If you're writing a screenplay, you need to be prepared to let

In the ancient world, the artist was both a creator and a warrior. The creation of something—whether it was a work of art, a poem, or a grand epic—was not simply an act of will but a surrender to the forces of the universe. This truth echoes in the words of Meg Cabot, who speaks of the writer’s journey with the understanding of one who has seen the ebb and flow of creative labor: "If you're writing a screenplay, you need to be prepared to let go: there's a good chance the words you write aren't going to be the ones that end up on screen." These words speak not only to the screenwriter but to all creators, reminding us that in the act of creation, we must also be prepared to release our attachment to what we envision.

The essence of creation is, as the ancients understood, a collaboration between the creator and the forces that shape the world. The sculptor, like Phidias, shaping the Parthenon or the great statues of the gods, would often begin with a vision, yet as the marble took shape, the stone would reveal its own secrets, urging the sculptor to change, to adapt. Likewise, the poet, much like Homer, would sing his epic, yet the story would shift, finding its true form through the act of telling. This is the lesson of letting go—to trust that the creation will take on a life of its own, guided not by the hand of the artist alone, but by the very spirit of the world itself.

Cabot’s words speak to the inherent uncertainty of the creative process. The screenplay, like all great works of art, is never finished in the moment of writing. It is a living entity, shaped not only by the creator’s intent but by the collaborators—the directors, actors, and the audience themselves. The words of a screenplay are a beginning, not an end, and they must be allowed to evolve as the project grows. This idea, that creation is a fluid process, reflects the wisdom of the ancients, who knew that the product of human effort was never static but a dynamic force, constantly in the process of becoming.

This concept of letting go is reflected in the history of the greatest creators. Take, for instance, the story of Leonardo da Vinci, whose Mona Lisa began as one thing but ended as something else entirely. Da Vinci, ever the perfectionist, made countless adjustments to his masterpiece, and the final painting bore little resemblance to the initial concept. Yet, it was this willingness to release his fixed notions that allowed the piece to find its true form. Leonardo, like Cabot's screenwriter, knew that the creator’s role was not to control every aspect but to allow the work to live, to transform beyond its creator’s original vision.

The lesson in letting go is one of trust. In the ancient wisdom of the Taoists, we find the principle of Wu Wei, or non-action—not in the sense of doing nothing, but of working in harmony with the natural flow of the universe. To be a creator, to be a true artist, is to engage in the dance of action and surrender. The writer must write, the sculptor must carve, but neither can hold too tightly to the outcome. Like water flowing through the cracks of rock, the work will find its own way, and the creator must trust in the process rather than the end result.

In our own lives, whether we are writing, painting, building, or living, we must remember the wisdom of letting go. Our efforts are not about the final product, but about the process of becoming. When we create, we must be willing to see our ideas evolve, to adapt as new insights come to us, and to accept that the journey itself is as important as the destination. This is the ancient truth of impermanence—that nothing is fixed, nothing is permanent, and everything, even our creations, must be allowed to change with the flow of time.

So, let us take Meg Cabot's lesson to heart. In every act of creation, let us release our attachment to the outcome. Let us trust the process, knowing that what we create may take on a form greater than we ever imagined. Whether we are writing, painting, or building the future, let us remember that the true spirit of creation lies in our willingness to let go, to allow our works to live and breathe in ways we cannot always predict. In this, we honor not only our craft but the unseen forces that shape our world. The work is never truly finished—it is always becoming, just as we are.