How to keep creativity flowing: Part 2 (Steph)

Steph shares the creative secrets she garnered from watching birds of prey.

Hi friend,

We’re the first to admit that neither of us is an everyday writer. We don’t have a daily routine, and our creative juices are not squeezed systematically every morning at seven. We’re both more cyclically creative: our ebbing and flowing on the page often depends on life’s tide charts.

Last week, Maia served up a creative tip to keep our right brain revving even while navigating life’s left-brain terrain. This week, Steph’s reflects on what birdwatching has taught her about writing, plus she shares a few novel words.

Spread your wings—

This one’s for the birds . . .

I admire the diligence of little birds like juncos, robins, and wrens. The way they show up daily to flit about the garden, snacking on seeds and berries for hours at a time. They are steady and reliable in their routines— they are the tortoises of The Tortoise and the Hare.

I’ve also watched the bigger birds, the birds of prey, the hawks, eagles, and owls as they perch and then, eventually, seize.

It can look like they’re doing nothing but resting and preening . . . until they swoop; until they catch the big one; until one trip to ground level provides them with more than a titmouse could eat in a week.

I resonate with these big hunters. I’ve never been the kind of writer who pecks away at their keyboard with constancy and discipline. I live life while another part of me— my writer self— watches and waits. Now and again, on a random morning at dawn, I’ll see my mouse on my desk and I dive for it.

I used to think this was bad. I used to call myself a procrastinator. I used to say I must not be a writer.

Now, I just call myself an old buzzard and go on.

I’m not saying this because I think it’s the right way or the best way. It’s just my way, and I’m hoping it might give you permission to spread your wings and find yours.

Head to the comments and tell me what kind of creative bird you are? Bonus points for usage of odd bird names!

And . . . after not writing for well over two weeks, here’s a piece for my novel. I caught it as it darted out of the woods on a fortuitous Friday afternoon. Mind the talon marks. Ha!

Fingerprints

While walking through the cobblestone streets of Hvar, he turned to me and said, “We should go to the CSI place.”

I nodded and followed his lead. I hadn’t a clue what “the CSI place” was, but I trusted Marjan completely.

A few moments later, we arrived at a small museum, dedicated to the man who developed the science and system of fingerprinting. He happened to have been born and raised on the small island Marjan was working on.

“Ahhh,” I said, putting together the television show clues. “The CSI Place.”

“Yes,” said Marjan with a chuckle. “Every Croatian knows not to leave their fingerprints anywhere.”

We took a very brief tour of the museum, reading about the history of Ivan Vučetíc and the first crime he solved using his technique.

“Don’t touch the glass,” I said to Marjan, jokingly. “Don’t want anyone to know you were here.”

We both laughed.

We were almost finished the tour when a woman who worked at the museum approached us.

“Would you like to do your fingerprints?” she asked, kindly.

“Of course we would,” I said.

“Bunny,” said Marjan. “I don’t know if we have time.”

“Where are we rushing off too?” I asked. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

“And it’s very quick,” said the woman.

“Exactly,” I said. “Let’s do it. It will be fun to see them side by side.”

The look in Marjan’s eye was hesitant, so I leaned in and whispered into his ear. “Do this with me, and then take me back to the apartment, and I’ll put my fingerprints all over your body.”

He bit the edge of his lip and nodded. Fingerprints it was. We turned to the woman, ready to go, and then something strange happened. It was almost like there was a glitch in the matrix. We watched as the woman’s posture changed. She stood straighter and taller. She became somewhat mechanical.

“Okay,” she said rather seriously. “But I have to tell you before we do this that fingerprints aren’t like palm readings or something. They don’t have some magical forecasting power. They don’t tell you anything about your life or what’s in the future. They’re just fingerprints.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We know that.”

She blinked and sort of sank back into herself.

“Okay, great,” she said, her voice rather playful. “Who’s first?”

That was weird, I thought, as I stepped forward to go first.

The woman held my hand and pressed my thumb into an ink pad. As she was doing so, she explained to us that there were four common fingerprint types.

“Just like eye color,” she said, while pressing my fully inked thumb onto a small sheet of paper. “There are four common types, but no two are the same. Except you two,” she said, motioning to our eyes. “Iste oči,” she said, or ‘same eyes’ in Croatian.

“Dah,” I said.

“And just like eye color,” she continued, “some types are more common than others. Oh, look! she exclaimed as she lifted the piece of paper that now had my fingerprint on it. “You have the rarest type.”

“Huh,” I shrugged. “Who knew?!”

Marjan was up next. She inked his thumb and then pressed it into the spot next to mine on the paper.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh wow. You also have a rare type. I mean—I’ve not really seen anything like this.”

We stood there. We watched as the woman nearly started to cry.

“It’s like. Oh my gosh. Yours goes this way, and his goes this way. It’s like . . .” she paused and placed a hand on her chest. She turned to us and slowly took us in. “If you pull them apart, you go left and he goes right,” she said. “But if you put them together, they match. They are mirrors of a single direction. Your fingerprints are two twin flame souls.”

I turned to Marjan. He turned to face me.

What the fuck is happening, we thought.

“Okay,” she said in a rather business-like tone. “That’s it. Those are your fingerprints.”

She handed me the small piece of paper, and we left the museum.

“What just happened?” I asked aloud as we stumbled out the door. “What is happening?”

“Your guess is better than mine,” said Marjan. “Here, I’ll take the prints,” he said, reaching gently for the paper.

“Oh, but I want them,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep them safe,” I added, as I folded the paper and tucked it into the back flap of my wallet.

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