The Art of Slow Creativity: Lessons from a Failed Batch of Croissants

I have complicated feelings about croissants. 

On the one hand, a plate of soft intensely buttery pastries has the power to transport me

across time to a bright but cold afternoon relaxing outside at a Parisian café somewhere along the Rue Dauphine. In my memory I am drinking espresso, wishing I’d remembered red lipstick and better sunglasses. 

My Complicated Relationship (With Croissants)

On the other hand, croissants are fussy—to bake that is. Thankfully (or maybe not) they are quite easy to eat. Every few months, nostalgia for that trip and the promise of a special treat, tricks me into making them again despite the potential headache they bring. What a lovely metaphor of love and hate: one part romance, one part frustration, and always a little bit messy.

A few days ago, I caught one of these wild-hairs while I lazily flipped through pages of my favorite cookbook.  I imagined (perhaps foolishly) that the moment could only be improved by crisp pastry flakes sifting steadily down onto the pages with every decedent bite. That’s how it always begins: a longing, a memory and the futile desire to return to that moment of time.

Of course, reality doesn't always end as happily as the dream.

Failure Is Part Of The Recipe

Several years ago, when I first tried to make croissants—it was a disaster. 

I was in a hurry—which everyone knows is the recipe for heartache. I followed a recipe for making “fool-proof” croissants. The recipe demanded endless measuring, resting, refrigerating—blah, blah, blah. Meanwhile, I was trying to wrangle myself, my husband, and my three-year-old out the door. After the fiftieth time dragging the dough out of the fridge and begrudgingly throwing a rolling pin over the dough, I finally, FINALLY, cut and shaped the croissants. 

Then—Good gracious! How long do they need to proof? I decided to leave them out on the counter to "do their thing" while I hustled the family out the door. 

Three hours later we returned and—why I thought after rushing through the recipe, slapping them together and then negligently leaving the poor things out in the figurative rain, did I think I would return home to something edible? It will surprise no one—except past me apparently—to hear that the dough had turned into a blobby mass of sticky goo. 

Disgustedly, I scrapped the mess into a loaf pan, baked it, and called it brioche. Ironically, it wasn’t half bad, I guess if you add enough butter, even a disaster can be saved.

But the lesson was clear: croissants can’t be rushed. 

“Good things come to those who wait.” -Depending on who you ask: Violet Fane or Abraham Lincoln

Why Creativity Can't Be Rushed

Being wiser than my past self, I have learned to appreciate the things that take time. The results are better, naturally—but I also gain an immense amount of satisfaction in the

process. 

We have turned into a destination based society, and although I enjoy one-hour nail-polish delivery as much as anyone, in regards to creative pursuits, there is a level of mastery you just can’t hack. A person can only “get good” at something if they are willing to dedicate the time it takes to do the thing properly.

The name of the long game is, patience. Patience is the rhythm I follow in my writing and my creative work. The authors I admire most didn’t become masters in their craft

overnight. They practiced. They slowed down. They allowed the process to shape them—and in turn their words shape us.

The Beauty Of Slow Creativity

We don’t exist in this world to rush through it. We are meant to experience it. Creativity is one of the most profound ways we express that experience. When we tend to the things around us that intrinsically move us—whether it is a batch of croissants or a single scene in a novel—we are telling ourselves: this matters.

The time is worth it.  The beauty is worth it. 

Because the satisfaction is worth it.

If you are a creative soul longing to savor the slow beauty of your own work, I hope you’ll stay awhile. There’s much more to come.