Why is The Artist’s Way suddenly everywhere?
…and was I doing it right? A critique, an appreciation, and a reflection.
Olivia Rodrigo. Doechii. Bella Hadid. What do these celebrities have in common, you might ask? They’ve all professed their love of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, a 12-chapter course for tapping into your inner creative and healing your creative wounds.
Since Julia Cameron wrote her guide in 1992, The Artist’s Way has sold over 5 million copies and has developed a cult following among famous creatives and laypeople alike. Alicia Keys, Reese Witherspoon, and Kerry Washington have all sworn by the book. Elizabeth Gilbert has said that without The Artist’s Way, there would be no Eat, Pray, Love. Cameron’s book is so recognizable in the creator-verse that it’s transcended its title to encapsulate a process or ritual. You’ll hear it used as the following in a sentence: “I just started doing the Artist’s Way.”
There’s a lot of dedication that Cameron asks of you in The Artist’s Way. I’d heard of it and its supposed spiritual prowess, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold myself accountable to all of her requirements without moral support. So when my friend Jisung announced in January that she would be facilitating a 10-week group for our cohort of GYOPO volunteers, I jumped at the opportunity to join.
Before I begin my reflections, I would be remiss not to mention the very valid critiques of The Artist’s Way that have been explored at length. For one, Cameron seems to float in a White “lucky girl syndrome” bubble of privilege where she snaps her fingers and can have her way. Some of her anecdotes about manifesting creative synchronicities can seem ridiculous and out-of-touch: she buys a horse because she wants to, she casts her best friend in a play after throwing a tantrum.
The way she broaches necessary topics, like money or resources, is steeped in privilege. She addresses a financially-secure, upper-middle class+ demographic who she assumes has the benefit of time—time for daily reflections, artist dates, and walks. Time is the greatest resource that maintains the majority-White, wealthy creative class, and Cameron demands a lot of it in the 12-week journey.
On the other hand, some of the advice Cameron offers for creative hopefuls can be universally applied. Her tasks are actionable, concrete, and cost little. They encourage small daily actions to build up a kind of creative faith in the necessity of making art as a lifelong endeavor.
During the first few weeks of The Artist’s Way, Jisung established some ground rules during our Sunday afternoon meetings. 1) Daily morning pages: right after waking up, before looking at any screens, to clear the mind as a form of meditation. 2) Two solo artist walks a week: no phone, no agenda, no dog-walking. 3) One solo artist date a week: as if you were taking your artist self out on a date. This could be as simple as a doodling at a park or reading at the library. 4) Read one chapter of The Artist’s Way every week: and complete the reflection tasks at the end of the section.
I started my Artist’s Way journey by setting my alarm clock 20 minutes earlier than my usual wake-up time to finish the daily journal pages. Thankfully, Theo had just started The Artist’s Way with his musician group, so we would both rub our bleary eyes at the sound of the alarm, then write our three pages from bed.
As we progressed in The Artist’s Way, it became impossible to ignore the testimonials in both the book and in real life from people whose lives had been upended by the guide. When I went around telling people that I was doing The Artist's Way, friends chimed in about how it had changed their trajectories.
My friend Lisa and I got lunch about three weeks in, and she told me she was already wrecked by Cameron. “I realized how much of a self critic I am and how often I stop myself from pursuing something out of fear,” she said. “I was able to shut that voice down.”
Karthik, a writer in my online co-writing group, said that starting the Artist’s Way seven years ago is what kick-started his writing. Before then, he was “a tech business person.” Last fall, Karthik won a prestigious Center for Fiction fellowship and is close to finishing his epic multigenerational novel.
One thing that felt unique and special about our Artist’s Way cohort was that it was all-Korean. Every week, we discussed how our Korean families and histories had influenced the way that we thought about creativity. “I’ve done The Artist’s Way before,” one volunteer said during our Sunday check-in, “But never with a bunch of Koreans. It’s like wow, Koreans can do The Artist’s Way too!”
Jisung would tweak the weekly tasks from Cameron by throwing in a Korean angle. On Week 6, when we reflected on Koreanness and creative abundance, she asked:
✨ Koreanness & Abundance Prompt ✨
-How have cultural or familial beliefs shaped your attitudes toward money, abundance, luxury, and creativity?
-How can we imagine Koreanness as a source of abundance?
-Reflect specifically on memories or lessons from family, community, or cultural narratives around money, and creative freedom. Explore how these beliefs have empowered or limited your creative practices and sense of abundance.
In response to the prompts, I journaled about how my parents threw me into all the art classes when I was young. From ages 4-11, I was in violin, painting, sculpting, dance, vocal lessons, and choir. But that breadth didn’t mean they instilled a sense of creative longevity.
In elementary school, my mother put me in a Korean lady’s sculpture class (which, of course, she ran out of her garage), where I developed my first creative love: working with clay. Every week, I just formed whatever I called to me in the moment. I made weird coil pots, nude busts, and abstract blobs with my hands. I didn’t worry about the clay all over my clothes, the need to feel like I was improving at sculpture or showing progress, or feel any sort of artistic constraint. That studio was where I embraced both my carefree kid and budding artist selves.
Then, when we moved to a new neighborhood in 5th grade, my mother made me quit the studio time. “It’s too far for me to drive you there,” she said. “Also, sculpture wasn’t going to lead to success or money. You want to end up teaching art classes in your garage like the teacher?”
I was devastated. I pouted a little, but I knew my mom worked full time and that the drive was hard on her. Besides, she was right—it’s not like I had the level of prodigy skill to become a renowned sculptor. And how shameful to only amount to teaching art classes to Korean kids out of your garage!
Looking back at it now, I think that was the first moment when I internalized that art was something to be pursued only if it led to fame or money; otherwise it was worthless, fruitless, or even shameful. Throughout middle school and high school, prompted by my frustrated mother who berated me for not practicing enough to justify the cost of lessons, I quit all the other lessons one by one. And I understand why—art lessons are restrictively expensive, and teenage Iris sure as hell didn’t display the patience or diligence of daily practice.
I realize now that for my parents, whose parents couldn’t afford any extracurricular lessons when they were children, art was a luxury—a nice afterthought that came after educational attainment. Their initial instinct after immigrating to the U.S. was to bless their daughter with the art classes they never got to take, and then, realizing that I didn’t possess some sort of genius-level drive or “talent” for these art forms, make me quit all of them.
While I’m grateful that they fostered a sense of creative exploration when I was young, I wonder what my relationship to art and creativity would be if my parents had let me continue with at least the pottery studio just for the sake of that weekly artistic release. Not for achievement, or accolades, or even any marked progress, but just for fun.
To undo that childhood lesson, I started looking for pottery studios near me that offered freeform clay time. Immediately, I found an affordable studio in Highland Park that had an upcoming Sunday morning artist date session (this what Julia Cameron excitedly mentions throughout the book as synchronicity!) I signed up, threw clay around for two hours, and had a lovely time chatting with other people on their solo artist dates while we each made whatever weird creation we felt called to make.
Did it feel life-changing? No. Was it fun? Yes.
I confess: In the beginning of The Artist’s Way, I questioned whether I was doing it the right way. I was following all the rules, going on the dates, doing the artist walks. So why wasn’t I having profound breakthroughs like Olivia, Alicia, or even some of my friends? Why didn’t I feel like I was reaching some core internal creative truth?
Then, as the weeks passed, I realized that for me, the greatest personal change brought on by The Artists Way was learning to lean into slowness and rest amidst digital distraction and capitalist productivity. Its assigned rituals nudged me towards the very act of stopping and pausing during the chaos of daily life, allowing breath and stillness to flow through my creative projects. At the exact moment when I thought, “I don’t possibly have time for an artist’s walk or my journaling today,” I recognized the intuitive tug that led me to put my phone away, step outside, and feel the sun on my skin while writing my thoughts down or gazing at neighborhood trees.
The Artists Way became more about building habits and consistency than about life-shattering epiphanies. It’s helped me embrace my creative optimism, curiosity, and a sense of play. As our 12-week cohort winds down, I hope these newfound habits stay with me as I continue befriending and caring for my artist self.
I just started The Artist's Way! (I actually had no idea it was a trend, lol - a friend suggested I do it with her.) I really appreciated your perspective on it - I'm excited to have fun with it + suspend my disbelief a little.
I love this take ❤️