Quotes About Creativity

When people come to me with a problem, I don't care what it is — poor health, lack of money, unfulfilling relationships, or stifled creativity—there is only one thing I ever work on, and that is LOVING THE SELF.

THROAT: I can speak for myself. I express myself freely. I am creative. I speak with love.

New careers can start at any age, especially when you do it for the fun of it.

We are powerful, creative beings who determine our future with every thought we think and every word we speak." This

Six Stars,' he exclaimed. 'Finding the right words is hard!

I'm not embarrassed about the novels I wrote when I was younger, but I couldn't write them today because of my religion.

You too?" She asked Ruth. "How do your poems start out?" "They start as a lump in the throat," she said.

It's a shame that creativity and sloth look exactly the same.

How do your poems start out?" "They start as a lump in the throat," she said. "Isn't that normally just a cocktail olive lodged there?" Olivier asked. "Once," Ruth admitted. "Wrote quite a good poem before I coughed it up.

Quote from Louise Penny a Canadian author. Wrote "How The Light Gets In" from an interview. "Having started as a voracious reader (and I still am), I know that reading is as creative as writing. The writer suggests, creates a character, a setting, an atmosphere. But it's the reader who brings it alive. Walks with the characters, sees the world, smells the wood smoke, tastes the café au lait and feels the biting cold on the tender cheek

Peter always had a 'best before' date stamped on his forehead," said Ruth. "People who live in their heads do. They start out well enough, but eventually they run out of ideas. And if there's no imagination, no inspiration to fall back on? Then what?

In trying to capture the beautiful mystery, this monk had invented written music. Not yet notes, what he'd written became known as neumes.

Haven't you ever heard of an artist's muse?" the barman asked. "They all seem to either have one or want one. Me, all I want is peace and quiet.

Knowledge, ideas, thoughts. Imagination. All invisible. All lived in libraries.

There's something about her, something bitter, that resents happiness in others, and needs to ruin it. That's probably what makes her a great poet, she knows what it is to suffer. She gathers suffering to her. Collects it, and sometimes creates it.

He looked at the canvas and saw bold swirls of reds and greens and yellows. And bright blues. All intermingled. They formed no image. And he got no feeling. He closed his eyes. Paused. When he opened them, he let the painting come to him. To enter through his heart, not his head. With Clara's painting, like all great works of creation, there was more than met the eye.

carried on round pianos

I'm not sure if you realize that mathematics isn't linear. It's a curve. And in the brightest, most nimble minds, it arcs around to meet philosophy, music, art." She laced her fingers together. "They're intertwined. If you listen to Bach, it's as much a work of math as music.

Florence had made a tent of her bedding and was under it with a flashlight, reading The Little Prince.

Having known many artists in his life, especially through Clara, he'd grown to realize they were often not the most stable, or house-trained, individuals.

the new notebooks. Always strangely thrilling. Unmarred. No mistakes yet. All they held was promise and potential.

God, that means she's written more books than she's read,' said Ruth.

Muses work all day long," said Ruth. "And then at night get together and dance.

No, I don't. I find them very superficial. Calculated. He's a good artist, but I think he could be a great one, if he could use more instinct and less technique. He's a very good draftsman.