Has anyone heard of using the nondominant hand in writing or drawing as a way to unlock new creative powers and as different forms of therapy. Read this book or Google the author. Very interesting and informative.
The Creative Journal - Lucia Capacchione.
Apparently using the nondominant hand accesses the right brain which is where the artistic, creative self resides. The following website explains some of it. http://www.artisjoy.com/artheals.shtml
I became ambidextrous at an early age and did mirror writing as well. It sometimes caused me a bit of a conflict because as the article says it connects the left and right hemispheres of the brain. This probably caused more awareness in me, and left me not knowing how to relate to the profoundly left brain Holdeman world around me. They seriously discourage free thinking and analytical processes. I still struggle with the problem of the severe and logical left brain limiting my capacity to be free and original in my art. Art therapy is probably one of the most effective ways to gain access to your inner self.
<<Art therapy is probably one of the most effective ways to gain access to your inner self.>>
Yes, it is. It was in therapy that I learned of this method and have found it to be very effective. My art is creative writing and composing music. Using the left hand to write short stories has opened a totally new world. I look at what is being written and say,"No, that was not me. I did not write that, I couldn't have."
And guys, accessing the right brain may put you in touch with your feminine side.
Jesus was Left-Handed
* Note: this section is not an attempt to be disrespectful or sacreligious.
Jesus was left-handed. It is stated in the bible the Jesus sitteth at the right hand of God. That is because God is also left handed. Now some right-handers may say, (imagine snooty, right-hander voice here) "Well. If God was left-handed, and so was His Son, then why does Jesus sit at God's RIGHT hand?" This is, of course, backwards, right-hander logic. But we must excuse them for lesser intellect.
The OBVIOUS reason why Jesus sits on God's right hand is so they don't bump elbows when they eat. Duh.
Now that we have determined that the Creator is left-handed, we may also determine that all right-handers are heathens. And since we know that heathens have dominated history, this only furthers our assurance that Jesus was left-handed. A strengthening of the faith, if you will.
We left-handers are of course not worried about this so-called right-hander domination. After all, the apostle John (who was left-handed) actually wrote Revelations based on a series of divine, left-handed dreams sent to him by God himself. The six-headed beast ACTUALLY had six RIGHT heads, but John left this little tidbit out of the original manuscript, because God didn't want to tip the right-handers off about their eventual demise. Thus Right-Hander Free Will was created. And it was good.
You see, when the world was only a few months old, Eve (a right-hander) ate from the Tree of Good and Evil, invoking God's wrath. Adam (an innocently bystanding left-hander) was caught in the middle. Thus God granted him a Free Will, knowing that he would always be faithful to his left-handed God. Eve, however, was given a brain made of strawberry jello. This was not a total punishment, however, because God makes the best strawberry jello there is. And it was good.
So on release day for the Bible, God granted right-handers there own lesser free will. An economy will, if you will (oh the puns are flying!) After all, He wants them to believe in Him because they want to, not out of fear of the Purging.
Okay, you asked. In presenting his work, a writer bares his soul to the reader. Please be gentle. This is one of those works that I have no idea where it came from.
The Baby
Nothing had prepared her for the ripping, tearing pain of childbirth. Not the months of waddling like an overstuffed Christmas goose, or the well meaning, but harassed staff at the free clinic on 15th Street, or her so-called friends at school, and certainly not that no-good bastard, Michael, who had ditched her the moment she informed him of her period being two months late.
Everyone had tried to coax her into aborting the pregnancy, citing a long list of ills that would befall her and the child if she brought it into the world at this particular time and place. The school counselor had given her Planned Parenthood brochures and told her of an assortment of doctors and clinics that would take care of the problem quickly and painlessly. Mrs. Watson, from the apartment across the hall, had told her, “Girl, you gotta stay in school and git an education. ‘Sides, you’re way too young to have a baby. How you gonna feed it?” Even her mother, in one of her more lucid moments, had cried sloppy tears and made overly sincere promises to clean up her own act “if only you don’t ruin your life like I did.” As if it were possible to undo the last ten years of a descending spiral into full blown alcoholism just like that. Whatever! That statement, more than anything else, was what made up her mind to carry the child to term.
Instinctively she knew she was capable of being a mother, and doing it well, without the comfort of a bottle of vodka to sustain her against the gritty struggles of single parenthood. So, she had enrolled in a prenatal care program at the free clinic, devoured books from the library on child-care, and made a real effort to eat a more healthy diet by insisting she do the grocery shopping with the meager SSI check her mother received on a monthly basis. Even her grades had improved due to the new discipline infused in her life. Truth be told, she was happier during that time than ever before. She would show them!
The life inside her had grown and she gradually became aware of it as a little person, a part of her, yet separate. As her tummy swelled, a similar bubble of powerful emotions had developed within her chest. She would talk to the child late at night when she was unable to sleep, a quiet, inward conversation without words. She spoke to it of her longing for a real family with a Dad, and brothers and sisters; a real, close, loving family. She had related her hopes and dreams of escaping the confinement of poverty and violence of the inner city and living in the suburbs, with a nice house, fresh air and sunshine. She made many promises to the child of loving and caring for it always. At times her feelings for the child would become so intense they constricted her lungs and literally took her breathe away. With this also grew a fierce protectiveness and the knowledge that she would lay down her own life to protect the child if necessary.
Now, lying alone on a hard, narrow cot at the clinic, covered in a cold, greasy sweat, she wasn’t so sure. She was scared, lonely, and in severe pain. The contractions were coming faster and harder, causing her to grit her teeth and cry out. She had been feeling twinges for about a week as her uterus had begun to prepare for its ordeal. The contractions began in earnest earlier that afternoon and she had checked herself into the clinic, along with the pitifully few baby clothes she had been able to accumulate. The staff had assigned her to a bed on the ward and the tall Latina doctor with the pretty eyes had briefly examined her. She informed her it would be a while before the baby was actually born. “Try to rest and get some sleep if you can,” she had said reassuringly, “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”
Pain had assumed its own identity, intimate as a lover, rigid, demanding, sharp, and penetrating. Its hot, nauseous breathe on her face, she twisted and writhed to escape its grasp as it clawed at her with blunt talons that ripped and tore at her flesh. It held her tightly in a relentless embrace as it swept her down dark, steamy corridors of exquisite suffering. Within its chambers a dim, blood-red light swirled creating sinister shadows concealing unspeakable agony. It danced la danse macabre with her to a roaring orchestra of thundering kettle drums, screaming violins, and blaring trumpets, laughingly promising her culmination and relief, yet withdrawing it again and again. As hour after grinding hour of torment went on the personalities of pain and child gradually began to merge into a single entity, a monstrous, alien creature intent on destroying her.
Suddenly, a surge of hot amniotic fluid and watery blood gushed from her body onto the cot and dripped to the floor. Now she knew she was fighting for her life. Just as she had earlier embraced and loved the child, now she was determined to expel it from her with a vengeance. She pushed at it with all her waning strength, heaving, grunting; her face a rictus of resolute determination.
Every disappointment, every frustration, every hurt she had ever experienced now became the focal point of her willpower to once and for all win over this savagery being wreaked upon her. She was no longer timid; she was no longer fearful; she was no longer the victim. Now she was angry. Within her veins flowed the blood of distant warrior tribes, whose fierce battle cry, echoing down through the centuries, struck a chord deep within her psyche and called forth the power of the mighty Amazon.
Inch by agonizing inch, the baby’s large head moved along the birth canal toward the bright light of new life. The Latina doctor, gently manipulating the head with forceps, aided in the last, difficult maneuver around the pubic bone. The baby slithered into the bright, sterile light of the delivery room and into the hands of the waiting nurse. It was a large, healthy boy, and he was not happy. He was cold and the brightness hurt his eyes. As the nurse suctioned the mucus from his mouth and nose, he cried out in protest against the indignities being inflicted upon him. He was then wrapped in a soft blanket and placed on his mother’s breast. His cries stilled as he recognized her warm smell, heard the familiar beating of her heart and felt her loving arms around him. He slept, and knew that all was well in his world.
OrginalSinnick, have you sold anything? And how do you do it? I do some short stories, but that is as far as I've went. Never had any published or printed anywhere. calledoutPTL
PTL
If going through Gospel Publishers is considered being pubished then I guess the answer is yes. As to selling anything, yes. Making money, NO.
Short stories, poetry, songs, even full length novels are being written by people with much more talent than I have and they never sell because the market is small and hard to break into.
Getting your material in front of the buyers is the big challenge. Joining trade organizations, networking with people in the publishing business, and generally being persistent are some things you might try. The internet can be a great resource, but be careful.
Fred
Could you please explain the process of posting music files. I tried a simple mp3 file and it didn't work.
Originalsinnick, you did something else with your story that I have done, and that is to write in third person. When you do that it distances you from the situation and allows you to drop your own personality. Or so I've been told, and it seems to be true. Maybe you had been told to do this, or maybe it was a natural result of using your left hand and your right brain. Sometimes when I have wanted to write something and couldn't make anything happen, writing in third person just turned it loose! Loved your story!
I have never attempted a first person story. I'm already scared enough when it comes to revealing myself in the third person.
A story about a young, single, black girl giving birth to an illegitemate child is something I wouldn't have chosen for myself in a million years. Yet, the story just flowed from my hand and took only several hours to write.
Inspiration always has been and is still a mystery to me. If I sit down and try to write a story, poem, or song, I'm wasting my time. Those that flow from some unknown source are the only ones that are worth reading, reciting, or singing.
Maybe we could start a thread where others who may be artistically inclined can tell of their source of inspiration. (beats gay bashing)
"Inspiration always has been and is still a mystery to me. If I sit down and try to write a story, poem, or song, I'm wasting my time. Those that flow from some unknown source are the only ones that are worth reading, reciting, or singing.
Maybe we could start a thread where others who may be artistically inclined can tell of their source of inspiration."
OriginalSinnick,
How true. It's also hard to put little pieces of inspiration together because they don't quite match. It seems like every little piece of inspiration is a world of its own. I'm talking about something you were inspired to write but the whole thing didn't come to you, so you laid it aside for a time except for the little things that come to you, and when you went to finish it you can't put them together unless you have inspiration to fit them.
I would like to see a thread of people trying to add to their talents.
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