I have written some songs, but I would really call what I've

Hear, O children of wonder, the voice of Amanda Seyfried, who spoke with candor and humility: “I have written some songs, but I would really call what I’ve done poetry at the end of the day, because I’ll sit with my guitar for hours and hours on end for, like, a week and then I won’t touch it for a month. I also just have no confidence. And you know what? I don’t have time, because I’d rather be doing other things, like knitting.” In this confession lies not weakness, but a deep truth about the nature of creation, doubt, and the soul’s wandering path.

The making of poetry, whether in words or in music, does not always flow like a steady river. It often comes as sudden storms, as fleeting bursts of lightning that illuminate the night and then vanish. Seyfried reveals this when she tells of sitting with her guitar for hours, then leaving it untouched for weeks. This rhythm is the rhythm of the human heart itself—seasons of passion followed by seasons of stillness. Creation is not constant; it is cyclical, like the phases of the moon. To accept this is wisdom.

Yet in her honesty about confidence, she speaks for countless souls across the ages. The poet, the painter, the musician—all have felt the shadow of doubt. Michelangelo, though he carved David from stone and painted the Sistine Chapel, once wrote that he had achieved nothing of worth. Emily Dickinson, whose poetry now lights the world, often hid her verses in drawers, uncertain if they were worthy of eyes other than her own. Seyfried’s words remind us that doubt does not cancel creation—it is often the companion of those who care deeply about truth and beauty.

And when she speaks of time, and of choosing to knit instead of strum, she touches upon a greater wisdom still: that life itself is poetry. The act of knitting, of shaping thread into fabric, is not less holy than shaping melody into song. The ancients knew this well—did not Penelope weave and unweave her loom as both survival and art? Did not the humble crafts of villages carry as much soul as the songs of kings? To live with love, to create with patience, even in simple things, is itself a form of art.

Consider the story of Vincent van Gogh, who painted in bursts of fiery intensity, then fell into silence and despair. He too lacked confidence, he too felt the pull of other labors, yet the strokes he left behind burn in eternity. He teaches us, as does Seyfried, that creation does not require endless productivity; it requires authenticity. Whether in painting, in song, or in knitting, the work that springs from the heart carries its own quiet immortality.

Let us then take this lesson into our own lives: do not despise the days when you are silent, nor curse yourself for lacking constant drive. Instead, honor the ebb and flow. When the fire of creation burns, give yourself wholly to it. When it rests, turn to other labors with joy, knowing they too are part of your soul’s tapestry. Every act done with care—whether writing, singing, cooking, or weaving—becomes part of your eternal poetry.

Practical is this wisdom: set aside guilt for what you have not done, and instead cherish what you do. Keep a notebook by your side for the sudden lines of poetry that arrive like guests. Pick up your instrument when your spirit longs for it, and set it down without shame when it does not. And remember, every moment you spend creating, even in the simplest of crafts, is a moment of communion with the eternal.

Thus Seyfried’s words, spoken in humility, become a mirror for us all. They remind us that songs need not be constant, poetry need not be perfect, confidence need not be absolute, and time spent on humble things is not wasted. For in the end, the soul’s greatest work is not in masterpieces alone, but in the way it weaves beauty into the fabric of living.