Forgetting to Take My Own Advice

Yesterday I literally forgot to take my own advice.

I left home without a notebook. When I coach people who are writing or creating something new, I tell them to have a notebook on them at all times. (Or a cell phone they can talk into and use as a recording device.) Not only is a notebook a great way to catch ideas, thoughts and impressions, it's also a heads-up to yourself that you are officially paying attention and the world around you is your material.

The notebook can be the accessory that says: We're writing now. Or simply, We're engaged in life in a new way. Even if you don't use it for months. It will get to you sooner or later.

So there I was, chugging up a merciless hill on a  listless afternoon run, and out of the sky KERPLONK -- one idea after another. One, two, three -- they dropped like playful balls of delight from heaven into my head.

It made me think of something I read by Barbara Kingsolver years ago, in which she talks about the great writing ideas she missed when she was too busy tending to babies and other daily life stuff to write them down -- and they became dust kitties that rolled under the bed to stay. But she caught enough and made it a writing life,  obviously

Well, we all do our best.

Of course I don't run with a notebook. But it's a great idea. And as the ideas came -- for blog postings and workshop ideas and god-knows-what-else, I could feel them pass through my body and roll out onto the ground and down Madrona Hill. In a panic I started to count the ideas that traveled through. There were 3. Or 4, I think.

The only thing I could remember of all my ideas that had me energized and excited and panting with creative lust -- is the one about Forgetting.

It did get me thinking about invigorating my lackluster runs with the right  contraption that fits a tiny notebook and my camera -- now that would be a cool adventure run.

But that original run got me thinking about how slippery memory is: Forgetting how that great movie or favorite book ended; or what that book was about (I'll remember a scene and basta); what day it was; the name of my favorite song that has a "p" in there somewhere; what I did last weekend; Or, I might forget if I had that conversation or just played it out so lucidly in my mind that i's almost as if it did happen.

Then I remembered Billy Collins' poem, Forgetfulness -- which makes it all seem okay.

How To Talk About What You Do

I wrote a post a while back on my dislike of the elevator pitch. Why do we have to sum up What We Do and Who We Are in one canned self-promoting snap? So hallelujah to my smart biz/communications consultant friend Therese Beale who helps businesses get their stories straight. She writes a great blog post on a kinder, gentler more human approach to how we talk about what we do in Skip the Elevator Pitch: What's Your Sentence?

It's important, especially as a small biz owner or an entrepreneur, to speak clearly and visually about what you do, why you do it and the killer benefits. And to convey the juice of what you do in a way that raises intrigue and antennae and gets people thinking about everyone that might need your services.

It's also important to find a way to talk about what you do in a way that feels natural and conversational and includes the other person in the conversation.

A parting hint: How do you answer "What do you do?" in a way where you're talking with someone rather than at them?

And how about experimenting  and playing around with your sentence(s) in a fun and creative way?

Have fun talking about what you do this week!

Signs of Your Creative Life

 

I've hear this way too often:

"I"m not creative."

Well let me renounce this type of proclamation with a quick story:

About ten years ago I'm working at a dot-com start up in a creative director positon. I need an idea and I'm talking to one of the smart IT guys and he gives me a pearl of an idea: simple, elegant, perfect -- creative to the T.

And then he says, "But what do I know, you're the creative one."

This moment has stayed with me as a whisper, a temptation to wonder: What would people do with their working days, their daily lives, their yearly goals if they saw themselves as innately creative?

Imagine if everyone woke up in the morning and went through the day believing they had access to a creative state that they could harness whenever they wanted to -- what would your life look like?

My credo is: If you breathe, you're creative.

Being creative isn't about being an artiste. It's about how you express yourself that is uniquely you, and rising to your full potential to move through this chaotic, messy, wonderful, heartbreaking and exhilerating experience of life.

So, as you consider your bad-ass creative self, I'd like to give you a list of all the things you do that are creative. Why? Because you are always creating something: an act, a product, an expression, a thought. And it's all you. Some acts are more creative than others. And leveraging that creativity is when life comes more easily, we have breakthroughs, we communicate more flexibily with others and we just have more goddamn fun.

Here are all the ways you are being creative in your work and life:

Walking down the street

Having a conversation

Balancing your checkbook

Managing other people's money

Staring at your screaming kid and wondering what to do now

Figuring out how to write that email to your boss worded in just the right way

Lying in bed at night chasing your thoughts

Reading a book

Taking a photo or posing for one

Having a really bad day or week or even year and reaching for all the ways you can get through it

Giving someone a hug. Receiving a hug. 

Cooking a meal or walking up and down the grocery aisles

Getting out of bed in the morning

Getting dressed

Driving around town

Saying hello to a stranger you walk by on the street

Picking up the phone to call a good friend

Writing your status on Facebook

Buttering your bread

Reading this

Breathing

A Niece and Her Dog: The Power of Creative Thinking

This is a tale about the power of creative thinking. And a beloved family dog, Gomez, RIP.

Last night my niece, Taya called me in tears. Her family dog, Gomez age 11, died that day. She was heartbroken, and crying her little heart out. After one lame-o comment about death being the cycle of life (pathetic, right?) I asked her to tell me everything she wanted to tell me in that moment. 

She started telling me in detail about a memorial project the family was going to make and display under Gomez's favorite willow tree. Suddenly the crying quiver was gone and her voice carried a sense of strength and excitement. She couldn't hold the sadness while her focus was on the act of creation. Ah, the power of the creative mind!

Next, I started telling stories of spending time with Gomez, and of course they included her, too. And the next thing I know, she was giggling and laughing. I was surprised, I admit it.

The point is, she had her cry, I let her feel sad but when we decided together to go into creative mode -- her telling me about the memorial art project and me telling a story -- there was a joyful presence hanging out in this space, instead of all dark, wallowing sadness. I mean, how many times can you say "I'm so sorry" and not feel a bit lame.

It reminds me how focusing on the act of creative thinking and doing is so good for a human heart and soul.

So, what are you going to create today?

Be a Quitter

“I don’t want to be a quitter.”

It’s the American rally cry. To quit is to be weak, a loser, a person of questionable moral fiber. And so we stay in the job, in the same types of relationships, we do the same sports, read the same books and carry on in the same way of thinking -- even after any of these may have stopped working for us.

And of course there are all kinds of positives about sticking with it during tough times. However -- what about the times when quitting might be the best thing to do?

Maybe our resistance started when we were young kids doing a sport or playing an instrument we hated but our parents said, “You’re not going to be a quitter.” But what if you had quit the swim team or piano lessons, the scout group or dance classes and instead found that you liked tennis, writing or calculating quadratic equations?

Seth Godin writes about the joy of quitting which gets the ball rolling on this topic.

With that in mind, the question here is:

Is there anything that you could quit – or let’s say RELEASE – that would let you discover something you’d rather do?

Is there something you could let go of that would make you breathe more easily and add a spring in your step and give you a bit of an excited rev in your engine to go forth and manifest?

It can take a lot of courage and discernment to be a quitter.

Letting go and being open to the faith of new possibilities takes balls.

Also, giving yourself the space to leave may give you the moxie to jump in and try new things. You don't have to be imprisoned by sticking with it if it continues to be unfruitful and sucky. We're not suffer-mongerers here!

So, with all this in mind –- how can releasing a person, place, thing or behavior make your life even better?

What have you always wanted to do?

We've all said it, and probably multiple times: "I've always wanted to ______________."

But how often do we do that thing -- the trip, the class, the food, the book, the sport, the conversation -- whether it taps into our sense of adventure or creativity or romance or dream job or personal development?

Some of them can't be that hard to do.

Here's what got me thinking about this.

I was watching a sport video by a group of base jumpers who traveled to Norway to do some nutty extreme adventure sport in which they hurl themselves off some of the highest cliffs and do a bit of "flying." 

It's probably waaaaay more far fetched than any "I've always wanted to ..." most of us have ever claimed, and it went like this:

The video stars with skiiers dropping and flipping down the steep cliffs of Norway with water below and a voice explaining:

"What we've always wanted to do is go off a terminal cliff, rip our skis off and then fly away in a wind suit."

Mhhm! Those words that come after the "always wanted to part" are almost funny. They put images of Paris in the Spring in the leage of of a home-delivered basket of kittens. Of course, it's all relative, still ...

This outrageous "always wanted" made mine seem so... doable. And cozy and safe, because some of these guys die doing this stuff. And so, a ticket to a Swimtrek trip in the Greek islands is comparatively easy. Taking a painting class -- piece of cake; my reading list? It almost makes me laugh, no, actually -- it does make me laugh. It's so easy to do some of these things. Reach out pick up book lie down let some time go by. Sit down, pick up phone, pull out credit card, recite or enter a series of numbers -- first big step, done.

And these guys with the crazy flying squirrel dreams figured it out. 

And no, I'm not going to Greece tomorrow or signing up for a painting class this week. But it does get a person thinking about that list. Because sometimes that What-I've-Always-Wanted-to-Do list includes simple stuff like: make jam or go check out a new neighborhood or do a Sunday drive through the next town or say that nice thing to that nice person ... easy stuff.

With that in mind, is there anything on your Always Wanted To list that you can start working toward right now?

Think about it.

This summer, I finally read Dante's Inferno. I've always wanted to read it. And finally did. It's just a book. But suddenly, other Wants became possible.

And if going to the Maldives is on that list, how can you bring a bit of the Maldives home, for starters?

The Thrill of Saying Thank You. And Nick Hornby, Part II

Have you ever had the chance to thank a favorite artist—or someone whose book or music or movies have brought you a lot of happiness or illumination? I swear, it’s got to be one of the best feelings in the world.

I was a lucky, lucky girl Friday night. I got the chance to give a personal thanks to writer Nick Hornby. His collections of writings on his reading life are some of my favorite books around.

He was reading at the downtown Seattle library Friday night and it took a buddy system with my pal Liz to get my ass down there, and thank god for the buddy system. As it turns out, the auditorium reading room was packed to the rafters. Hornby read from his latest novel, “Juliet, Naked” – and then answered questions and we got to spend time with a very funny, decent guy.

A quick summation: He describes himself as being a writer who embraces optimism and joked that this may be why he has no writer friends in his homeland of England.

He also made a point that so much of what is considered great art is dark and tragic and ends on a note of despair and hopelessness. For him, having a laugh through a story, even if it's a sad story, is imperative and thank god for that. I think he used the word "redemption" to describe the common theme that runs through his novels.

But what I love -- his essays. I heard he was coming to town just as I was re-reading his collections of essays from his former Believer column "Stuff I've Been Reading." (The books are: "The Polysyllabic Spree"; "Housekeeping vs. the Dirt"; and the newly discovered "Shakespeare Wrote for Money".) And I will try to make this my last fan-posting about him for a while.

Totally loooove this stuff. These are the types of books that make you develop your own personal, intimate, adoring relationship with an author and wish you could call him up at 2am and blurt out, “I so agree why hans’t anyone ever admitted to this!” Because the two of you think so alike there must be an instant friendship created. Instead I put passages on my blog or email them to people or reread them a thousand times and commit them to memory so I can giggle over them when I need a laugh. Of course they always pop up when I'm listening to someone speak earnestly about a very serious, personal conversation and I have to manually hold the corners of my mouth down.

So, after the reading I bought a couple of books and really wanted to stand in line just to be in person with him and say “Thanks. You have made me laugh and think in new ways. And that matters, so thanks.” But the line was massive and I hate waiting in lines so my pal Liz and I decided to bolt and here’s what we got for our  brilliant anti-Communist line-waiting ways:

We ran smack into the author.

Right outside the library, away from the hundreds of people standing in line waiting to meet him, was Nick Hornby and one other fellow, having a smoke. I couldn’t believe it. So I approached him and like any fool of a fan thanked him for coming and told him I bought the "Shakespeare" book and yes, I was a total cliche, telling him how much I loved these essays and he assured me he was returning to his Believe column again sometime next year and I gave a little cheerleading jump and he gave me a shy but seemingly delighted smile (or did I imagine it; I swear, I think I saw the beginnings of a crush) – and off we went.

I left stunned at our good fortune and also laughing a bit at the image of the crowd waiting for Hornby and how just yards away, right behind their backs, literally, was the object of their affection standing alone.

But what struck me most was how elated I felt. Elated and excited and deeply fulfilled at being able to simply say thank you to a writer who made me laugh and think and want to read more. Who cares if I’m one of a million saying thank you. It still matters. It matters to me, as an art-appreciator and a writer; it matters to my humanness and I think it matters to Art and humanity. I think it's important that we keep thanking the artists who add meaning and explanation to our lives and to what it means to be human in a crazy world. It's important to be a fan!

Simple stuff.

But the simple stuff is always what matters the most, anyway.

Check out the Hornby bibliography. Treat yourself.