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.

Photo by Anthony Shkraba on Pexels.com
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)

Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com
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

Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

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?

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Categories
Poetry

How Is A Rose To Grow?

A rose to meet the morning bright,

to grow in cheer,

to gather life.

Yet day to day

the rose does wither,

day to day the rose does wither,

lost

beneath the foggy dreary.

Lost.

Beneath.

How is a rose to gather

honey sweet

from deep blue trees?

How is a rose to grow

in the dark

of uncaring

life?

How is a rose to grow?

Categories
Poetry

Some Days

Some days,

even the days that are kind,

(and quite lovely)

feel a deeper shade

of aching life.

And you’ll never know why,

(at least, I never do)

but you might hope

(like me)

that one day the ache will settle

and you will no longer wish

(quite desperately)

for something more.

Or less

(I can never quite tell.)

What did the poets do,

you might ask yourself

(like I do)

and you’ll try desperately to forget

the ones who didn’t make it

all the way.

I will make it all the way,

(this I know)

because I choose life

even when the skies are grey.

For alchemy was the golden lake

of dreamers past.

And dreamers present fill the aching

(world)

with streams of sunshine

and honey milk days.

Shall I fill my own cup

and drink the nectar, sweet?

Shall I ask the golden lake

(of life)

to flow this way

and bring me home?

Categories
Life

Thinking

It’s an odd spot I find myself in. This middle land of bloggy days.

This creative world of half-begun.

These are the things that I know:

  • I know I love the freedom of this blog: it doesn’t feel right to be stuck in a box.
  • I know my new blog is ‘a box.’ A lovely box, that I hope to be very proud of one day, but it is a box. I need more than a box.
  • I know I love this place. It’s home to my love of books. Music. Friends. It is my heart and soul. My unbridled creativity.
  • I know I’m not ready to give up on my Little Blog of Everything, yet.

So I’ve decided I won’t.

I thought it would make sense for me to let it go, and in some ways it does but in other ways it doesn’t. This grey world. However do we make it through. 🙂

This blog allows all my creative seasons to be, and to be shared.

I love that. I love sharing my talents and passions: for much too much of my life, my creativity was held captive, losing life behind the bars of solitude. I fear that by leaving this place, I will be placing that creativity back in the hands of a sloppy, unappreciative owner. I don’t want to do that.

I want to always let it fly.

So I’ll stay until I know in my heart of hearts that it’s time to say goodbye.

That’s what Mary Poppins said to the children.

I’ll stay.

Until the wind changes (which might be never.)

(And Empath Days will carry on as planned. xx)

empathdays.com(opens in a new tab)

Photo by Jade on Pexels.com

Categories
Writing

The Novel

Two years ago, before the universe exploded everything around me, I began two very writerly things. One thing was this blog (and what an absolute gift this place has been to me. Writing and a beautiful little band of friends to share my life with? I mean, what life experience could be more wonderful. )

The other writerly thing I began was my very first novel, which became just about my whole entire heart when it began to spin its delicate web within me. I fell in love with the people, the places, the thoughts, the ideas. Everything. My novel felt like a safe and lovely home, and I felt like I was the lucky owner.

Apparently it wasn’t time for the novel, though, because the universe decided to blow my life up and make me a whole new person (thanks very much universe. Oh, you’re really quite welcome, Brooke.)

Anyway, I’m getting silly ( 🙂 )but according to the universe, there were a few more breadcrumbs of life for me to pick up before this novel could take flight…and without ruining the story for you, I can tell you: the universe was right. My goodness, how right the universe was to blow up my world and my novel.

I can’t quite articulate how I feel about the novel now that I’ve returned to it, but I can say that the clarity of thought and expression I now experience in my creative life— due to the meditation and healing I’ve done since then, I’d imagine — has given me a new set of eyes. And a new piece of my heart to write with. My goodness, you guys. It is the most magical, wonderful thing.

A great deal more of my novel makes sense to me now. I couldn’t possibly have written the novel that was asking to be written back then because I didn’t have the right ingredients within the writerly/ humanly cook book of me, then.

But lately I’ve started hearing whispers from the universe and this is what they’ve said:

It’s time. You are ready.

And guys?

It’s true.

I am so completely ready.

Let’s do this.

Photo by Janko Ferlic on Pexels.com

Categories
Life

On Writing

I write a lot about real life events. Sometimes I connect to fantasy and spin a beautiful story from worlds that don’t exist, but often I write from a place deep within. A place of memory, but more than that. It’s a place of alchemy, the unconscious breathing life into the conscious.

Friends and lovers gone by — how they’ve changed me. Hopes and dreams lost to the wind of time, moments of what if merging with moments of what is. It is a beautiful gift for a writer: to explore the world within, to honour the people, places, life paths that have made us who we are.

I hope my inner world will become a gift for you, also. A mirror to help you discover your own story, and the parts of your soul you’ve yet to explore.

Every person who has grown me into who I am lives within the worlds I write.

And every person that lives within me, through my writing, now lives within you.

I will never take for granted the profound beauty of that.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com