Tag: Creative Writing

Categories
Writing

The Subtle Art of Patience

It’s odd, the way my novel is writing itself. I write in short bursts, for what reason, I couldn’t tell you.

I develop a beautiful flow, find a sweet new piece of the puzzle to slot into place. Then, the door closes. I do not know why it’s working this way, but I’m learning to trust that this is the way this novel wishes to be born.

I am resisting a little.

A big part of me gets cross. Just keep writing. Now. Today, this minute: push through the stop sign and write some more.

But I can’t.

I write in short sharp bursts.

The story comes in short sharp bursts.

It’s a lesson in waiting.

It’s a lesson in the subtle art of patience.

Photo by Anthony Shkraba on Pexels.com

Categories
Life

The Soft Girl Snooze

I like to pop in every day, if I can. Often there are days that I miss, and today was going to be one of them. I’m just a bit tired, today. The only me I have available to give is a little ‘hello, I hope you’re all doing okay.’

It frustrates me when the Soft Girl is out of action (for those of my bloggy family who are new, the Soft Girl is what I call my intuition/connection to self/connection to my creativity).

That beautiful wind feels ridiculously lovely as it moves through me, and the results of the Soft Girl’s blissful energy in motion are often just as lovely. So I’m missing her, today. She’s having a little snooze, and that’s okay. ☺️

Anyway, so much love bloggy friends. Hopefully I’ll be back with a little more in the tank, tomorrow. xx

Categories
Poetry

Write With The Wind

I cannot create unless I soften.

I cannot write with the wind,

I must become it.

I am the beautiful breeze that flows these words into the sky of all things.

Human is but a small part of me.

The blissful wind

I am

is the rest.

Categories
Poetry

Breath

I am

the same breath

as my art.

Categories
Life

Sad Women (Micro Fiction)

The arm chair she sat in had a wet cat funk to it, but Granny still sat there, day after day, moaning about how Pop never did the dishes, not a day in his whole life.

‘Old men don’t care that it’s a woman’s world, these days, love. Old men still think it’s their right to own their wife and treat her as they like,’ Granny said.

I felt for Granny, I really did. It was the daggers in her eyes that did it; the flash of the TV lit up inside of them like a raging inferno breaking through that dainty old lady face of hers.

I wasn’t much of a feminist, but Granny had me in the guts on those cat chair days.

And that’s how I knew I’d never be getting me one of those husband things.

There just wasn’t room in the world for any more sad women, like Granny.

Categories
A Blog a Day in May

The Skin Of A Woman

I am a child of the water. And I

float

in all the whispers

of me.

When the wind catches on my bones,

shaking me into fright,

the earth holds me

until I am calm.

Until I am

delicate and strong, until I am

all that I am,

beneath the skin

of

a woman.

Categories
A Blog a Day in May

The Best Thing I’ve Ever Written

I’ve just deleted it all.

On purpose.

Five whole paragraphs of the BEST thing I’ve EVER written.

We do that sometimes—us writers of words.

When ‘the force’ flies through us with alarming ease and grace, and we just know this is the one…until it’s not.

Because we’ve just read it all back.

And it’s not.

No.

Nopey, nopey…no.

Ah, yes. This creative life of mine.

What an absolute bloody shemozzle.

photo of woman smiling while siting on stairs and using white smartphone
Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

Categories
A Blog a Day in May

Don’t Knock the Dreamers

She bit off a giant chunk of hazelnut pancake, and ugly chewed.

He raised his fork, and his eyebrow.

She winked, and went on chewing loudly until her mouth was empty.

‘Don’t knock the dreamers,’ she said, then she handed him the flapping pages of the business section.

Categories
A Blog a Day in May

A Friend Of Convenience

Her art is a friend of convenience.

It absorbs her.

It turns her delicate into raw and beautiful scenes of naked flesh on linen.

It turns her hard into lashings of angry black with no recognisable form.

The artist removes the brush from her mouth and strokes, one final touch of pink and she’ll be satisfied.

But she won’t. She’ll never be satisfied.

Because she is an artist.

And an artist, she knows, is always a work in progress.

An artist—a passionate, heart dwelling artist—will always be full of too much life, and never full of enough.

This is what living has taught her.

This is her reason for art.

woman sitting on brown stool
Photo by Burst on Pexels.com

Categories
Music Song Writing

Song Writing: The Broken Heart of the World

Song Writing. It’s the mash-up of my two great loves: music and writing. In fact, to be truly romantic about it, I really must confess that songwriting is also a mash-up of my heart and my soul.

I’ve written about my love of music before but the fact of the matter is— I’ve not written about it enough, and shame on me.

Because music is life.

It’s one of the most powerful universal tools we have available to us, and it should be celebrated with all the pom poms held high. Or, at least, I think it should be celebrated, and I dearly hope you’ll agree.

I know I’ve been banging on about that word lately: humanity, but I’ve come to think that it’s the sharing of our most human moments that brings meaning to these lives of ours. And here’s where music comes into it. Music lifts us, doesn’t it, it connects us? It’s our chance to link broken hearts and say, ‘You too? Doesn’t matter. We’ve got this.’

Song Writing—as with many of the creative arts disciplines— is cathartic. For me, sitting in front of that lovely little electric piano of mine, putting my inner world to music… it’s like writing a journal. It’s therapy. And it is the only energy I’ve ever felt that so closely resembles the feeling of ‘home’.

But ‘my baby’ (yes, that’s what I named my electric piano, lol) is getting old. What happens when she finally says, ‘No. I will not play for you, today, Brooke. I will not play for you ever again.’ Gosh. I can’t even think about it.

So, I’ve decided to write all the heartbreak out of me before it happens, turn my impending pain into a heartache that others can relate to: the demise of a great love. So! Let my therapy be yours. Let’s do this broken heart together, shall we?

 

My Forgotten Love Song

Music and Lyrics by Brooke Cutler

 

I know that I can live without you

But do I want to try?

My everything is breaking

And you’re the reason why.

 

I took your song for granted

I made you play my life

Now every minute’s burning

With every twist of the knife

 

But I know life will go on

And to me, you’ll just become…

My forgotten love song.

 

(I have posted a video of me playing this song on youtube for you to have a listen to, just for a bit of something different, a bit of an interactive blog post of sorts! Please, feel free to check it out!)

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