mywildcreativeself

[mywildcreativeself]

The thing about creativity and art to me

Up until earlier this year I had been writing my fiction novel. It was many, many years in the making and in the final year of it, I was able to focus on it so much, putting other things aside, finding satisfaction in it every single day and having many people admire my conviction to really go through with it.

Well, I finished it. I mean, as much as I could finish it. I finished it as much as I could before I let outside forces in on it: feedback, revision, consideration, plans, time passing. At this point I'm not sure that I'll ever be done with it.

The thing that was done though, was focus.

I couldn't focus on completing my story anymore - that was done. And then I struggled to focus on walking the path towards publication. Among the many reasons for that included my never being super sure that writing a book was actually my thing. I wrote "a book" because I needed to write this story that lived in my head for 1-2 decades. But I never felt certain, that a book was the way to express my voice.

And then I hired an editor who confirmed that notion, which was good, in one sense. They were direct and honest. And it made me face reality. I still see a lot of truth in what they said.

But what they also did was to shatter my little bit of self esteem and hope that I had for the story and my skills. While trying to keep a friendly tone, they conveyed that I must have never heard of "show, don't tell" and that I should start attending some workshops since apparently I hadn't understood anything about writing. My story isn't publishable and even if I rewrote the whole thing for a few more years, there may be no hope whatsoever that I could ever publish it. The reason I wasn't able to write an exposé isn't because I struggled with conveying my story clearly, it was because my story wasn't clear to begin with. It might be enough to give it to a few friends and family who appreciate it.

It was a very hopeless, defeating conversation and it made me feel stupid and naive. I do accept and appreciate the truth in those words, but there was a cruelty underneath that said "You don't know how it's supposed to be done. How dare you" - at least that's what I perceived.

And then in the following days and weeks and months I started to go within. To explore what I want and what my voice is. I shouldn't focus solely on facing my creativity outward but I can't help but want to put something out into the world after all these years of only having worked creatively for others.

But creativity really - that's what I'm coming to understand more than ever now - for me is a way to exist mindfully in this world. The joy comes from being present with the thing that was or is being created. I didn't think I would ever say this, but I found a profound sense of fascination, awe and inspiration in taking photos of flowers. It's become a meditation for me.

My macro lens truly is teaching me a thing or two about focus. About looking closely. About discovering more of what's already there. The camera has become a meditation tool for me and is showing me that for me creativity is mindfulness. Mindfulness is creativity. I don't need to achieve. Observing, often, is enough.

Depending on where the focus goes, completely new images can arise, new details come to light, literally. New sets of colours and textures. And then the next day, it can all be gone, wilted or a new flower may have blossomed that was only a green speck the day before.

It's all transient.

So, my mind has been scattered as fuck. I have a thousand ideas and I feel like I'm not getting anywhere with anything, as if I was stuck. And that's frustrating, to say the least.

But now, my mission for this season is to focus. Focus on the joy of mindful creativity. I have a new project for my story and I want to see if my voice comes through with this one. It's not going to be a book. I'm leaving the book behind. But as a wild creative multimedia scholar, freelancer and low key artist, I decided I'm going to not give a crap about how things are supposed to be done. I don't want to put my voice into a pre-arranged box that it can't fit into anyway. I'm exploring my own creative expression and I'm trying my darndest to stick with it and to leave the doubts by the wayside.

If any of this resonates with you, I would love to hear from you, your project and your experience. Let's fuel creativity.

[mywildcreativeself]

Journeying into mindfulness

The other day I was watching a bunch of cooking videos on YouTube, or as my boyfriend once said, I was studying. I watched several of Peaceful Cuisine’s top videos to see if I wanted to use any of the recipes. 

The short answer to that question is no. I had tried a few of them in the past and after watching a few more, I’m not convinced enough by the recipes themselves. However, Peaceful Cuisine taught me something else that night. I think it’s not so much about the “cuisine” part, rather than the “peaceful” part. Ryoya does what he does peacefully, mindfully, beautifully. That’s what makes his work really worthwhile. What makes it mesmerising. What makes me want to watch one video after another as he is inviting me into his peaceful realm.

At the moment I’m working through some of the feedback I got for my book manuscript. Friends and family have gone pretty easy on me, but I also hired a professional editor to take a stab and some of the comments are rough. At least they feel rough. Honestly, it isn’t hard to make me doubt myself, but editing the manuscript again, making so many substantial changes to my expression and structure again is definitely a test for both my ego and my spirit. 

But why?

I don’t need to succeed with this, do I? Am I writing to succeed with it?

I mean... kind of. Pretty much anyone who writes a book has all sorts of fantasies about it, right? People reading and loving it, important professionals discovering it, perhaps winning prizes, having it go around the world, having books and series made about it. I mean, it would be enough for people to like it and it perhaps making some money rather than it being shelved and never seeing the light of day again. But many dreams and fantasies pass by when writing. 

Those are not the reason that we write in the first place, though. I don’t think. It’s not what makes me write in the first place. It’s what made me work. It’s what made me strive hard in my jobs, trying to please clients. But the reason I write is the peaceful feeling I get, while I’m doing it. It’s my stomach unclenching from the daily stress of life. It’s the magic that emanates from the pen, the pages, the keyboard. It’s the notion that writing is the absolutely right thing to do, because discovering what is being written is like a journey into the eternal. 

All the other stuff comes after. And to an extent I think all the other stuff really is the desire to do more of the magical stuff, to have more time and space for it, to make it. And of course there’s ego, but when I watched Peaceful Cuisine, somehow it made me see how small, how insignificant, how short-lived the ego part is and would be if any of the successes came to fruition. 

So, as I continue to edit my manuscript, I try to remember that. To come back to the actual magic and to let that relaxed belly guide me through the day. Not an easy task, but I’ll continue practising. 

[mywildcreativeself]

Norwegian Wood

Pretty much every time I finish reading a book by Murakami, I put another one on my tbr pile. Mind you, my tbr pile is relatively extensive, so it can take a while to get to the next one. I don’t blaze through books like many other readers tend to do. I see this being a thing on the internet. Setting a really high number of books to read as a goal. I’m a bit slower than that.  So finally, Norwegian Wood (1987) came up for me. Murakami may just be my most read author and it seems strange now that I hadn’t read this one earlier. In fact, the first of his books I read was Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (2013) and it mesmerised me. It’s one of the few books in my life that I had such a hard time to put down. It felt like a matter of life or death to find out what the fuck is going on with Tsukuru Tazaki’s life and why it took such a strange turn.  After devouring Tsukuru, I read Kafka on the shore (2002). Last year I read his short stories in the Elephant Vanishes (1993). I read 1Q84 (2010) and I listened to Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World (1985) in German, which I enjoyed the least and made me continue a) reading his work and b) doing so in English. I will mention, though, that I happened to see a play for The Strange Library in Vienna, which was fantastic, as it created a smooth continuum from the Japanese author to the Austrian enactment.

So perhaps one could say I'm a fan. I am, but I’m also not. Though none of his work had sparked the same excitement in me with which I read Tsukuru, but his colorful images do continue to draw me into his books. A longing inside me connects with his words, his places, his characters. A familiarity, yet a feeling of profound curiosity about places and people entirely foreign to me. It's like a hand reaching out from the pages, something you can almost touch in his writing.

"When everything had ended, I asked Naoko why she had never slept with Kizuki. This was a mistake. No sooner had I asked the question than she took her arms from me and started crying soundlessly again. I pulled her bedding from the closet, spread it on the mat floor, and put her in beneath the covers. Smoking, I watched the endless April rain beyond the window."

Norwegian Wood actually was the continuation from Tsukuru I was craving. Out of all of his stories these two feel the most connected to me. There is a sense of loneliness that flows through all of his writing, but these two books, in particular, seem to ask very similar questions. At least they feel similar to me, quite personally. 

By joining these characters on their respective journeys, I travel deeper within myself and find my own unanswered questions in a dusty box in the corner of the basement of my mind. What does it mean to be the human that I am? The body I was born into? With the people that come into my life - what does it say about me? How does one handle the mysterious pain in life, the one in you, the one in me?

I did put another Murakami in my tbr pile after I had finished Norwegian Wood and I wonder if I will ever come any closer to answering those questions. I wonder if Murakami himself has. 

Something I learned from this book came from being mindful about his writing, his style, I should say: Murakami's voice is exceptionally simple. He has, after all, made this known to be part of his intention. Though I feel I should rather say “non-complex” as it does feel a bit wrong to call his writing simple. I hadn’t really noticed it in the past but I notice it now. He paints an image with basic colours, but the result is complex and mesmerising. 

I will also say, though, there is one thing that stains the image a little for me and it’s the way he writes about women. Those odd beings. Their breasts. Their beauty. I feel like that’s the gist of Murakami’s women. They are these ephemeral beings, never quite like any woman I think I know. Definitely not like me.

But then again, Murakami's women are much like the rest of Murakami's stories. Almost real, floating around the uncanny valley. They are always mysterious, a little headstrong, but only as much as Murakami seems to barely be able to handle. Irrational in that "women are crazy"-sense but only as much as is needed not to become total enemies. He takes us through these women the way he takes us through his stories.

But that's his thing. That's his world. We don't need to live in it. We're just visitors. He’s the one who makes the rules in there and that is fine. 

Norwegian Wood was the first book I completed in 2023 and it will remain one of my favourites, if not my actual favourite of the year. I realise I’m late to that party but I’m not bothered. What a beautiful thing reading is, that we are given these stories throughout time, to travel back and travel forth.