Creativity as an Adventure of the Soul

Every production of an artist should be the expression of an adventure of his soul – Somerset Maugham

 Recently I watched my five year old daughter wander around the house and out in the backyard the other day with a piece of scrap paper, an off cut from the end of a roll of boys’ birthday wrapping paper. On it she had drawn some rudimentary marks, but she was pretending it was a map.

She was on an adventure that only a five year old can imagine, making it up as she went along. And it was beautiful to watch her creativity take her on an adventure (personally, I think Dora the Explorer has a lot to answer for).

What does it mean to have an adventure of the soul in regards to creativity?

An adventure of the soul is an exploration of what it means to be human.

It explores what it means to love,

to hope,

to have faith,

to cry,

to be offended,

to be outraged,

to burn with passionate desire,

to understand sorrow and pain,

to know joy,

to experience the breadth and depth of human emotion.

An adventure of the soul gives the creative person purpose and meaning. It means we come to a greater understanding of one another.

Every writer, artist, musician or filmmaker, every creative person, is an explorer.

Every creation and every piece of work is a reflection of his or her physical, emotional, mental, spiritual, political or philosophical journey.

It may be a personal reflection, a cathartic exposition that no one ever sees; a hidden testament.

It may be created for a broader audience, a mirror held up to society or a cairn that says, “Remember.”

To create, to express our understanding, we must first undertake the journey.

Sometimes we go willingly, eager to explore.

Sometimes we are directed by circumstance or situation and must go unprepared.

Sometimes it’s through familiar grounds, places well worn and trodden, well kept and maintained.

Yet in the familiar there can be revelations. Sometimes we see the familiar from a different perspective and capture a new thought: a simple piece of wrapping paper, a child’s embrace, the giving of a gift, the colour of the flowers in the vase as they fade.

Have you ever walked the same way, or driven the same route on a regular basis, only to notice the house along the street is now no longer? And then you try to remember what it looked like, what was there.

Sometimes it’s through unexplored territory.

When we are in unfamiliar and unexplored territory, everything is new, almost too much to take in and comprehend. We take notes, file away information, pictures for slide nights. It takes time for our minds to absorb new information, to meditate and compost and percolate until such time the idea is ready to germinate, break forth and be birthed into the world.

Sometimes the adventure takes us into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Yet even in the dark places, sustenance can be found.

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door,” he used to say. “You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.” Frodo quoting Bilbo Baggins, The Lord of the Rings – The Fellowship of the Ring

The creative person makes the journey a learning experience.

The creative person makes it an adventure.

The creative person knows and understands what it is to be human.

And then lets others in on the secret.

Shoelaces – Postcard Prose

 

My latest effort in guerrilla literature, ironically dropped in a shoe store as I was buying new shoes.

Payless Shoes – Centro Shopping Centre, Seven Hills

My father sat me down one Saturday morning, my school shoes in his hand.

“We’re staying here until we can tie our laces,” he said.

There was over and under, loops and rabbit ears, going around trees and over fences. All I saw was a tangle of black spaghetti.

My father pontificated as I struggled in the art of mimicry.

“Shoelaces are like life,” he said. “At first it’s tricky and complicated. It’s fiddly and frustrating. Sometimes, it’s the little things that trip you up.”

Looking back down to my shoes to try again, I looked at my father’s feet. He was wearing a pair of slip on work boots.

And, yes, I did put the postcard into a box of slip on shoes.

 

Open Wounds

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” said the triage nurse in Emergency.

Jack presented his left forearm and unwrapped the bloody tea towel.

“That’s a nasty cut. Come on through.” The nurse pressed the door button and Jack heard a buzz and a click to his left. Leaning over his wife kissed his cheek.

“I’ll take the boys to the cafeteria. Keep them out from underfoot.”

Making his way through the heavy doors, Jack followed the nurse to a small room and sat in the seat he was directed to.

“The doctor will be with you shortly.”

Jack stared at his arm resting on the arm of the chair, the towel loosely reapplied. He thought back to his eldest son’s bicycle accident two years ago and the chunked up mess of his knee. It required eight stitches and the extraction of five pieces of gravel.

His son was chuffed knowing there would be a cool scar, once the tears had subsided and jellybeans were offered.

Where the skin had grazed, shredded by the coarse gravel to form scabs, fascinated Jack. It reminded him of his youth and his own grazes, scratches and stitches. As a boy he imagined scabs were rough foundations of igneous rock, blood like lava pouring through the wound, cooling and hardening in the dry atmosphere outside the skin.

He would wait a few days to pick at the edges, exposing the new pink, puckered flesh beneath. Pick too early and it simply bled again. Sometimes he did it to prolong the healing process and give him more scabs to pick at.

Playing “volcanoes” he squeezed the scabs and watched the blood rise through new cracks. It was a bonus when pus splurted out. Dabbing with a tissue he squeezed again until the wound rinsed itself with blood.

If caught picking, his mother insisted on applying a Band Aid to stop him. Later in the bath, Jack soaked the Band Aid off, his downy hair providing little resistance. Later in life, he grimaced as he pulled at the edges, lifting the hairs with the intensity of tiny pinpricks, before ripping it off hastily.

“If you keep picking at it,’ his mother scolded, “It won’t get better.”

He always picked and it always healed.

“What do we have here?” said the doctor, the snap of rubber gloves sharp in Jack’s ears.

“I was cutting some of the low branches down the backyard with the bush saw. I had my hands above my head, cutting through the branch. Thought I had the weight but it was heavier than I thought. Don’t know if it was the edge of the branch or the blade or both that hit me.”

“Let’s take a look.”

Peeling away the tea towel the doctor examined the gash on Jack’s arm, prodding gently with his fingers. “Let’s get that cleaned up. About five or six stitches as it’s pretty deep and jagged.”

As the doctor prepped to suture his arm, Jack watched mentally from a distance and remembered the nicks, scrapes, grazes and cuts of childhood and adolescence. All healed with time, as the skin rejuvenated leaving no trace of the injury.

His father’s sharp words of disappointment and criticism directed towards seven-year-old Jack, echoed in his mind, “Look what you’ve done to yourself. And ruined your good trousers.” Thirty years since the event and five years after his passing the words retained their sharpness.

The playground mantra “stick and stones will break my bones…” formed on his lips but he wavered and did not complete the line, knowing the ironic absurdity of its meaning. Unseen wounds that never healed despite not picking at them.

Jack winced as the needle was pushed into his flesh beneath the surface. He felt the push of the anaesthetic and tensed in anticipation of the second injection.

It was always with words. Some grazed and stung, others struck deeper, lacerating and eviscerating. Even when words were withheld they struck with the biting sting of hot bath water on a fresh graze until the wound acclimatised.

“Can you feel anything?” asked the doctor.

Jack looked down to see the point of a needle pressing against the wound and shook his head.

“Won’t take much longer.”

The needle entered the skin and Jack sensed rather than felt the slight tug of the black thread as it trailed behind the needle. The beginning of the healing process, drawing the sides of the open wound together, forcing two old friends who became enemies to reconcile their differences and embrace, forgiving the hurt and the pain. With time the rift would close leaving a faint raised line of hardened tissue.

He made every effort to choose his words carefully with his boys, to avoid careless words. Silence was another danger he recognised, not in the words withheld to manipulate, but words not spoken lest he cause damage.

From time to time his wife interjected, “You sound like your father,” when he failed in his best intentions and the wound tore open. It was said at his request to help him, not to criticise.

“There you are, all done,” said the doctor as he peeled off the surgical gloves.

Six black knots tied the edges of his skin. It reminded him of spider webs in the tensile strength of something so light holding together the strength of his skin.

“I’ll put a water-proof bandage on it so you can shower. When was the last time you had a tetanus booster?”

Jack shrugged.

“I’ll give you another because of the saw blade.”

“Bloody tetanus shot hurts worse than getting stitches,” said Jack.

“True. I’ll send the nurse in for the shot. See your local doctor in about a week to have the stitches removed.”

Waiting for the nurse, Jack was left with the silence of the room as the bustle of the hospital moved passed the door in pedestrian fashion, desperate to see his wife and sons.

He spotted his wife and boys in the cafeteria, the detritus of a small feast laid out: an empty chip packet, crumpled muffin wrapper and two empty juice bottles. Kissing his wife on the cheek, he trailed his hand across her back as he crouched down between his boys, an arm on the back of each chair.

“How many stitches, Dad?”

“Six.”

“Can we see?”

“Not today. When I change the dressing I’ll let you look. Hey boys, I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Two heads buried themselves into Jack’s shoulders before returning to vacuuming the leftover crumbs from the table.

You Know You’re a Parent of Young Children When…

1. You can name all the members of The Wiggles AND Hi-5, past and present.

2. You cannot name a single new song on the radio, but you can know all the words to The Wiggles and Hi-5

3. Silence is when you get to go the toilet without being interrupted

4. “Legato” is not a musical term, but a means of finding pieces of Lego lost in the carpet in the middle of the night with your toes. They wedge themselves in-between your big toe and second toe, sharp edge first

5. You make a sandwich for your spouse, cut the crusts off and cut it into 4 small triangles

6. Quality time with your spouse is having a cup of tea or coffee and it doesn’t get cold and require reheating

7. You’re helping with their mathematics homework and you forget 2+2=4

8. Nudey runs from the bathroom (by you) are becoming a source of amusement and embarrassment (for your children)

9. “Bum” is still considered a rude word and is said with subtle sniggering

10. You look at their toys and wonder if any of them will ever become collectibles so you can turn a profit when they turn 21

Add your own ideas to the comments below.

10 Reasons Why Writers Can’t Have Nice Things

Writers, we can’t have nice things. Here are 10 reasons why.

1. We believe we have a capricious muse who wanders in (rarely) and out of our head space (often at the worst possible time). We curse him or her or it (can’t be genderist) when we can’t write and praise and worship when the words flow with the viscosity and taste of honey. We are kidding ourselves when we say, “I couldn’t write today because my Muse was off at the day spa and didn’t invite me.”

2. We invent characters loosely based on the our own fears and misgivings, but make them thinly veiled caricatures of people we know (yes, you have irritated us once too often, so we made you into a character who dies a slow death by having your buttocks scrubbed with sand paper and washed with lemon juice).

3. We eavesdrop on every conversation, squirrelling away choice bits of dialogue, character traits and personality tics. Whenever the family gets together our brains melt with all the juicy tidbits. On Christmas Day we experience the high of a sugar junkie.

4. We haunt twitter and facebook and any other avenue of social media to pimp our wares. Support for one another is important, but we end up feeding the circle creating narcissistic, preening believers of our own onanism, making us grow extra digits, and probably another head. Look beyond the immediate circle and seek an audience. Do something that doesn’t involve writing.

5. We believe our ego has the tensile strength of an egg shell. And I’ve seen a raw egg thrown a fair distance only to bounce and not break. If you can handle being popped out a sphincter with no harm done, you can handle a bit of criticism and rejection. Go and play in the dirt like chickens. It builds character.

6. We can teach glaciers a thing or two about procrastination. Apply a blowtorch to the things that have frozen up, and liberally spray WD-40 as if it were a can of Lynx deodorant body spray and create your own climate change. Get it done!

7. We believe we hold the monopoly of ideas creation and generation (along with artists and musicians). Psst… look at the business world, corporate strategy, management, child care, education, health care. They have some bloody good ideas. Now, go outside and play, and learn from other areas of life.

8. We arbitrarily create rules for writing. And then change them because we anticipate the ad break to allow us to void our bladder. Rules are cultural, aesthetic and social constructs of ‘taste’ when it comes to writing. I will use adverbs summarily. Simply write to your purpose and function, not ideas of fashion and taste.

9. We complain, whinge, tweet, start flame wars, and troll about the publishing industry because it’s in a state of flux and we are afraid of the changes. When the dust settles, publishing will still be there. It will look different, but there will still be avenues to publish, even if we have to invent it.

10. We believe reading, and our words,  is important and therefore require recompense. We do not have a right to make money from our art. It’s a privilege. Even if we don’t get paid, let’s use our words to reflect, question, entertain, amuse, horrify, and challenge, even in the one story.

[FGC#9] Songbird

“Why does the fat lady get to sing the last song?” asked Claire. “I mean, it’s not like she’s Aretha Franklin or anything.” She dragged on the cigarette before extinguishing it. “This songbird’s gonna have the final note tonight. Fat chick be damned.”

The karaoke microphone was vacant, illuminated by a single spot light. Claire’s best friend, Rachelle, dubbed it The Truth Amplifier. The microphone revealed a person’s ability, she said. If they could sing, it magnified the singer’s competent vocal chords. If the singer was a hairbrush vocalist, it simply amplified their cat-being-pulled-by-a-toddler screeching.

Flicking through the karaoke menu, Claire chose her song. It was 2 am and the bar was emptying. MIDI strains of Bon Jovi clambered out of the speaker. From their table, Rachelle whooped her encouragement. Claire pulled the wireless microphone from the stand, feeling its weight, balancing it before winking at Rachelle. In her head she counted off the final bar before the lyrics started. On the last beat she spun the mic in her hand, caught it, leaned forward and breathed the lyrics, “If you’re ready, I’m willing and able/Help me lay my cards out on the table.”

At the first chorus she pushed the vocals, but deliberately held back from giving it everything, “Lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me, lay your hands on me.” Her hands followed the curves of her body, starting at her breasts, moving over her hips and towards her crotch before she extended her hand towards the crowd. A polite smattering of applause came from the thinning crowd, but Claire knew she had them. The second verse spun from her lips like caramel. Perched on the edge of the tiny stage, she could feel herself flying with the music. Grasping the mic stand in her left hand she threw her head back for the final chorus and released the diva within, finding the pure note and producing a sonic boom.

Putting the mic back into the clip, the audience erupted in whoops, cheers and whistles.

“Take that, you fat cow,” said Claire, dropping into the chair beside Rachelle.

Post Marked: Piper’s Reach

POST MARKED: PIPER’S REACH

In December 1992 Ella-Louise Wilson boarded the Greyhound Coach for Sydney leaving behind the small coastal town of Piper’s Reach and her best friend and soulmate, Jude Smith. After twenty years of silence, a letter arrives at Piper’s Reach reopening wounds that never really healed. When the past reaches into the future, is it worth risking a second chance?

Yesterday marked the beginning of the unveiling of #thesecretproject between Jodi Cleghorn and myself.

Post Marked: Piper’s Reach will launch Tuesday 10th April and will roll out one letter a week. Each week one letter will be available on the website (sshhh… it’s still a secret) as a downloadable PDF handwritten letter. See if you can guess whose handwriting it is and who wrote which character.

But we need your help. We’re looking for some lovely friends to invite us over (between Monday 2nd – Monday 9th April) for a cuppa (we’ll bring the scones and jam and cream) and a chat about Post Marked: Piper’s Reach.

To help foster the conversation (because we’ve been keeping it a secret), we’ve assembled a few points of focus so we don’t have rely on religion, sex and politics as conversation starters. If we get really stuck, we can talk about the weather (Piper’s Reach is known for its epic storms and some really lovely scenery).

Break out the fine china (for Jodi) and the tin mug for me.

• The original Concept/Pitch
• Creating a location by text message
• Organic writing process
• Characters & authors’ emotional involvement in the writing
• Back story
• Instantaneous vs delayed gratification in the digital age
• The music

If you are interested in having us over, please leave a comment. Our minions will talk to your minions and there will be plenty of cake to go around.

What Am I Doing?

Yesterday, in a moment of sheer, blind, unreasoning panic I questioned whether I was doing the right thing. On the eve of taking a long service leave, a 3 month break from my job, I doubted myself.

I am taking leave to write a novel, my first. Every negative idea ran through like the after effects of a bad curry: I can’t do this. You’re a fool to think you can write a novel. What if you get stuck? Will you ever finish it? No one’s going to read it.

This is something I am passionate about and want to succeed in. The journey of a thousand miles might begin with a single step, but it requires a hell of a lot of planning and a large supply of Band Aids for the blisters. In the same way, the finishing of a novel begins with the setting down of a single word. Then another. And another until The End is reached.

I am in this for the long haul. I have a dream to write novels. This time off is the first step to achieving that dream. I have plans in place to help make this dream a reality. I will learn a lot in the time it takes to write my first novel and I can translate this to the next, then the next and so on.

Following a conversation on twitter between Alan Baxter (@AlanBaxter) and Tom Dullemond (@Cacotopus) yielded this gem of thought: Those who maintain their focus and diligence in the face of rejection and disappointment will find it easier to sustain themselves than those who find success comes easily.

I know I have a cheer squad who will shake their virtual pom poms if I get stuck.

Hand me my cardigan and tracky dacks; I have a novel to write.

When There’s Nothing in the Pen

 

I am about to launch on a new adventure: write my first novel. In a little over 3 weeks, I get to take leave from my work and focus on writing a literary work.

There are two things I think of when it comes to the act of committing to write a novel.

The first comes from Seinfeld.

The other comes courtesy of Family Guy and the conflict between Brian and Stewie.

Each day when I sit down to write, these will be repeated as mantras. Please note the placement of my tongue is stuck firmly in my cheek.

I’ll let you know how it’s all going.

 

Jake and Charlotte

 

He invited her back to his place, their conversation far from finished. She was surprised to see the cello positioned in the corner of the lounge room.

“Classically trained from an early age and all through high school. My folks were classical musos and the guitar was beneath them. Had they never heard of Slava Grigoryan? But it was Eddie Van Halen I idolised. I learnt cello as a concession in order to play the guitar. I even learned a bit of piano until they were convinced guitar wasn’t a passing phase.”

He poured two glasses of wine, offering her a seat on the lounge. “Besides, playing cello doesn’t get you the chicks.”

“Do you still play?”

“All the time. It’s different to guitar in its feel, tone, pitch, sound.”

“Would you please show me?”

Setting his wine on the low bookshelf Jake placed the cello between his legs, resting it against his shoulder as he tightened the tension in the bow. With a light finger he plucked the strings, his ear held close to the strings as if he were listening for a heartbeat. Charlotte watched the tattooed arm tune the strings.

Satisfied with the tuning Jake drew the bow across the strings, pulling out long notes, full of longing, resonating deep in Charlotte’s chest. She pulled a camera from her handbag and a roll of film. Careful not to interrupt the virtuoso she adjusted the camera’s settings and closed her eyes for a moment, carried by the music. Opening her eyes Charlotte moved between notes and passages with the rhythm pressing the shutter in time with the music. Through the view finder her eye caught the lines of the bow perpendicular to the strings; Jake’s arched fingers against the neck, his knee hooked into the curve of the cello’s body.

Jake grinned at her once, changing the tune to a quicker, lighter pace before the sonorous tones emerged again. Charlotte crossed her arms and held her camera to the right of her chin, studying her subject. Moving back to the couch she wound off the film and began to reload.

“The sound is sensuous, almost melancholic, yet beautiful,” she said.

“Playing cello is like making love to a woman,” said Jake, his legs straddling the dark stained wood. His fingers rested lightly on the strings, the bow waiting for the invocation of music, the horsehair tickling the strings above the bridge.

“And like all guitarists, you name your instrument.”

The raven-haired woman crossed her legs on the couch and sipped at her wine.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Celie.”

The woman frowned, no knowledge forthcoming.

“From The Color Purple,” he said.

“The movie with Oprah in it. I’ve seen it. But isn’t Celie raped by her father and beaten by her husband?”

“I read the novel. It’s the redemption found in love. And you can’t treat a cello like a loose woman. That’s what guitars are for.”

Returning his focus he looked at the woman seated on his couch. She leaned back into the furnishings, her feet crossed beneath her.

“So this is your lover?” Charlotte asked indicating the cello with her wine glass. “How do you make love to her?”

Jake adjusted his legs around the cello. “You embrace her. Find the position where she is resting against you, comfortable and intimate. The body of the cello has the shape of a woman, curved and full.” Jake ran his hand down its body as if he were feeling a woman’s breast or the curvature of her thigh. Taking up the bow he began to play.

The cello’s notes, full of longing, took up the melody. “Each note made up here on the neck is her breasts: sensuous, ripe, engorged. With each touch you develop the song. You caress, press, touch.”

Jake saw Charlotte glance down at her own breasts, the fingers of her hand fiddling with the shirt button, perhaps conscious of their small size. He hesitated to make eye contact and let the music weave throughout the room, passionate incense perfuming the room.

“When you make love, you must remember all parts of a woman’s body. You embrace her to feel the softness of her skin, to inhale her fragrance, to consume her. But her breasts are but one part of the symphony.”

The bow arched and fell as Jake pulled and pushed it across the strings watching flakes of resin disintegrate from the hair and float under the light. The strokes gained intensity, no longer pushing and pulling, but thrusting with controlled ferocity. The music reached a crescendo, held sustained but not resolved. Jake plucked at the strings, the pizzicato quick, flicking the strings, holding the tension. Attacking the strings with the bow, the notes were drawn out in a hasty flight up and down the neck of the cello. An improvised solo, pushing, pulling, thrusting.

The bow arched sharply, the final note held in a vibrato by his fingers on the neck. Jake felt his breathing slow and become deeper. He rested his hands on his knees, touching the body of the cello, a light intimacy, the headstock leaning into his shoulder.

Charlotte, the raven-haired woman with the camera for eyes, put down her empty glass. Crossing the floor she felt Jake’s arm curve around her waist, pulling her into his lap. Positioning the cello between her thighs, her hands shadowing his as fingers. The bow moved arched slowly over the strings and her fingers followed his like a spider on the neck. Even now she could feel the vibration through the bow moving up his hand and into hers. Turning her head, her mouth brushed against his ear.

“Play me.”

 

This is an extract of a longer piece, which you can read on Sunday, as part of the Write Anything Form and Genre Challenge. Many thanks to Jodi Cleghorn for giving me permission to use her characters, writing the beginning of their relationship.

You can read the story that inspired it here: What I Left to Forget