Book Review - Big Magic By Elizabeth Gilbert

"The universe buries strange jewels deep within us all, and then stands back to see if we can find them"

                                                          

Title: Big Magic By Elizabeth Gilbert
Language: English
Genre: Self-help/Motivational
Pages: 288
Rating: 5/5

Excerpt: Creative Living Beyond Fear

The book encourages readers to pursue their passion, their inner "Magic” to live creatively, which does not necessarily mean pursuing it professionally or exclusively devoted to the career of arts, but living a life that self-motivated to feed the curiosity than by fear of self or others. It could be anything - write or act or paint, start something of your own, this book wants to help you do that. But if you want to take figure skating, or skiing or learn some new skill, this book wants to help you do that too.

Big Magic is divided into 6 sections: Courage, Enchantment, Permission, Persistence, Trust and Divinity.

Each chapter opens up sharing her experiences about how she fights her fear or draws motivation from the universe, and sustains self-belief in keeping the inner spirit alive. Gilbert encourages us to uncover the “hidden jewels” she calls magic within each of us, waiting to be discovered.

My thoughts:

A must-read for readers of all ages and walks of life. I have reread this book at least 4 times completely and many more times in parts too. I have drawn inspiration from this book and it keeps me going. The book digs deep into the consciousness of the reader to inspire one about the perspective of creativity.

Personally, this book will always be the one I will reach out for, each time I find myself in the need to be motivated or look for inspiration in my pursuit of creativity. Reading Elizabeth Gilbert's book Big Magic has never failed to comfort me. I feel happy even if it is one chapter or one section, which I need to remind myself, to follow my muse,i.e. living a creative living.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Departed - Ties that Bind - A Short Story

Photo by Daiga Ellaby on Unsplash

She’s only four years old and unaffected by the death or sorrows. A little innocent joy living free of the worldly worries. But that will soon change, I hate that part of growing up.

“Hey, why are they burying Aunt Gloria? She can’t bake those yummy cookies and cakes in the ground! Stop!” she screams.

The people who weren’t already crying, allowed tears to roll down their grim faces. “Stop it!” She screams, tears trickle down her unusually gloomy face, and she continues whining. She screamed, only once suddenly, a short piercing cry that quickly dwindled, as the body was being wrapped.

Unexpectedly, Mary bends down and hugs Diana. “Diana, she’s going to rest in peace and sleep.” Mary whispers, “Don’t be too loud or you’ll wake her.”

Diana cuddles Mary and wails. She strokes her hair and her back lovingly and gives her an assuring embrace. That just overpowers me. I start shedding tears with no signs of stopping, causing a chain reaction in the small group standing to see Gloria be buried in the ground. Soon everyone who loved Gloria cries uncontrollably. No one is consolable.

Seventy-eight years on the earth and this is what her life amounted to; body lowered into the dark rain-kissed soil, the damp earth was perfect for burying, dark like molasses where all the creepy creatures wriggle their way under the soil, where there was no light, encompassed in a crudely built six by two wooden box. No luxury, no cushioning, no lining, no pretense that this was a place to put the dead, decaying slowly, piece by piece — skin, flesh and bones. The lid was propped against the wall, and a hammer and a box of large iron nails lay at its side on the ground. All that was missing was her festering body waiting to be laid into the baked naked earth locked in a coffin.

As I stood there, they slowly lowered her coffin into the hole dug up in the damp earth, the rain had washed the streets clean last night and nowhere was the wetness more obvious than in the muddy graveyard. The closest relatives take turns with the spade, and others with their hands start covering her inch by inch with the soil around it, to completely be engulfed into the ground, as though she was never a part of our side.

“You will be missed,” I say softly as the coffin was no longer visible under the debris of fine pebble and rocks, and the mud enshrouds it gently and securely like it was it's own.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published in The Weekly Knob

Friday Night Bites - A Flash Fiction

Photo by Valentin Salja on Unsplash

All of the blood is flowing thick and red in her veins, I can smell it. I can smell it in my room. It smells like a garnish. There is nothing more interesting than blood.

I wanted blood now. Right NOW!

I dive for my phone into my bag and turn it on. I need a distraction.

I get into my car, and I notice, Mrs Jane’s front door is left ajar as if she is inviting me to get close enough to see her.

To see her face freeze as the warm blood gushes into my mouth, like a hot spring.

Every single cell in my body is forcing me to put my teeth at the nape of her neck, to split her flesh, soak up her dress and staining things around.

I decided to have a closer look at my potential prey.

As I walked up to her, and get close enough to see her, I froze. Her eyes were wilder than a cheetah caught in a trap at night, shinning. There was nothing more beautiful about her.

Her feet were few inches off the ground, and blood trickled down her neck and staining her pretty laced dress. The liquid drizzled down her body like rain on a window.

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

So.....I got published as a writer in Spillwords

Photo by Marcos Paulo Prado on Unsplash

It’s published.

My writing has been published.

I have only published in Medium publications, Pratilipi and my blog site so far.

This seems like the first logically step. I’m finally published in a publication site today on 10 April 2020, in Spillwords here. I’m trying not to freak out since yesterday, but honestly, it is hard, not clear your mind off something when it is something you have always wanted and it is a surreal feeling.

I woke up earlier than usual today. I was getting published at 11 am my time (IST). I could not ward off the thoughts in my head, or suppress the excitement and anxiety I was experiencing.

Dream. We all grow up dreaming – to become a teacher, an astronaut, a doctor. I secretly dreamt of being a writer for the longest time, one day, someday. It was hidden deep inside, no one had a whiff of it.

I always loved writing. For two decades I have written, in my journals and it has only been a year since I started submitting my writings to be read, to be heard and this feels like a step forward. The day has finally arrived, when the tag of being a writer, is etched deeper into my being.

I think of it as motivation, the recognition in the wider group of people, being read by more readers or the accomplishment of getting published with your name at the end of it. This only feels like the stepping stone, which was beyond reach a year ago.

I am in my twenties, and I have a long way to go, as a writer, and a person of who I am yet to become. I don’t know what life has in store for me. But I will always be a writer; it is imprinted into my soul; I feel that in my gut each time I pick up my pen. My arms involuntarily move my fingers, it pours out of me, as if my heart wishes to sing a melody day and night. It is such a chatterbox, this heart of mine and my writing, long-winded.

It dances in the form of words from the tip of the pen as if it were putting up a show, loving each tiny movement. It comes to me in a flow as a river, swiftly gliding making its way, not knowing where it is going. It means a lot to me, very divine, an inspiration on fire with everlasting flames I never want to put off. Or shall I say, it is how I see it when an artist who has embraced creativity, who truly is in love with the art of words and imagination, tiptoeing each emotion black and white, in pixelated ink?

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Checkmate - A poem

Photo by Javier Grixo on Unsplash

Black and white, a checkerboard

a game of hidden moves

a game of wisdom & wise;

King & pawn move only a square

moving a step, left or right

keeping enemy at sight;

Mounted knights are unique though

they don’t take anyone’s blow

they strike from any side;

Bishops hampered by the rules

following them till the grave

they can never misbehave;

Rook, bold like a fort

moves the along the sides

shoving the enemy’s stride;

Queen, the fearless

moves anywhere

it is hard to keep her guarded anyway;

Triumph or defeat is not the end

learning strategy is the game

the choice we make, while we are being played!

©Shweta, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Originally published in Literally Literary