Creators need community

How community shapes our growth

I probably sound like a broken record when I say writing, like most creative enterprises, is really lonely. And not like the one Asake sang about in Lonely at Top.

Creation begins in the mind, and continues to stretch and morph for days, weeks, months and even years until it becomes a solid thing that can be moulded into shape. That process is terrifying. What might become of that seed? Even in the most perfect of conditions, it may not turn out how you want. You could hide, and move on with your life. After all, you did it all alone. Or you could throw it into the world, and see what happens. When we choose the latter, we surrender control, allowing the work to live beyond us. It becomes open to misinterpretation, rejection, and, if we are lucky, connection. Or silence. Has it ever happened that it was just your grandmother that read your short story published in the faculty magazine?

This is one of the things that makes writing (creating) extremely embarrassing: putting yourself out there and risking spectacular failure. It asks you to reveal the strange, tender parts of yourself that might otherwise stay hidden—and to face the possibility that no one will care.

If you’ve decided to stop at this point, you’re not alone. No day goes by where I don’t say to myself: what if I just stopped? Nobody can beat me. It’s not my source of income. Who cares if Ope Adedeji never writes again?

And yet, I keep going. For many reasons—but the one I’m writing about today, the one I think acts as a buffer between the loneliness of writing and the shock of your work meeting the world, is community.

In uni when I started writing seriously, my friends and I started the now defunct literary publication Arts and Africa. It was many things and this: a collective of young, hungry writers who just wanted to be better. We would exchange drafts, send feedback, and publicly praise published work. We bonded over our love for creating worlds and reading, and that we had no clue what we were doing, only that we were doing something and would hit gold one day.

While the writing process can be lonely, writers must master the art of finding community. The first rule is to seek out peers with a high bar for quality, who very deeply understand the struggle. Mentorship can be great, but what, I think, really sustains a writer is the circle of co-travellers who share the same doubts. For example, when in 2018, I was fortunate enough to be selected as a participant in Chimamanda Adichie’s yearly workshop for writers, I learned so much from her, and the amazing workshop facilitators. But I also met some of the smartest, most creative people who have written and are writing the best stories you’ll read today (read Trying Times by Adachioma Ezeano on Granta today, not tomorrow). To this day, reading their work, hearing their process, or even witnessing their persistence jolts me back to my own momentum. It’s easier to stay smitten with storytelling when you’re surrounded by people who also can’t imagine giving it up.

That brings me to my second rule: lean on your community for encouragement and endurance. Their persistence becomes a mirror: doubt is universal, but so is the drive to keep going. You’re not as alone as you think.

I’ve had that good fortune of immersing myself in community multiple times since, for example, as a creative writing student at the University of East Anglia, and then at the Miles Morland Workshop in Zanzibar, late 2023. Each time, I wished I could stay in that space forever, constantly surrounded by writers, soaking up ideas, and having my work handled with such thoughtfulness, rigour, and kindness. In Zanzibar, it wasn’t just the beauty of the coast or the call of the sea that made me want to linger. It was knowing that even when they tore my work apart, it was only to temper it into something sharper. They cared. The third rule is to find people who care enough to tell you the truth. You won’t always agree with them or take all of their feedback. That’s fine. But you should be able to trust that what they say comes from a place of care. Community is about honesty you can rely on.

You must also give as much as you take. I realise each day that the world doesn’t revolve around me and my drafts, as much as I would like it to. Rule three: community only thrives if everyone feeds it. And the best way to feed it is to be willing to offer valuable feedback, and to do this, you must read, must understand what makes literature a gorgeous art form.

Be careful though, you can’t make room for jealousy or allow it to fester. If you measure yourself only against others, you lose sight of the wonder that drew you in. Community thrives when we replace envy with generosity: when we celebrate others’ wins, and hold space for their failures.

I’ll end here: be ready to come undone. To be unsettled, annoyed even. If you enter a circle only to have your own voice confirmed, you miss the gift. Let others’ perspectives stretch yours.

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One thing before I leave. My friend is hosting a creative nonfiction workshop in London. If you’re a writer looking for community, or simply want to get better at nonfiction, I think you should go.