The Case for Creative Amnesia
Forget the doubt so you can remember your voice.
Let’s be real. Most of us don’t need more advice. We need selective memory loss.
If you’re feeling stuck in your creative life—overwhelmed, second-guessing yourself, endlessly tweaking something until it doesn’t even feel like yours anymore—what if the answer isn’t to learn more, but to forget?
Forget the rules. Forget what the algorithm wants. Forget what your college professor said was “real” art. Forget the version of you from last year who seemed so confident and consistent. What if the secret to getting back in your groove… is forgetting everything that pulled you out of it in the first place?
That idea hit me hard recently when I rewatched Memento, the early Christopher Nolan film that made me (and every film school kid ever) want to be a director back in the day. If you haven’t seen it, go watch it. Come back when you’re ready. The less you know, the better.
In Memento, the main character has short-term memory loss and can’t retain anything beyond a few minutes. To make sense of the world, he tattoos important facts onto his body and jots reminders on Polaroids. That’s how he survives—by holding on only to what matters most.
But it got me thinking: What if creatives did the opposite?
Instead of clinging to everything we’ve learned—every opinion, every rule, every YouTube tutorial—we intentionally forgot the noise. What if we wiped the mental whiteboard clean and only kept the truths that help us keep going?
When you start making things, it’s all instinct. You’re curious. You’re hungry. You throw things at the wall, copy your heroes, and remix their style. You’re infatuated with the work.
And then comes the education. You study the craft. You learn the rules. You start saying things like “structure” and “tone” and “color theory.” Maybe you quote Kubrick too much. Maybe you become kind of unbearable for a little while. It happens.
We all go through what I call the Pretentious Phase. It’s a rite of passage. But too many people get stuck there. We confuse knowing the rules with being ready to break them. We think because we can explain the mechanics of creativity, that we’ve mastered it.
At a certain point, the rules just start slowing you down. Real mastery is being able to trust yourself without needing the training wheels. And more importantly, it’s trusting yourself enough to forget everything you’ve learned and just follow the spark.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: the voice in your head telling you you’re not good enough probably isn’t even your own voice.
It’s a collection of every critique, every rejection, every hot take from a Reddit comment section or portfolio review or awkward conversation with someone who said “this doesn’t really work for me.” Over time, you’ve absorbed all of those opinions and rebranded them as your own internal monologue.
But that voice wasn’t there when you started. When you were ten years old choreographing dances in your bedroom or sketching dragons in math class, you weren’t worried about feedback. You were following instinct. Kids don’t know the rules—but somehow, they naturally follow arcs. They know what a story feels like. They just play.
We spend our adult lives trying to “find our voice,” when in reality, we’re just trying to hear it again beneath all the noise.
The creatives who change things don’t just follow a blueprint. They ignore it. Or burn it. Or forget it even existed.
Picasso didn’t paint like the artists before him. Frank Ocean ignored the rules of pop structure and made music that felt more like memory than melody. Tarantino remixed his obsessions and made genre his own playground. None of them were following a formula. They were following their taste.
So what if, the next time you sat down to make something, you gave yourself permission to forget?
Forget what worked last time. Forget what got the most likes. Forget how someone else would do it. Forget how you would have done it six months ago.
Start fresh. Let instinct take the wheel for a change. Not to be messy for the sake of it, but to see where your senses are leading you instead of your fears.
You’d be surprised how many of your best ideas are waiting right outside the room where the rules live.
In Memento, the character survives by tattooing the most important truths onto himself. He needs physical reminders—something he can look at when his mind fails him.
I think we all need that.
Not tattoos necessarily (unless you’re into that), but small, visible reminders. Sticky notes on your mirror. Affirmations in your notebook. Your phone lockscreen. The truth is, most of us don’t need inspiration—we need reminders.
Things like:
• “Your vision > their validation.”
• “Just make the weird thing.”
• “You don’t need permission to begin.”
(Shameless plug: we made 100 free phone wallpapers. Grab one that works for you.)
Create an environment where those truths are louder than the noise. Where your space reminds you of what matters. Where you don’t need to remember every lesson you’ve ever learned—just the ones that help you move.
Here’s the paradox: sometimes you have to forget in order to remember.
Forget the pressure. Forget the personas. Forget the version of yourself you’re trying to impress. And in the absence of all that clutter, maybe you remember something simpler. Something quieter. The reason you started doing this in the first place.
I’ll be honest. I still catch myself comparing my current self to my past self. A version of me that was funnier, more consistent, more confident, more “on.” But the truth is, that version wasn’t necessarily better. He was just louder. Right now, I’m quieter—but I’m listening more. I’m trying to tune into what’s real again.
And I’m starting to believe that forgetting is part of the process. Not a regression, but a strategy. An act of trust.
So if you’re overwhelmed, uninspired, or on the verge of burnout—maybe try to forget the rules. Forget the performance. Forget the need to make something perfect.
Just show up.
Make something small. Something strange. Something just for you.
The only thing worth tattooing on your body—metaphorically or otherwise—is this:
Forget the rules. Remember yourself.
Keep creating (and forgetting) and repeating,
- Zack
Every week, we use Sublime—the (not boring) knowledge tool that lets you save one thing, discover one hundred more—to find these inspiring links. So we partnered with them to share it with the Create.Repeat community.
It’s like Notion meets Tumblr. By far our favorite tool for mood-boarding and discovery.
Give it a try.
🏡 Open Space Series: Stories at the crossroads of architecture, place, and identity. Told through beautifully curated homes and spaces.
🧾 n-gen Art: Turn your Spotify listening habits into art. A fun, code-fueled way to see your music data.
🧺 Basketclub by Adrianus Kundert: Is basketry a dying craft? This manual and unmechanisable making process with age-old techniques has been the club’s collective act of discovery.
🖋️ The Arc of the Practical Creator: A fun essay on balancing creativity and sustainability without losing your spark.
If you believe in what we’re building with Create.Repeat, the best way to support us is by joining Take It or Leave It—our weekend newsletter exclusively for paid subscribers.
It’s more than just a newsletter. It’s a direct way to back the work we do, helping keep Create.Repeat independent, creative, and growing.
Each week, we dive into community questions submitted through Substack Chat, offering our honest take on the creative process, career struggles, and everything in between. It’s part advice column, part mood board, and part behind-the-scenes look at what it really takes to stay creative.
For just $5/month, you get exclusive content while directly supporting the mission of Create.Repeat. And if you haven’t used your free trial yet, now’s the perfect time to start. No pressure, just inspiration.
This week’s advice…
This week, we’re excited to spotlight Kexin Cha, a design generalist working on a team at Stanford University. She’s currently building research and education tools in AI-driven medicine.
We are happy to highlight her Substack, Ünprofesionale, where she shares thoughtful reflections on product design, AI in medicine, and the creative tension of being the sole designer on a startup-style team. Here is one of her favorite pieces.
Recently, Kexin’s been reflecting on a passage from The Creative Act by Rick Rubin, It’s become a kind of compass for how she approaches her work and life:
“Our life's work is far greater than any individual’s container. The works we do are mere chapters. There will always be a new chapter and another after that... Our objective is to be free to close one chapter and move on to the next, and to continue that process for as long as it please us.”
Create.Repeat is a community for creatives.
The Create.Repeat Substack is a project designed to be a weekly diary on creativity. Sharing inspiration for artists to keep creating and repeating.
Written and curated by Zack Evans & James Warren Taylor
Each week we will be sharing recent thoughts on creativity, some links helping us stay creative, and a talent show featuring an artist from the community. Thank you for engaging with us.
History repeats. Create the future.
How liberating is this post?! Everything you write resonates. It hits right into the heart of us artists
Great content.