Ghost of Creativity

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about creativity. I am an artist and writer. By using both I am a story-teller using both words and pictures – sometimes together and sometimes not.

I am fortunate to know so many other creative beings who are writers, artists and musicians and even actors. Anyway, being one of those kinds of people is never easy. The risks of even admitting one is creative is great. You’re scorned if it is your passion or if try to make a living of it. You are celebrated if you succeed. There seems to be no in-between. And nobody understands, or so it seems. Mentors are few and far between. Paths are unclear and filled with holes.

Then again it can be wonderful and rewarding and magical. When I’m creating I’m happy. When I’m creating and making money that really makes me happy.

This morning I’m working on some drawings and writing, as well as some business…

I’d just fixed coffee in my red French press and looked out the window to see the red shoulder hawk sitting in an oak tree and turkeys walking below (just setting the scene.) Anyway, my brain was starting to go blank and doubt was setting in and my attention span was well, I have no attention span what so ever.

I looked up from my computer to see a pale face surrounded by a mass of shaggy dark hair. It was Nigel, THE GHOST, my ghost, sitting across from me with a fuck-you-Juliette look on his face.

“What are you trying to do today Vampire?” He was in one of his usual fresh out of the grave moods.

“I was just thinking about all of my insanely creative friends.”

“You have friends?”

“Don’t be rude. So tell me Nigel, you were a successful artist. How did you manage it?”

He leaned back in the chair and then loosened his tie.

“Well, Juliette, my dear dear dear Juliette, I learned the business. I was sort of an asshole. I never took no for an answer. I believed in my art. But most of all I had a lot of support. Nobody every expected me to do anything but succeed. Good thing my family didn’t want anything to do with me or I would have never done anything. But my friends and my foster family were my real family. They believed. They made me believe. I probably would have killed myself before I ever made it out of high school if I’d stayed with my biological family. I was my art. My art was me. There was no separation. I worked smart too, learned from my mistakes and… connections were a big thing. I went to the right school. Right away I started to network and find the right people. I’ve never been shy. I was driven. I didn’t listen to anyone who wanted me to be nice or follow the norms or get a real job. Most of all I was good. I was great. People still buy my art. They still love it. Can you imagine if I’d lived? Can you imagine all of the people with real talent who are alive right now but so beaten down by all of the crap that they’ve heard all of their lives about how art doesn’t matter? At least their art doesn’t matter because… It was easy for me because I didn’t have to please anyone but myself and I was damn great at both art and pleasing myself. Everything is easy if you go throughout life as sort of a prick.”

I listened and thought a bit then poured more coffee.

I looked up and Nigel’s handsome almost transparent face was next to mine. “And you want to know what else Juliette? Tenacity. A lot of tenacity. A whole lot of tenacity.”

“It is easy when you’re young to dream,” I said, thinking of the teens I know, and of my own youth.

He gave a laugh, but it wasn’t mean. It was happy. “But when you’re old you have the life experience. You can do anything.”

“It isn’t that easy,” I said.

“Nothing is that easy, especially bringing back that passion but it can be done.”

“Anything else?”

“Don’t be a ghost before you’re dead,” said Nigel and he vanished in a whisp of blue smoke.

I’ve had doors slammed in my face. So I go to a side door or through a window. Or I find a better door. Or I kick the door down. Or I sit outside and yell. But as I go through my own front door, into the home I love knowing that my creativity bought this house I know that nothing can get me down at this point. It can’t. I won’t let it.

As I embark on new creative endeavours, new journeys so to speak, I will try not to bring any old ghosts with me. Well, with one exception. I will bring Nigel along with me, even if he is a pain in the ass sometimes. But when I go it alone I know he’ll be there, along with so many others cheering me on.

And in turn, I will be on the sidelines cheering on my creative friends. Better than that I’ll march in the parade beside them.

Never give up your art. Never give up your creative spirit. Never give up. Never. Like Nigel said – don’t be a ghost before you’re dead.

~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman


red shoulder hawk

My hawk who visits outside my window.


15 thoughts on “Ghost of Creativity

  1. Nice photo of the hawk! I try not to be a ghost before I’m dead. But them sometimes, it’s nice to be anonymous.

    I’m not on personal terms with our ghosts, and only the cats see them, but the latest prank one of the ghosts has been pulling is to turn on my coffee grinder. I know one of the ghosts likes coffee, because one night we were sitting at the counter and the cat was sitting on the edge of the table staring at something at the sink and following it back and forth between the sink and the stove. After about 5 minutes of the cat walking around the edge of the table never taking his eyes off the ghost, we smelled coffee. Laurie and I looked at each other like how can that be, neither of us had coffee at that moment.

    Sunday morning I boiled water, and turned on the coffee grinder. It quickly ground to a halt. Strange I thought as I pulled out the container, which was much heavier than normal. When I open the top it was packed full of coffee powder. I didn’t remember grinding any earlier, but figured I must have ran the grinder more than once and forgot between grindings. I used half the powder to make the morning coffee and put the rest in another container. About an hour later, the coffee grinder started up again. I looked over where the grinder is and there where no cats or anything I could see near it. It all of a sudden made sense why the container was packed full of powder earlier. I’m having to leave the grinder unplugged now. Pesky ghosts.

    • Wow. That is interesting. Smells are common with ghosts but I’ve never heard of them grinding your coffee for you (cats are too selfish to help out that way.) Thanks for the story.

    • In the last week I’ve seen the hawk, a turkey vulture, a turkey and countless songbirds in that tree. But it is always a treat to see the hawk. Thanks for dropping by!

    • Nigel was here when we moved in six years ago. As for him being a victim… no, he didn’t know Vampires existed until after he became a ghost and was privy to things that usually go unseen. I didn’t know him when he was alive. I wish I had. That said, in our culture (Modern Vampires, as we call it now, started in the early 19th Century) we don’t have victims, we have donors. We take what we need and move on. No harm done (usually.) Waste not, want not.


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