I got a letter from one of my clients. “I’m really struggling right now. I don’t know if I can make this work, if it will be good enough – or even decent – this time. I doubt that anyone will ever want to read this. I just don’t know how to keep going.”
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Category: The Creative Process
Asking for help is opening the door for love I don’t like asking for help. Who does? It brings out all those uncomfortable feelings of vulnerability, loss of independence, of being a burden. It requires a level of honesty and trust I have not mastered before. Haven’t yet, truth to be told. But I’m getting
The first steps towards any dream are wobbly. We need support and we turn to our family and friends for it. We tell them about our dreams, hopes and fears and if we’re lucky we are met with encouragement and validation. Wow, that sounds amazing. I know that feeling. Wouldn’t it be cool? But
God is in the structure My deepest desire now is to move from striving to flow, both in my creative work and in life. In order to do that, I need structure. Structure is the safe container in which tender ideas can grow and focused work flow. This took me some time to realize.
I read this amazing little book the other day, The Expedition, by Bea Uusma. It tells the story of the Andree polar expedition in 1897, and it reminded me about something really important. (Polar expeditions may not be your first interest, I know. But bear with me. I’ll get to the point in a
I have a little study at home. It’s a tiny room, 2×3 meters, filled with books, art, boxes of paper, pens and stamps (I regularly write real letters), candles, a globe of glass and a madonna figure of bronze, a good sized desk and a little daybed in a nook (with the prettiest William Morris
I love a good book on creativity. I love the inspiration, love new knowledge when I stumble upon it, love when my own struggles and discoveries are mirrored by someone else’s story. It’s an inexhaustible topic, and the more I learn about the creative process, the more of a mystery it seems. (Which is
My mother baked all our bread when I was a child. She made cookies that were small works of art, and twirled cinnamon buns like nobody’s business. She embroidered Christmas tablecloths, made pancakes for all the kids in the neighbourhood and served homemade strawberry jam to go with it. She sewed the pants we wore
- In search of a simpler life
- Why I ditched a beautiful career
- Live it before you preach it
- Why I write about sexual violence on a blog about creativity
- If you need permission to rest
- Confessions of an unprofitable human being
- How to burn a little brighter. Or, the end of a favourite myth
- The power of words – a letter from the Psych Ward