Categories
Life

Soul

I had to write. With my heart open wide and my energy flowing, I had to write because writing is what my soul does when it needs to breathe.

My soul needs to breathe.

I stood beneath a tree in my front yard the other day. I was gardening, but gardening has become so much more than just a word, to me. How about caring for, nurturing gently, cherishing life as it grows beneath my hands? That sounds about right.

I was always going to love like this. Always going to be the one to love that little bit more. And where it often hurts a great deal to live with my heart wide open, I can’t imagine any other way of being.

A bug caught my eye as it crept up a branch. It was my baby daughter. Of course, it wasn’t my actual baby daughter, that would be insane of me to consider. But I knew in that moment that I loved this little beetle. That I would protect it. That I cared so much more deeply for this little life than I ever thought I could.

I have only just allowed myself to feel this deeply again. It was often unsafe to be my fullest self in this world, and many have hardened beneath the hardness of generations before them. My culture was not built to tolerate a soft heart. It is a culture of jokes at people’s expense and arguments over petty things. I reject it entirely. And it rejects me.

But I stand under trees and I love them with all that I am.

And I write.

Because my soul asks me to write. So I do.

I write.

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Categories
Poetry

Sweet Muse of Mine

Where do you go, sweet bell?

Where do you hide

when I long to feel your voice

sing through my bones?

I only know you;

the place I call home.

I only know you, dear constant voice

of heart,

of soul,

of love.

Oh.

But here you are again, little bird.

Here you are with the words I have missed,

the song I have so wished to hear on the wind.

Stay a while.

Please stay a while, sweet muse of mine.

Categories
Poetry

Call Me Shakespeare

Oh!

Has this truth been truly seen!

But a glimpse into a floating sea

of strange reality,

but a knowing truer than true can be!

Who is Shakespeare?

That terrible, desperate soul,

falling,

falling,

landing evermore in the stories

of aching romance and tragedy?

I am Shakespeare.

I am the writer.

I am the lover.

And so are you, love.

So are you,

lover of passionate life

and love.

Categories
Poetry

I Feel

My heart is open and bare,

laid out before the world again.

Their pain is mine: I give it loving arms.

I speak their truth.

I burn with mine.

They say these are words, but I know they are more.

I call them life, achingly true.

Here I am, the softest rose: bruised but sweet.

And waiting.

An open bud, thirsty for the dew.

It’s who I am, the rose, I know.

What is this dew to fall on me?

Is it love? This feeling, deep and strong.

For a world that doesn’t know itself,

a world too scared to open its heart and see?

Do not tell me I overthink.

I feel

for you.

I feel.

For humanity.

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Categories
Writing

Purpose

I’ve tried all the angles. I’ve felt all the rights and wrongs about what they say a writer should do, should be, should want…but I’m not like them.

I want barely any of what they tell me I should want.

To write from my heart, that is what I want.

To touch other hearts, I want that, too.

To shine so that others might know what it is like to shine on the other end of my words: I want that, more than anything else. Life is for dreaming and being the sweet dreams that we are.

I’ve tried to write for money: it leaves me empty.

I’ve tried to write any old thing: it leaves me tired, frustrated, hungry.

To share the depths of my soul is what I am here to do.

To connect with others at the level of the heart.

I want that.

I want that.

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Categories
Life

Insomnia

I lay in bed last night, at 4am, thinking of the tortured artist, thing.

We feel so deeply, us creative folk, and therefore, we capture the world in its fullest expression.

Which is beautiful. Really, ice-shatteringly beautiful.

But we are often not understood, at best. And at worst…we are grossly misunderstood, usually by the logically minded folk of the world, who do not (perhaps cannot) see the world the way we do.

Sometimes we are judged as weak, overly sensitive; irresponsible, messy. A lonely human, this does make, at times.

A lonely human this does make, at times.

I remember sitting at my piano as a nineteen year old, feeling the world in all its depth; the beauty of the autumn leaves outside the window, a huge comfort as I sat and wondered about my place in the world.

These creative eyes.

They make everything a little more beautiful. A little more horrible. A little more alive.

I’m grateful, for them, I am.

I’d imagine all the tortured artists out there were grateful, even the ones who battled to a sometimes tragic end.

Misunderstood, they were, and a little bit lonely, maybe.

A little bit scared of the depths that dragged them beneath the surface, on occasion, maybe.

Especially at 4am, and the very next day.

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Categories
Life

Sharing is Caring

Hello sweet bloggy friends. How are you all? I’m good, thanks for asking. ☺️

I’m sitting at my little white desk, on a grey sky day, wondering about the aching quiet of life. Thinking about how it so often comes across like the most beautiful magic, in everything creative, but especially in the arts. Music. Dance. Writing.

The aching quiet is what makes the art of the world shine. Our joint humanity: it’s what brings us together as humans, and it’s what inspires us to make the most of every beautiful moment we share with others.

I’d imagine I’m here on this earth for a lot of reasons, but one of those reasons is to remind people of the beautiful ache that lives within them, and to use it to shine.

To create.

To love, and to live, all the way through.

Some of you may remember I created a new website a while back that really didn’t resonate with what I wanted to do with my life. I kept that website, wondering if I might return to that space, one day, to use it for something new.

Last week, it became very clear what I would be doing with it, and so: brookecutlercreative.com was born.

Here I will be sharing everything I know about creativity, and after living a lifetime as a creative person, and spending way too much money on a bachelor and masters degree (in drama and writing, respectively) I really do feel it’s my duty to pass on what I know.

Because my knowledge and passion is so much bigger than me, or my own dreams to write, to create, to shine. If I can help even just one human catch their own creative sun and shine it on the world…what greater privilege could there be?

My new website will be a place of learning (for me and for others) but it will also be a place to celebrate the depth and beauty of the works humanity has already produced. One of the things I’m really looking forward to on this new journey is the return of my book club (which I briefly ran on instagram during Covid lockdown.) It was so nice to take a closer look at what other writers were doing with the beauty of the aching quiet, and I so look forward to learning more from that space again.

Anyway, that’s happening, so that’s nice. ☺️

Also, I’ll still be here.

Always.

Your Brooke. xx

(ps. Just click on the site address above to visit my new site. Enjoy! xx)

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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
Writing

Culling

I’ve just sent some picture book manuscripts off to a literary agent. I feel a lot more confident in the process since having completed the picture book course last year, so that’s my next aim. To have one of my word babies published to a wider market.

I have such fond memories of childhood reading…publishing books for children would be an absolute honour. I love writing picture book texts. I find the challenge of condensing what could potentially be a long story into a short and lovely thing to be very rewarding.

Since uni, I’ve become a little addicted to the art of culling. Culling words, that is. For some reason, I find it extremely satisfying. Taking a clunky sentence and seeing how many words I can remove from it, in order to make it shine. You’d be surprised how many words can be culled without having a negative effect on the sentence. In fact, culling words often brings a sentence more power. Hence, the satisfaction.

Less is more, isn’t that what they say?

Less is mo… ;p

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Categories
Life

Some Days I Fall

Some days I fall. I’m not a good mum. I’m not a good human. I’m not a good me, on those days I fall.

It’s not a consolation to know that I do not fall alone. That humanity itself is in constant fluctuation, that some days we rise and some days we fall. I’ve fallen. Me. The writer of these words, the feeler of these aches. On those days I wish for more, I also wish for peace. The two do not go hand in hand.

But it’s not as easy as finding peace and being happy with that. Without this beautiful depth—without this wild and wistful wind that moves me—there would be no passion to whoosh me along the creative river of life, the river I know and love so well.

Is it about lowering the expectations I have of myself? Or is it about lowering my expectations of life? What, I wonder, would help me to feel at peace in a world that so often clips my wings.

I was given wings to fly.

I long to use them.

Is this me, using them? Right in this moment, is this the way I was meant to fly? To write about love and loss and sorrow and sacrifice? About life at its best and life at its worst and how, at some level, it’s all the same thing, anyway?

What is it all for?

And when will I stop asking: what is it all for?

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