I believe we are all geared for creativity, and we are able until we die.
Only death is a true impediment to creativity, right?!
(my own thoughts)
No person should be disbelieved in their ability to create incredible art, products, solutions, ideas, kindness, magic, words, sounds, tears, joy… more than anything, no person should disbelieve their own ability to create something absolutely special.
Sometimes we have to let go of creating something specific, in order to find our talents in a very unexpected area, somewhere we thrive and achieve unbelievable highs.
No matter how many years of classical ballet I strived through, I was never able to grab my right leg with my left hand, in a split, and brush my left ear with it. My genetic make-up never permitted my elasticity to get there. At most, in the height of my fitness level at fifteen years old, I managed the spit, sweating profusely. And cursing.
I’m still a dancer in my heart, and I still dance in the living room and as a hobby, Latin styles, but my passion, my magic, morphed to another area where I’m better able to create art: storytelling.
I’m glad I kept believing though, deep down inside…
The reason I write today is because I need to write the narratives I want to read. I need to make my own story and read my own power in my storyline and not let others determine what is available for me to read. I need to create in the world the possibilities I see in my mind’s eye. I’m tired of the same old story where everyone conforms to what is dictated by the same old tales and tired run-through formulas. I want fresh, unused, strange, and unique; my voice deserves to be out there. Today I am all powerful.
Walking in heavy rain is like being part of a tribe.
There’s an instant connection to anyone else braving the elements, holding the umbrella for fear of going Poppins with the wind, a daring to the hurricane to Dorothy you. I get so many ‘good mornings’ and some belly laughs at the absurdity of the cats and dogs down-pouring. Sometimes I forego the umbrella altogether and let the drops fall to the face, looking up, tongue out, like a frangipani leaf.
Before, most people had to go to the office. Not now. Walking is a deliberate choice, a good one, turns out.
I feel alive. I feel like a knight on a quest. I feel connected to the other brave knights on the road.
Eu vivo escrevendo sobre o Veríssimo, o Luis Fernando, que é um dos meus Mestres.
Também fiquei pensando que eu tenho múltiplas-múltiplas-personalidades, e uma das coisas que as divide é a língua. Quem eu sou escrevendo em inglês e em português é completamente diferente. Quem lê as duas línguas deve achar que tem irmãs gêmeas, igual em novela Brasileira, não podem ser a mesma pessoa.
A gêmea australiana hoje amou ler o texto da que a gêmea brasileira escreveu em 2017.
I am equally comfortable talking to a hard core scientist as I am with a reincarnated psychic astrologer, and I believe, most ardently, in both their rights of believing whatever they want. I noticed this week that I was listening to a course about skepticism and how to improve thinking processes with the same eagerness I listen to the possibility of the existence of aliens in the Universe. I enjoy being open to the possibility of mysteries, aliens, ghosts, multiple dimensions, universes and timelines, imagining there could be another me who is already a full time writer, and so many other possibilities. Would there be another world where the first contact has already been established? Ah, the wonderful world of imagination!
On the other hand, I’m not easily duped, not prone to believing in conspiracies, fake news or falling in cults, even though I believe in positive energies, alignments of planets, power of goddesses, and much of that crap (smile). I think I accept more than I exclude, but it doesn’t mean I can be manipulated or believe blindly. Just means I’m open to ideas, even if I don’t know if they are real. I can see they could be real, or I can make them real in a book.
I’ve noticed that we carry ghosts with us, all the time, hundreds of them. More, if we have narrative minds. There’s the boy from fifth grade that was going to notice you, and hold your hand; the audition that you were going to master and be chosen as the soloist and that would change your path forever, and so many others. They happen at the moment people make a decision, different from the one you want, and your fantasies created another path for them — in your spirit — and a ghost is born, tethered to your soul. You are surrounded. Let them go…
For someone who dislikes the taste of alcohol and has a sort of spirituality that is a mesh of all that is good from several faiths and discards much of all that is structured from these same faiths including most of prayers, finding that, first I have a favourite prayer, and then, that my favourite prayer in the world, The Serenity Prayer, is iconically used by the Alcoholic Anonymous is somewhat ironic. The original brings me peace and wisdom and joy, but then I adapted it to my own writing mission. The way it came to me, is to help me on the way, and every day it guides me further in my storyteller role.
Storyteller’s Serenity Prayer
[Adapted by Tania Crivellenti]
May Source, give you grace to accept with serenity, the things that cannot be changed; Courage, to change the things which should be changed; And the wisdom, to distinguish one from the other.
Living one day at a time. Enjoying one moment at a time. Accepting hardship as a pathway to enlightenment and manuscript.
Taking this sinful world as it is, and being authentic to it, even when transforming it, making it into written words; Not as you would have it, but truthful, even in fiction.
Trusting that Source will make all things right; If you surrender to their will, so that you may be writingly happy in this life; Find yourself in creative flow often; And supremely happy, with the legacy you leave, forever in the next.
I am not sure that I live 100% here; on my writing days I fall through a crack in the fabric of the Universe into another dimension, where the world as we know has ended. Even more than what we are seeing now…
I can pinpoint a big change in my life to the day when I was walking through Mosman’s #HeadlandPark and realised that many companies had been stablished in the business spaces I had once seen and wished to work at.
This was many years ago, when I took pictures of all the companies names and sent them my resume, asking for a job. I’m an Office Manager/EA, when I’m not being a writer, and that is a position that exists in many companies.
The Alive Mobile Group had just lost their person in that role and hired me. Alive would later transform and become part of The Mirus Group and move to Pyrmont, and it is where I still work (still a beautiful water-views office!)
At that time, the company was in Mosman, and I lived in the area. The office was phenomenal, with harbour views and my walk to work was incredibly inspiring, meandering through the cozy village and the paths of the Headland Park. I loved the company, the place and the culture (still do). The one thought that distracted me sometimes was that every day I would walk to work and wish I could write on the way, stop at the amazing locations and just sit down on a bench, or at a cafe, and write my heart out.
Alas, I had to get to work on time, and even though I did write before and after work some days, and took to write during some lunch hours, I had this consistent desire for more time.
Last week I was a bit disappointed because my writing day hadn’t been the most productive and suddenly I had this idea, that now, with my Writing Wednesdays, I could do exactly what I had wanted to do all those days while I was working in Mosman, I could walk the path, and stop for writing along the way… All day long!
It was an incredible experience, I left early with my writing gear, down to Balmoral Beach and all the way alongside it, crossing the Balmoral Park Oval and up the steps (many, many, very steep steps). I stopped at Frenchy’s Cafe for a couple of hours of writing.
Then I took the track behind the cafe through the Artist Precinct and found the bench with the most beautiful view in the world! Quite predictably, I sat there for another writing sprint… I watched while a guy — who must have a pretty great job — removed weeds from the bush.
When the sky started showing signs that it would fall on me, I continued my walk, and took this picture, bombed by a brisk walker.
By the time I got home, just before the rain really started falling, I had accumulated thousand of steps and, even better, thousands of words!