To thine own self be true

When I was nine years old I was given an autograph book for Christmas. I don’t think it’s a thing these days. I was enamoured with the idea of collecting autographs of everyone I knew. Perhaps one day they would be famous and I could say I knew them with the proof of an autograph. Some people wrote quotes or sayings with their autograph. Dad wrote a musical one.

Mum quoted Shakespeare: ‘This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.’

My teacher wrote ‘Life is mostly froth and bubble, two things stand like stone, kindness in another’s trouble, patience in your own.’ The same teacher who slapped my face when she’d had enough of my (undiagnosed) ADHD.

Along with the autograph book I received a diary which started a life long obsession with notebooks and writing. I wrote poems and songs and ode’s to my dog George.

Around that time, I read the diary of Ann Frank. I imagined myself passing on my life story to another generation. I wrote diligently. I would always start with date and time and the weather of the day and I even wrote about the music I loved. It would be important for the archaeological information gathering. I thought they might need to know about the social trends.

It was kind of a time capsule of my imagination. I pictured someone, in the future, discovering my diary and being fascinated with our lives long after we were dead and gone. I started each entry with ‘Dear Diary.’ Doesn’t everyone? I’m not sure who I was talking to but they were definitely listening. It was magical. My diary had a sweet little clasp with a tiny padlock and an even smaller golden key which I kept hidden in my sock drawer. Every year I would pour my heart into those pages wondering about the future person who would read them.

Many years later when I picked up my pen to write again, I found I still felt an invisible person reading over my shoulder. It took me a very long time to let go of worrying about who was going to read my writing. Four years of blogging has helped me be brave and write anyway.

You may think this sounds a little extreme, until I tell you why. When I was a kid, someone did read my diaries. Mum used them to snoop on my life. She also steamed open my mail. I never understood what was so important that she felt she had to read it. I wasn’t getting up to any mischief back then. That came later. That wound took a long time to heal.

I kept writing. I wrote under a nom de plume, a pen name. Sera Jane Frazer. Any diaries or poems or songs I wrote were all signed by Sera. I even made my handwriting look different. Friends would see me with my exercise books full of creations and ask me who Sera was. I would tell them she was a writer I knew. I also got really good at hiding them from mum.

I couldn’t not write, it was such an intrinsic part of my life it felt wrong not to. Along with writing stories and songs and poems, as Sera, I made up stories for my little brother. He was nine years younger than me and he loved hearing stories about his stuffed toy koala. Ko got up to lots of mischief and the stories I told were on a loop. ‘Tell me the one about Ko and the cement mixer again.’

Lately, I haven’t been writing much apart from this blog. I’ve been working on a book with my husband which has been fascinating. I have discovered I love restructuring and reworking words just as much as writing them. I’m not sure if we’re getting it right but the process has been a learning curve.

My own writing has stalled and motivation is at low tide.

I’m very good at advising other people that low tide is a good time to fill up on all the things that fill our tank. Tank is too limited. Well of creativity? Nope that’s too fixed and risks drying up. I think creativity is more like a tidal river. It’s always flowing but sometimes the tide is out. This is not a bad thing, something to be avoided, it’s a natural as the seasons.

Photo by George Hiles on Unsplash

I have taken some steps to get back into the flow of creative writing. Starting with a writing retreat, toward the end of last year, where I found out some interesting things about the way I think. There were more limiting beliefs under the hood I’d missed. I was reminded and I know (in my head) I need to go gently and kindly with myself. It is not something I’m very good at. My inner critic can be like a screaming banshee throwing horrible insults and put downs at me that would make anyone cringe.

Artists need kindness and gentleness to survive. They also need grit and determination and a spine of steel. They need a robust ego that can deal with rejection and criticism while remaining vulnerable and open to new ideas. They need strength and bravery and stickability and so much more. Kindness and gentleness, aka self care, may need to be at the top of the list.

Today I signed up for coaching, with someone I trust, to help me find my writing mojo again. Megdunley.com The simple act of signing up, investing in myself, spurred me to do a writing warm up for twenty minutes and to finish write this piece.

Time is a strange thing. We think it’s finite, tangible, controllable. That we can divide it up and save it or spend it like money. The truth is that all we have is now, this moment. Everything else is either memory or imagination. I would like to use my precious moments to express all that is within me in the hope that, in some small way, I am adding value to this life. To be true to myself.

Thank you for taking the time to read this today. I’d love to hear your comments on what you do to reignite your creative passion. (No email or info required)