Honestly, creativity isn't something that was encouraged when I was younger. Nowadays I struggle with finding ways to spark creativity so that I can put words on the page. I would say creativity is my biggest writing struggle. Also, I love how you encourage creativity with you children!
I get it, Jody. It isn't easy to find ways to spark creativity. That's one of the things that I've found really valuable in Cameron's book. She's always offering up exercises to awaken that creative spirit. Some I just roll my eyes at (they seem a little airy fairy) but others work like magic. Thanks for your honesty here. I appreciate you!
Well said. My college advisor told me I was a writer. I guess he’d read enough of my papers, but I didn’t believe him. I was a teacher after all. What could I possibly have to write about? Yeah. Well, my 22 year old self would be shocked to discover that Mr. Eckel was indeed right. I’ve even had the opportunity to tell him. He just laughed. I guess he knew me enough even then. 😆
Even as a teacher, writing was just under the surface of everything I did with my classes. It wasn’t until I had to process big emotional stuff as a married woman with 3 kids that I reached out and intentionally hung on tight to the act of writing.
"...hung on tight to the act of writing." Yes! That's it, Ruth! I find there are so many things that try to pry my fingers loose, but it's about holding on tight. Thanks for that image!
“I’m too old for teasing my bangs and pegging my jeans and trying to be a cool. I just want to write. So I stay here in the hatchery, working, writing, creating.”
Even at my age (late 50’s), “trying to be cool” (ie. worrying about what others think) can get in the way of just writing and making. I keep reminding myself that creativity needs to be more about the act of creating than the product produced or the response to the creation. I need to maintain my own hatchery!
Oh, sweet friend! I so love that you are back in the hatchery and writing away. God bless Mrs. Morris ... I will tell you I believe you embody her spirit with your own warmth and joy!
Well, I wasn’t expecting to be crying at 10:45 in the morning, but here we are. I used to write ALL THE TIME, especially in middle school. Really bad poetry, mostly, but sometimes stories. Why did I stop? I honestly don’t know. Life got in the way, I guess. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve sat down and just wrote, but thank you for the encouragement to start again.
Oh, Janna, it's never too late to start again. And again. And again. The opportunities are endless and you only have to snatch one. Happy writing, friend!
I really want to paint with oils. I imagine myself doing it all the time. I want to make those textured oil paintings with thick smears of paint beautifully blended. I don’t have time now to learn, but one day. For now I “paint” on Substack.
I remember when I was bogged down in the soupiness of motherhood and didn't have the time to write. Just getting clean underwear on and my teeth brush felt like an accomplishment. But cooking dinner each night became my creative outlet. We all had to eat, and I loved dabbling in the kitchen, throwing spices and canned goods around like adjectives and nouns. My stews and cakes and casseroles became my stories. All that to say, sometimes we find our creative outlet in other places, like you're doing, and that's a good thing. Keep it up, Mel.
Thank you for sharing this, Maile. Reflecting back on my formative years in the dance world, teachers who provided a "safe hatchery" for me were few and far between. I'll never forget though when I was around 13, a new teacher from Ukraine named Nadia came to my studio and it was the first time I had a nurturing, supportive presence in the studio. She truly transformed the entire (mostly toxic) environment and helped give me the confidence needed to pursue dance professionally. It's amazing & encouraging how much impact one person can have ❤️
Cheers to Nadia and her antidote for toxicity! And I learned something new about you, Lauren--a dancer?1?! You need to come into the shop asap so we can talk about this!!!
The first who immediately comes to mind is Mr. Bouma, my 8th grade English teacher. He was also a coach and maybe always preferred the athletic side of things—he’s the athletic director at my old high school now. But he believed in me. In my storytelling and writing. In my ability to understand novels and poetry as a writer instead of merely a reader. And he cultivated it all, to his own effusive encouragement and delight.
He also had a book filled with story first lines that gave me pure joy to read. I wanted to write every story they birthed in me. If Google had been a thing then I could have easily found a copy of my own. Instead it’s been lost forever. I asked him about it once, years after he switched to full-time athletics, and I switched to marriage and motherhood and adulthood. He said he didn’t remember the book or know where it was but that if he ever came across it again he would get it to me. Every once in a while that book and the Inner Artist Child it conjures in my memory is what I type into my Google search bar.
I love that Mr. Bouma could throw a football and savor a sonnet. A true renaissance man. May he be living his best life wherever he is. Thanks for sharing this sweet memory, Beka.
Honestly, creativity isn't something that was encouraged when I was younger. Nowadays I struggle with finding ways to spark creativity so that I can put words on the page. I would say creativity is my biggest writing struggle. Also, I love how you encourage creativity with you children!
I get it, Jody. It isn't easy to find ways to spark creativity. That's one of the things that I've found really valuable in Cameron's book. She's always offering up exercises to awaken that creative spirit. Some I just roll my eyes at (they seem a little airy fairy) but others work like magic. Thanks for your honesty here. I appreciate you!
Well said. My college advisor told me I was a writer. I guess he’d read enough of my papers, but I didn’t believe him. I was a teacher after all. What could I possibly have to write about? Yeah. Well, my 22 year old self would be shocked to discover that Mr. Eckel was indeed right. I’ve even had the opportunity to tell him. He just laughed. I guess he knew me enough even then. 😆
Even as a teacher, writing was just under the surface of everything I did with my classes. It wasn’t until I had to process big emotional stuff as a married woman with 3 kids that I reached out and intentionally hung on tight to the act of writing.
"...hung on tight to the act of writing." Yes! That's it, Ruth! I find there are so many things that try to pry my fingers loose, but it's about holding on tight. Thanks for that image!
“I’m too old for teasing my bangs and pegging my jeans and trying to be a cool. I just want to write. So I stay here in the hatchery, working, writing, creating.”
Even at my age (late 50’s), “trying to be cool” (ie. worrying about what others think) can get in the way of just writing and making. I keep reminding myself that creativity needs to be more about the act of creating than the product produced or the response to the creation. I need to maintain my own hatchery!
Maintaining our hatcheries! I love that concept, Lauren, and how true it is!
Oh, sweet friend! I so love that you are back in the hatchery and writing away. God bless Mrs. Morris ... I will tell you I believe you embody her spirit with your own warmth and joy!
I couldn't ask for a higher compliment. Thank you, Jenny!
Well, I wasn’t expecting to be crying at 10:45 in the morning, but here we are. I used to write ALL THE TIME, especially in middle school. Really bad poetry, mostly, but sometimes stories. Why did I stop? I honestly don’t know. Life got in the way, I guess. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve sat down and just wrote, but thank you for the encouragement to start again.
Oh, Janna, it's never too late to start again. And again. And again. The opportunities are endless and you only have to snatch one. Happy writing, friend!
I really want to paint with oils. I imagine myself doing it all the time. I want to make those textured oil paintings with thick smears of paint beautifully blended. I don’t have time now to learn, but one day. For now I “paint” on Substack.
I really resonated with this post 🧡.
I remember when I was bogged down in the soupiness of motherhood and didn't have the time to write. Just getting clean underwear on and my teeth brush felt like an accomplishment. But cooking dinner each night became my creative outlet. We all had to eat, and I loved dabbling in the kitchen, throwing spices and canned goods around like adjectives and nouns. My stews and cakes and casseroles became my stories. All that to say, sometimes we find our creative outlet in other places, like you're doing, and that's a good thing. Keep it up, Mel.
Thank you for sharing this, Maile. Reflecting back on my formative years in the dance world, teachers who provided a "safe hatchery" for me were few and far between. I'll never forget though when I was around 13, a new teacher from Ukraine named Nadia came to my studio and it was the first time I had a nurturing, supportive presence in the studio. She truly transformed the entire (mostly toxic) environment and helped give me the confidence needed to pursue dance professionally. It's amazing & encouraging how much impact one person can have ❤️
Cheers to Nadia and her antidote for toxicity! And I learned something new about you, Lauren--a dancer?1?! You need to come into the shop asap so we can talk about this!!!
Yes, feels like a lifetime ago! And I'm hoping to stop in next week-- has been too long!
The first who immediately comes to mind is Mr. Bouma, my 8th grade English teacher. He was also a coach and maybe always preferred the athletic side of things—he’s the athletic director at my old high school now. But he believed in me. In my storytelling and writing. In my ability to understand novels and poetry as a writer instead of merely a reader. And he cultivated it all, to his own effusive encouragement and delight.
He also had a book filled with story first lines that gave me pure joy to read. I wanted to write every story they birthed in me. If Google had been a thing then I could have easily found a copy of my own. Instead it’s been lost forever. I asked him about it once, years after he switched to full-time athletics, and I switched to marriage and motherhood and adulthood. He said he didn’t remember the book or know where it was but that if he ever came across it again he would get it to me. Every once in a while that book and the Inner Artist Child it conjures in my memory is what I type into my Google search bar.
I love that Mr. Bouma could throw a football and savor a sonnet. A true renaissance man. May he be living his best life wherever he is. Thanks for sharing this sweet memory, Beka.