GRASP
Writing the elusive beast - on doing a creative practice thesis
March 11th, 2026, by
There’s something special about writing a creative practice thesis. It’s not just about writing a novel or producing an academic exegesis. But doing both with the story in one hand and theory in the other, and being told that counts as research. For me, as a writer, that is a really fulfilling experience.
Watching characters come alive
Through my creative work, I’ve lived with my characters. I’ve watched them breathe and let them argue with me. I’ve seen them shift and grow in ways I didn’t outline but somehow always knew were coming. And when writer’s block set in, the characters allowed me to drown them. Don’t know what is going to happen in your scene? Try drowning your characters; they will quickly leap into action, and you can write again. Writing fiction is extra special when you also reflect on it critically.
I’m not just asking what happens next? I’m asking:
- Why does this scene matter?
- What is this relationship saying about power?
- What traditions am I writing into, or against?
- How does my creative instinct intersect with theory?
It’s like getting an upgrade for something that’s already good. Suddenly, you can see the textures, the dirt, those fingerprints. The research improves the creative work, which in turn improves the research. And when it works, it feels electric. Discovering that your characters have guided your novella in a new direction feels incredibly rewarding. That’s not something you get in a lab report.
The strange loneliness of it
But here is the part people don’t talk about. Creative theses are lonely. When you search “how to write a thesis,” you’re met with:
- Literature review templates
- Methodology breakdowns
- Data collection strategies
- Statistical analysis guides
- Workshops for STEM researchers
- Formatting advice for empirical studies
And all of that is useful for a different kind of work. But when you’re writing a novella and an exegesis that interrogates its own creative decisions, the advice rarely translates. You’re not “collecting data.” You’re building worlds. You’re not “testing a hypothesis.” You’re testing emotional truth. Most theses often assume you have participants or measurable outcomes, or you have a results table.
Meanwhile, I have witches, blood curses, and complicated romantic dynamics that I’m critically unpacking. I’m writing a romantic fantasy where I’m writing against the grain. It can feel like you’re chasing something half-mythical. It’s this elusive, magical beast. You know it’s real, and you’re riding it. But sometimes you can’t find the map.
The tension between artist and researcher
One of the hardest parts has been learning to be both artist and analyst without letting one silence the other. The artist wants to:
- Follow instinct.
- Write the messy scene.
- Let characters make bad choices.
- Trust the emotional arc.
The researcher wants to:
- Define terms.
- Justify decisions.
- Place the work within the existing academic discourse.
- Prove contribution.
Some days, they work beautifully together. Other days, they glare at each other across the desk. When thesis advice emphasises objectivity and clarity, it raises questions about whether emotional personal storytelling qualifies as serious academic work. It does. But sometimes you must remind yourself of that.
What makes it worth it
Despite the loneliness and the lack of clear templates, I am inventing the process as I go, and it has been profoundly rewarding. Not only do I get to write a story I want to tell, but I also come to know my characters more deeply by interrogating them critically.
My thesis takes the form of a creative-practice project that combines a romantic fantasy novella with a critical exegesis, allowing me to examine how popular fantasy romance narratives can normalise coercive and controlling relationship dynamics. The creative and academic parts deliberately interact, questioning genre rules and exploring how romantic fantasy tropes can be challenged. Writers can use this technique to rethink love stories, emphasising autonomy and safety, and to find fresh narrative approaches that preserve the genre’s emotional core.
Through this process, I have developed a stronger understanding of the genre. My words feel more precise and a little wilder at the same time. Creative practice has made me braver and taught me patience with myself. This kind of work does not have a straightforward formula. It has heart and citations. Perhaps that is why it can feel so elusive. It is not just a thesis or a novel. It is a conversation between them.
For anyone else wrestling the beast
If you are working on a creative practice thesis and feel adrift, you are not failing. The path is harder to see. Your methodology might look unfamiliar to traditional academics. Your findings may emerge through narrative rather than numbers. That does not make the work less rigorous. If anything, it often demands more.
In a creative practice thesis, you’ll build a world, analyse your creation process, and then explain its scholarly relevance. You move constantly between imagination and analysis, between story and theory. It is demanding work, but it is also uniquely rewarding. When characters are relatable, and a concept supports the plot without overpowering it, the research behind the story feels very authentic. Creative practice research may be a rare and sometimes elusive creature in academia, but it is ours to explore and shape.
Michelle Vokal is a Master of Philosophy (Media, Culture and Creative Arts) student at Curtin University.
Please make any comments/ feedback, or suggestions for further posts at this link. If you would like to write a post for the Ideas Hub blog, please email karen.miller@curtin.edu.au
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash