual cost is still high. In fact, it might be even higher.

You’re expected to do everything yourself. Be your own manager, editor, marketing strategist, community builder, and sales rep. Whether you’re self-publishing on Amazon, uploading to Etsy, pitching yourself to podcasts, or juggling your own website, it’s all on you. And somehow, you’re supposed to be amazing at all of it, while still keeping the spark alive in your actual craft.

This brings me to the idea of creating passively.

Creating passively—without pressure, urgency, or survival-mode energy—feels like a luxury these days. And I think it’s something a lot of people secretly (or not-so-secretly) crave: the ability to create without the weight of needing it to pay the bills, validate your identity, or prove your worth.

Think about how people romanticize the “starving artist.” We celebrate names who are now seen as the greats—Vincent van Gogh being a classic example—but who, at the time, died broke, unknown, and unappreciated. It’s almost like we only honor creatives after they’ve suffered, as if struggle is a necessary part of genius.

Even now, you see it play out in real time. A writer or artist posts for years with barely any traction, then one day they go viral, and suddenly they’re labeled an overnight success. But behind that “overnight” moment is often years—maybe even a decade—of grinding without rest, without resources, without recognition.

And it’s hard to create passively when you’re stuck in the hustle.

And let’s be real—that hustle is not distributed equally.

I don’t talk about race much on here, but I can’t not acknowledge it. As a Black woman, I see how platforms like Substack and social media reflect the same systemic gaps that exist everywhere else. When I scroll through Substack, I mostly see white writers. White voices. White creators. I have to dig to find people who look like me. And while I’m always happy to support content that speaks to me regardless of race, it’s impossible not to notice the imbalance—who gets boosted, who gets featured, who gets visibility.

I’m not saying all Black creators are struggling—there are many thriving and doing incredibly well. I’m not here to push a narrative that we’re all “down bad.” But I am here to speak the truth: the playing field still isn’t equal. And that absolutely affects who gets the freedom to create passively.

Because this isn’t just about the algorithm. It’s about who gets the luxury of simply existing and being celebrated for it. On TikTok, it’s painfully clear: a Black creator starts a trend or shares an idea, and then a white creator does the exact same thing and ends up with the brand deal, the features, the applause. Meanwhile, the original fades into the background. It’s exhausting to constantly have to prove yourself, just to be seen. Just to be heard.

Creating passively is a privilege.

It’s something many of us want—to be able to write, draw, design, build, or share without the pressure for it to “hit” right away. To be able to take a break when you need it. To only create when the inspiration hits, not because your survival depends on it.

Think about musicians. When they’re established, they can take years between albums. But in the beginning? It’s mixtape after mixtape. Freestyle after freestyle. Whatever they can manage to record, they release—because momentum matters. Visibility matters. And more often than not, survival is part of the equation.

So when people say they just want to create for fun or explore their passions, I get it—that’s what most of us want. But let’s be real: not everyone has the same access, stability, or safety to create that way. And we also have to acknowledge the very real financial, emotional, mental, and yes—racial—barriers that so many creatives face.

There’s also the dynamic that doesn’t get talked about enough. Like when someone casually says, “My husband works full-time, so I stay home and write my silly little stories.” And look—I’m genuinely happy for them, no matter the dynamic. This isn’t about bitterness or judgment. But I do notice it. It makes you think. About how different people’s realities are. How some folks have the room to take their time, to play, to explore, to be whimsical with their creativity, because their needs are already met. The fridge is full. The Wi-Fi is fast. The rent is paid.

Some people are born into comfort. Some inherit stability. Some have parents who fund their first studio setup, buy their first DSLR camera, or cover their rent while they “figure it out.” So they can experiment. They can take creative risks. They can afford to develop their voice slowly and intentionally—without urgency.

Because when you're not rushing to survive, you can slow down and actually build. You can rest. You can do a week of research. You can buy the tools you need. You can take a course. You can mess up and try again, without the fear that your mistake will cost you everything.

And that kind of freedom? That’s the part of creative work that rarely gets talked about. But it matters. A lot.

Because if I didn’t feel the pressure to “make it,” to turn my creativity into something that could pay bills, how would I create differently? How much more joy would be present in the process?

It’s not about envy. It’s about observation. About acknowledging the layers. About how access, identity, and income all intersect with creativity in very real, very quiet ways.

Not everyone starts from the same place. Not everyone has the same margin for trial and error. For some of us, our passions are still hobbies—not because we don’t take them seriously, but because we can’t afford for them to be anything more.

And that deserves to be said. Not out of resentment, but out of realism.

Because creating should be freeing. Creating should be joyful. But for a lot of people, it simply can’t be. Not right now. Not yet.

And maybe—just maybe the biggest privilege in creativity isn’t the audience, or the platform, or the talent.

Maybe it’s the freedom to create without fear.

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