Five Things - daily creative connections

When you're short on time but not words

Dear Creative Souls,

Last week I shared how Summer Brennan’s Substack, A Writer’s Notebook had inspired me to write five things each day to keep connected to my Creative Self. Following her lead, each day this week I’ve written five things - observations, thoughts, feelings - to keep my pen (or fingers, since I mostly type when I write) moving.

I have realised that I like this process very much - it appeals to me, especially now. My head is full of competing thoughts and emotions - uncertainty about my day job (the outcome of a review of the arts centre will be known next month) and what I want for me … plus a countdown towards a month-long trip to Germany. My heart wants to write it all out.

My WIP is on hold while I focus on these big life events, as well as upcoming family gatherings, all important, all priorities in their own way.

Oh, and book promotion … there’s that too. Tomorrow I have an author talk 80km from here so I’ve spent the afternoon planning for it. It’s strange how these events always get me a little anxious - I know what to do, I’m not afraid to speak in public anymore, but my inner self-critic always starts buzzing around my ears, an invisible mosquito. So along with making copious notes I’ll probably ignore, I’m having to channel my inner fan. Inner fan - what a great concept. I heard Holly Ringland talking about this on the Writes 4 Women podcast recently and bought her new book The House That Joy Built the same day (there’s a book recommendation for you).

So, fellow Creative Souls, here are my five things. I hope they inspire you too - and if you give this a go, let me know in the comments. You may also be interested in Summer Brennan’s Essay Camp, which starts this week.

Five Things

Saturday

I am thinking of my grandmother as I eat a Maha Chanook mango, the sweet-tart juice dripping down my fingers the same way it did hers, but I remember most the contented smile on her face and the tea-towel tucked into her sweater.

A brave grasshopper tempts fate by landing on a rose bush while I am deadheading it.

My body and mind are fatigued today and I am battling the wisdom of surrendering to rest with a sword emblazoned with one word: should.

The buzz of a short story idea that might just be something, a character who wants to be someone.

Six weeks before I go overseas and I have turned a spare room, an empty nest, into a temporary packing room.

Sunday

Fifty shades of blue where ocean meets sky.

A one-hundred-year-old grape vine welcomes us to a wine cellar with a wall of chalk-inscribed barrels; downstairs, glasses stand ready and the earthy aroma of oak and wine calls us to taste.

An intrepid family provides amusement as they try to cross from one side of the river to another without getting wet; behind them, dry slopes are dotted with grass trees.

Words form sentences and sentences form story; my knees are stiff from sitting in one place too long.

The spilt second after I bite into a biscotti from the Italian bakery and the sweet almond taste registers.

Monday

I turned my alarm off last night because I have a late start for work, and cuddle up with Boogle the cat; her purrs almost lull me back to sleep.

Best laid plans go astray and I have to start work earlier than planned; the short story I planned to work on is a blinking cursor on the screen.

A snake slithers across the road as I drive to work and I smile; moments later a freight train holds up traffic, and my fingers drum the steering wheel.

The smell of onions, carrot, celery sautéing in good olive oil, step one in the bean and tomato soup I am preparing for dinner.

Lingering taste of wine, a Grenache from a winemaker friend, when I run my tongue over my lips, but only until I brush my teeth.

Tuesday

The fresh breeze on my face as I walk from the carpark to the gym; I am glad I wore a jacket.

A forty-minute phone call with a patron; the joint feeling of having helped someone but now there’s a backlog of work.

Unboxing author copies of your latest book never gets old, and I want to savour the moment for longer, but life goes on.

Chatting with my mum and hearing genuine happiness in her voice, and then Facebook shares a memory of the last time we saw each other in person, twelve months ago.

I am lying in the bath, soft light from flickering candles; the bathwater smells of serenity and I want it to soak under my skin and into my soul.

Wednesday

Three phone conversations - one I wish I’d missed, one I should have missed, one I wish I didn’t miss.

A cricket is singing outside the window and I wonder how it can make the same sound over and over and why I can’t seem to zone it out.

Fresh blueberries from the garden taste better when warmed by the sun.

On my dining table is an olive wood candlestick made in Bethlehem that we bought in Hadeel, a fairtrade Palestinian shop in Edinburgh; each night we light a candle and give silent thanks, and tonight I am pensive.

Wes Anderson’s short films The Swan fills me with horror at the violence humans can perpetrate against each other, and leaves me pensive about the state of this world.

Thursday

Is there a word for the moment you walk into a bookstore with one mission: buy a book. Buy any book. Buy the one that speaks to you today.

The smell of freshly baked cookies addles my ability to choose one to take home, because … just one?

Falafel, hot from the deep fryer at my favourite Lebanese restaurant; I crunch through the crisp outer layer to the soft inside and my tongue sings.

There is a reason I often avoid reading the news; my heart is not bulletproof.

I am in a building wading through air murky with tension, resentment and frustration and I want to be elsewhere.

Photo by Food Photographer | Jennifer Pallian on Unsplash

Friday

We are in the kitchen, making pork cotoletta. Lemon zest tickles my nose as I finely chop parsley and mix it, with the zest, into a bowl of breadcrumbs with my fingers Next to this, is a mix of cream and eggs, and beside that is flour, seasoned, ready for a routine we know by heart.

The apricots are blushing, still hard to the touch, not ready for another week or two, but the parrots disagree.

My husband pours me a glass of limoncello I made a few months ago, and the smooth tart liqueur tastes like a summer afternoon.

Fresh wind, open windows, stale energy from a locked-up house exhaled.

The wind has died down and the sound of a spoon clinking on a bowl, pulls me away from the world of words.