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I figured out an important part of my personality last week.
Maybe I’ve known it longer than that, but sometimes realizations really has to smack you, to reach all the way inside you. I needed three very specific events to understand.

I’ve been feeling creatively passive lately. Under-inspired. Moving through slush to find ideas. It’s not surprising when you think about it, I’m alone most days and I don’t have too much to do. One could say I have too little to do. I’m saying that. I have too little to do.
After a while it becomes normal life, and you (I mean “I”) start to think “maybe I’m just not a creative person anymore”.
But that doesn’t feel right either.

I talk with one of the best people I know. She has said in the past that talking with me makes her feel inspired to be creative. This time she’s the one to trigger those feelings in me. I say to her, I think I need creative people around me to find creativeness.
When we hang up I have more ideas than I had two hours earlier (yes, we talked for almost two hours).
That’s how I’ve always known myself, a person who never struggles to get great ideas.
So where have I been?

The weekend comes and David and I go to see a movie. It’s the most confusing mix of a fantastic movie and a terrible movie. I get pulled out of the experience more than once because of bad directing, bad acting from wonderful actors, strange editing that makes me feel the film making, and not the emotions.
We discuss it on our way home, and David, who loved the movie, hadn’t seen all those things. When I bring them up he understands me though, and we walk home through the streets of Toronto and talk about making movies, and how we each have our own angle into creativity. He through the technical, me through the emotional.
I feel a current rushing in. It’s flowing trough me with a realization that some day in the future I’m going to direct something and it’s going to happen. I’ve never been sure of that before, but that evening I just know it. And it makes me giggle because it’s almost like I don’t have a choice.

On Sunday I meet up with a new friend who in many ways are like me, but better at realizing all her ideas. She has creativity in every nerve. And she talks about me like I do too. While we’re talking (and eating sushi) I feel a surge pass through me. It’s not like one of those animated lightbulb moments, it’s more a feeling of listening in on the conversation from the outside.

And this is where I think “Oh. I have creativity again”.

Like I was out of it, and now it’s filled up. To the brim.

I remember what I said to my dear friend earlier in the week, and to David the day before, and I realize that yes, I have the key now.
It’s like I’ve found myself again in a sea of forgotten creativity.

/Lotta
I have few words today.
I remember at university, every time I was writing essays I always felt like I didn't use big enough words, but then every time I got it back I was told I used words so well. The professor even used me as a good example of how to write so that it’s easily understandable while still being proper. I’m not saying this to brag. I’m telling you this because Every Single Time after this when I turned in a paper I thought “THIS time they are going to realize that I’m out of words.” Like I had used up all of them and everybody was going to understand that soon enough.
It never happened though. They kept thinking it was great, and I kept being surprised. After a while (we’re talking years) I had to make friends with the idea that I might actually be good with words.
Now I write in a different language than my own, and that struggle comes back tenfold. I mean, I literally have less words in English than I do in Swedish.
So here I am, sitting at cafe’s writing things every day, hoping that the words will feel like a perfect amount soon.
I know it’s all in my head (I’m a little bit of a word perfectionist) and that it’s me creating the fear. No one else is doing it for me.
The fact that I’m writing this is probably a good sign. I’m telling myself it is.
It’s called imposter syndrome, by the way. “They are going to realize I’m not good at this”. I like the name because Imposter is a big word and I understand that word, and maybe that means I’m not an imposter.

Sometimes I read about successful and famous people struggling with imposter syndrome, and I imagine us being in the same club. Imposters Unite. We could have t-shirts. But nobody would wear them because we would all be thinking “some day they will realize I’m not a real imposter”.

/Lotta
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I’m back at the French cafe where I used to sit every day two autumn’s ago. The waitress with the sad eyes cheers up when she sees me, and I’m happy she’s working today because it’s like meeting an old friend- even though I don't even know her name.
But I know her dad died that autumn. She told a customer once when she had been off work for a while. Her voice wobbled as she struggled not to cry.
It’s strange the things we learn about strangers.

I think about that sometimes. How everything we do affects people, without us even knowing it. A random comment online, a friendly smile on the bus, an overheard conversation between strangers, a song, a laughter, can be remembered for years and years, and change us a little.
Or a lot.
I wonder why we pretend that things don't stick. Why we tell ourselves that what we do doesn't matter to anyone else. Everything matters and people are puzzles with no edges, spreading further and further, adding pieces in no particular order.
The day we die we will be an intricate web of strangers we looked into the eye.

And I’m not saying we should go around and look every stranger in the eye because, ugh, that would be exhausting.
Just that I have a follower on instagram who doesn't like oatmeal and now I think about that every morning when I make my oatmeal.

/Lotta
One day I’m wearing knitted over the knee socks in fall shoes, and the next it’s back to bare feet and sandals again. I have a new playlist that I’m premiering when I walk to the coffee shop to write. It’s mostly bouncy, happy and mysterious songs, because that’s what fit my step.
One song ends and Tous les mêmes by Stromae begins. I had forgotten I had added that one.
I wait for the light to turn green and the refrain comes on and my knees give out. They pulse to the rhythm, back and forth, and the beat carries me up on my tippy toes before taking off on a journey up through my legs, around my torso, my neck and into a huge smile on my lips. I bob my head and the light switches to green and I kinda skip across the street and who fucking cares because “Rendez-vous, rendez vous, rendez-vous….” and I don't even know French but you better believe I’m singing along.
I wish I could put this on speaker for the entire world because I want everybody to bounce their way forward with smiles that won't accept to stay hidden inside.

I order my iced coffee and with it in hand I go in search for a seat on the full patio. A new song comes on and it’s Tomboy by Princess Nokia, and two girls get up from their table and I snatch a chair in semi shadow while I lip sync the words “with my little titties and my phat belly” and I laugh because I wish I had sung them aloud.
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