Month: September 2015

Thoughts on creativity on a Sunday afternoon

I am taking a moment for myself, sitting with my computer at the dining room table. The washing machine is purring in the background and my four-year-old son and his many, many toys are all over the floor, but I don’t care. My father is trailing behind my son and their discussions of hoisting stuff with a toy crane and playing cops and robbers Lego-style fills the family room. Add coffee and…. Yes, this is a blissful Sunday. Luckily, it’s raining outside, so any thoughts of what I should be doing in the garden are superfluous. Instead, I sit here in the single mother’s version of alone and get to write. The ding, ding, ding of the washing machine, but then I get to write. J I’ve been thinking a lot about creativity as of late. Creativity can take so many forms, but in my opinion, it has telltale signs: a flutter inside, followed by an inner peace and a sense of rejuvenation. The sensations of creativity are addictive, and yet the discipline to sit …

Dorothy Parker

Dorothy Parker is one of whose name that I heard a number of times, but I know nothing really about Dottie Dear. The predominant image of Dorothy Parker is life of the party, fashionable, wisecrack, and probably provocative for her time (1893-1967). She published her first volume of poetry in 1926 (Enough Rope) and The Nation called it “caked with a salty humor, rough with splinters of disillusion, and tarred with a bright black authenticity.” Dorothy was née Rothschild, but despite the wealthy family name, her childhood was anything but a piece of cake. Her mother died, when Dorothy was very young, and Dorothy grew up to resent her father and stepmother. She sold her first poem to Vanity Fair in 1914 and worked with both Vogue and Vanity Fair. She was a founding member of Algonquin Round Table and became known for her sharp wit. She relocated to Hollywood and worked on a number of movies there, but her political involvement in civil rights caused her head wind. The FBI allegedly had a 1000 …

I Still Dream About You – Fannie Flagg

“Meet Maggie Fortenberry. Her life seems pretty much perfect – she’s beautiful, charming and successful, just as you’d expect of a former Miss Alabama. But in fact, Maggie is perfectly miserable. By now she should have been living in an elegant house with an adoring husband and children. Instead, she makes a living selling that dream to others – though her estate agency business has lately been going from bad to worse.” The caption on the back cover sold me, when I perused the bookstore in search of nothing in particular (meaning anything that caught my eye). I immediately jumped to the conclusion that Maggie Fortenberry was a thirty-something less-than-happy woman. I can relate to that, said the thirty-something Louise. Maggie has a plan to end it all, the caption states, and I expected that the story would be a sweet story of Maggie’s serendipitous path back to a joyful life. Because of my hasty and incorrect assumptions, I Still Dream About You is an uphill novel for me. Maggie is a sixty-something woman and …

Henry David Thoreau

”I have now a library of nearly 900 volumes over 700 of which I wrote myself.” Henry David Thoreau was not an instant success. The publisher of his first book returned just over 700 unsold volumes to Thoreau. Now on the other hand, Thoreau is an author, philosopher, and naturalist of international reclaim. From reading Walden, probably Thoreau’s most popular book, I remember pondering how he made ends meet. He continued to work for his family’s pencil factory and was under the inspiring wing of Emerson with jobs as tutor for Emerson’s sons and gardener. In addition, Thoreau chose to live a simpler life spending two years in a self-built hut on the bank of Walden Pond. I believe, that Thoreau, who lived from 1817 – 1862, in many ways was out of the ordinary. His yearning for a simpler living was not brought about by famine, economic ruin, or a lawman, close on his trail as many of the new comers in America, during the period. Thoreau in some ways existed in his own …