When Writing Makes You Stink

Two days. Two full, glorious, immersive days spent writing. And what have I got to show for it besides a few polished pieces, a slightly cleaner perspective, and… a distinct layer of personal eau de toilette that I am not proud of.

Honestly, I need a shower. I mean, really — it’s not just a “quick rinse” kind of situation. This is a deep, existential, I’ve-been-living-in-my-writing-bubble-for-48-hours kind of shower.

Writing like this is magical, yes. It’s transformative.

It makes you see yourself, your thoughts, your life in ways you didn’t know existed. But it also makes you stink. Your hair might start smelling like anxiety, your clothes like creative desperation, and your skin might just smell… well… writerly.

And yet, somehow, I wouldn’t trade it.

Because two days of stink are still better than two days of nothing. Better than sitting there scrolling endlessly on my phone, pretending to do “research.” Better than staring at a blank page, wishing inspiration would just drop into my lap like a gift from the muses.

So yes, I will shower. I will scrub away the physical evidence of my creative binge.

But the mental fingerprints, the emotional fingerprints, those I will carry with me for a while. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll write a piece about how gloriously smelly creativity can be.

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Some people say writing is “therapeutic.” And yes, it can be — if your definition of therapeutic includes staring at your own brain for hours, finding crumbs of inspiration in every corner of your consciousness, and occasionally forgetting what day it is. You might cry, you might laugh, you might forget to eat… or shower. Clearly, showering is optional when you’re busy excavating your soul.

Then there’s the physical reality: posture becomes a distant memory. My chair grows impressions of me like some kind of weird homage. My coffee cup multiplies mysteriously. My back aches, my eyes ache, and somehow my hair starts questioning all my life choices.

But still — still — I write. Because the ideas are there, stubborn and beautiful, demanding to be wrestled onto the page.

And in the middle of it all, there’s that little moment when something clicks. A line lands just right, a paragraph sings, a thought becomes a sentence that makes sense.

Suddenly, the stink, the fatigue, the crumbs of snacks that have migrated into my keyboard — all of it fades into insignificance. I’m alive in my writing. My soul has been nudged, tickled, and sometimes even kicked awake, and I wouldn’t trade the chaos for anything.

So yes, I will shower. And I’ll drink water, and maybe even eat something that isn’t instant noodles. But the messy, slightly stinky, wholly human part of creativity? That I will keep. Because that’s the real proof that something alive and true has been happening here. That’s the evidence that the writing mattered. That’s the smell of progress, and I’ll wear it proudly — until the shower water finally washes it away.

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And tomorrow, I’ll do it all over again — because apparently, genius smells like sweat, coffee, and a little bit of creative madness.

With Love

Astrid