The Little [Purple] Book

This semester Jordan and I are taking History of Creativity 202 (if you are wondering what that crazy title means, it is basically a history class with a focus on how human creativity has fueled civilization). Last semester we took the first half, history up to 1500. A major portion of the class is the creativity project, which is meant to stretch us and make us find creative ways to incorporate our learning into something tangible. My project was, to say it lightly, a complete failure. I did not get a good grade on it and I was quite embarrassed to turn it in. It was a very poor effort. I vowed that this semester I would try harder on my project and actually do something worthwhile. So I got thinking.

For a long time now I have been reflecting on how my ability to write creatively has diminished steadily with the years I have been in school. I used to create stories in my head all the time. When I was ten I started writing a story about a little man and his little family trying to find their way around a big world. It was inspired explicitly by The Littles, a series about a family of people about four inches tall with mouse tails, but I'm never going to publish it so nobody can sue me over copyright issues. All that really mattered was that it was my story. I was creating a new world and new characters, and even though they weren't entirely original, I was still creating them.

I continued to have story ideas throughout elementary and middle school. I would record them in the big black notebook with CHUDLEY CANNONS written in orange across the cover and a Spongebob sticker stuck in the corner. There was a story about a crippled boy who finds a way to save his kingdom; a story about a mysterious girl with white wispy hair who sneaks out of her window at night to go and sit in a tree in the forest with the stars; and there was a whole alternate ending to the Harry Potter series in which Harry discovers he has a twin sister who has been hiding with Muggles and never knew she had magic. I also wrote poetry of sorts. There is the poem about the fly (which I can still recite for you), the song about the glories of Thanksgiving, the ditty about the ocean (which I can also still recite, and sing), the new verse to For the Beauty of the Earth... But as the years went by I gradually lost interest in my stories and poems and got busy with other things--tests, practicing for orchestra, applying to college... the list goes on.

So I have decided to try and regain my lost creativity.

I have a book that is now my dedicated creativity book. I will carry it everywhere with me and I will fill it with words. I don't know what form those words will take; it may all be trash and nonsense. Probably none of it will ever be published or even read by anyone but my children. But what does that really matter? My goal is not to pen the next bestseller or write myself into the poet laureate position. In the words of a writer much greater than myself, the purpose of my writing is "solely for the pleasure of my relatives and friends so that, when they have lost me--which they soon must--they may recover some features of my character and disposition, and thus keep the memory they have of me more completely vividly alive." (Michel de Montaigne)

That, folks, is my very long explanation of my History of Creativity project. I expect you all to keep me in check and make sure I do it :)