Creative Process

writing while sober with insights from Angel Olsen and Clementine Morrigan

I recently had the pleasure of seeing one of my favorite musicians, Angel Olsen, perform live at an intimate outdoor venue in Ojai, California. This tour was stripped down, with no backing band. There was only her voice and guitar, my favorite way to experience her music. The amphitheater seated just over 1,000 people, and I fortunately only had to pay $100 for a seat in the third row. I have been listening to Angel’s music for over a decade, her voice weaving through the many versions of myself and the defining moments of my life—finding and losing love, experiencing profound grief, battling addiction, and starting over again (and again and again). No matter where I was in life, I’ve always been able to return to her music with awe and wonder.

Between the whispers and raptures of each song, she spoke freely with the audience, admitting that she had to look up the lyrics from her 2012 album, Half Way Home, and EP, Strange Cacti, on her phone before jumping on stage. With a charming smile, she told us that although she was a musician, it might surprise us that she did not think in song or sing constant melodies throughout the day. Writing music was a job for her. It wasn’t her whole life. When she was home, she rarely listened to music besides Alice Coltrane. I couldn’t believe it. Do you mean to say songs like “Acrobat” or “If It’s Alive It Will” are not imprinted in her soul like they are in mine?! I’ve always imagined her in a quiet, sunlit room, guitar resting on her lap, head bent close to the strings as she plucks and hums, yodeling melodies until a song takes shape. That this artist I admire and adore doesn’t ‘live’ in her music the way I imagined sparked curiosity and reflection on my own creative process.

For many years, writing was my way of processing pain while I was in active addiction. It allowed me to tap into feelings I otherwise felt disconnected from—anger, frustration, insecurity, and shame. Writing became deeply intertwined with my suffering, a lifeline that anchored me to a world that felt like it was constantly crumbling beneath me.

But since getting sober, I’ve had to redefine what writing means to me. It’s no longer an outlet for my pain but something I must willingly approach with intention. It’s no longer driven by rage or chaos but by mindfulness and purpose. Before, I would drink or use drugs to shield myself from the full brunt of my emotions, numbing myself to the overwhelming force of what I was expressing. I’d come out of a writing frenzy surprised by my words, only to shut down those feelings again once they were on the page.

Now, without the motivation and protection substances provided me, I find myself asking: What does writing mean to me? What do I want from it now that I’m no longer driven by addiction and the suffering that comes with it? What interests me, and where do I go from here? The world is open, and there is no one clear path. It’s electrifying and terrifying.

Writing under the influence was deeply self-destructive, yet it felt productive in the way I needed it to be at the time. I convinced myself I couldn’t write sober, but in reality, substances only widened the gap between me and what I needed to feel. I was so afraid of failing and of feelings—substances were there to provide me a safety net to fall onto.

Now that writing is no longer tied to my substance abuse disorder, I’m more open to exploring what I genuinely want to write about. I am no longer writing because I need to but because I want to. Pivoting this way has turned writing into a mindful, intentional practice driven by curiosity rather than an incessant need to escape.

However, this approach still carries a certain rawness—now, I must face everything I’ve avoided over the last four years in my journey to stay clean.

As Clementine Morrigan describes, diving into the depths will always be painful. But I’m finding that being open to facing it all is what makes the process worth it; it’s how I will continue to heal, grow, and *hopefully* write something I’m proud of.