Categories
Life

Creative, Loving,Life

I’m very aware of the rich soil of this place. How I am peeking through the soft earth, unravelling beautifully. How I am fully becoming myself.

Over these past few weeks, I’ve been allowing myself to be as I am, just watching the world go by. Watching all the expectations I had for my life and my dreams fall apart, so sweetly.

I am here to create and to love.

That is all.

It seems that, for most of my life, although I have been creating, although I have been loving…I have been looking to frame this creativity and love within an identity. Within a ‘reason’. For example: I must write a book in order to write legitimately, to be accepted under the culturally approved model of what a writer/creator must wish to strive for.

But I don’t wish to strive for this. Although it would be lovely to hold a book of my heart in my very own hands, I am so fulfilled by life that it truly does not feel necessary, to me.

I only wish to create. To be utterly fulfilled by this most beautiful connection with myself and the people I write for.

How or where my creativity (my essence) finds these people has become unimportant to me. I trust my words and heart will find home, effortlessly. I know this logic might make no sense to some, but for me, to flow through life feels like the only right way.

I never had to write a book to be a writer. I never had to be ‘a writer’.

I only had to be my wind.

Living. Creating. Loving.

Because this is my life.

This is my creative, loving life.

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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
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.

Photo by Min An on Pexels.com

Categories
Life

14 Days

It has been fourteen days and the wind has brought me here.

What happened was quite accidental (but then, is anything ever accidental in the universe?) Rather than my plan expiring as I thought it was going to (for reasons long and complicated) it has rolled over for another year.

For a moment, when the ghastly realisation was made, I thought to approach wordpress and tell them, ‘Thank you, but I’m done, here.’

I never did do that. I never did pick up the phone.

I put this down to orders of the wind. The sway of the universe whispering me to stay just a little while longer. So, here I am, writing these words–half wondering why, half quite sure that there is nowhere else I’d rather be.

Why is it that there are so many segments of us, and why is it that not all segments of us want equally?

Some pieces of me want to be heard, to be known, to be understood and validated by like minded souls who feel a little like they’re swimming around in the ever spinning washing machine of life. Other parts of me want to hide. To never be seen. To only be known by the quiet that surrounds me, the quiet that I am.

I know I must write to experience myself truly.

I know I must create in order to find home.

What else do I know?

I know I’ll always be asking questions that make me feel a little lonely.

I know I’ll always think I know the answers until I, once and for all, understand that there is no one answer. Only the next question, the next step, the next choice.

The wind has brought me here.

And here, in this moment, I am.

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Categories
Life

Meeting The Wind

My wordpress plan is due to expire.

Very due to expire.

Due to expire in a couple of days, due to expire. And I’m not going to renew it.

I’m attached to this, my sweet little bloggy home. Truly, I am.

I’m attached to all of you, whose faces I see, whose hearts I feel I know, somehow.

But I think this time, it really is time.

Time to reinvent myself, maybe.

Time to be brave and…do something else (you all know I’ve been wobbling about for quite sometime.)

I’ve got my new creativity website which may need some attention at some point. (The link for that one is brookecutlercreative.com. Please head over and subscribe if you’re not already, I’d hate to entirely lose you all. xx)

And, of course I’m intending to continue my novel, and to keep writing at medium and see where that road drifts to.

But I think I’ll let my plan expire, here, and…just see what happens.

I can’t pay for two websites: that’s one thing I do know, and that leads me to thinking this may just be the perfect time to let the wind blow. And sit here. And let it all be.

I’m so very unsure.

But I can be brave enough to let the wind take me.

I can be brave enough to allow uncertain life to meet me here.

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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)

Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com
Categories
Writing

Super Mum

She hides in the bathroom and cries.

She places her palms over her ears and breathes into her belly. ‘Don’t wish it away. Such a precious age,’ she’s heard it a million times. She smiles politely. Tells them, silently, they’ve forgotten. Blocked out the bad times, remembered only the good.

She wants to say to them that every coin has two sides; every story, multiple themes running at once. And love. Even the love of a parent has two sides, always. When it’s easy, and when it’s hard.

Bathroom days are hard.

She counts the hairs stuck to the bathroom tiles. She won’t have time to pick them up, piece by scraggily piece. Too busy being an excellent mother, not wishing too loud for peace and quiet to find her once again.

She belongs in the bathroom.

They belong in fresh-white homes, lovingly tending to their overgrown toenails.

Photo by Ketut Subiyanto 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

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