John and I recently started a reread of Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way.
The first time we passed through this book was in May of 2021. We both had this dream of being ‘writers,’ with one caveat—we didn’t actually write. The Artist’s Way delivered what it promised: a spiritual process to make us more creative.
The first steps were awkward. We were sporadic. We had weeks of manic productivity followed by months of all-out stagnancy. Our work wasn’t nearly as good, yet we were obsessed with its perfection.
We picked the book up again about a year later. Neither of us finished the whole course, but I suppose we found some value at reading the introductory chapters as a much-needed refresher.
Reading through my old copy of The Artist’s Way this month really brought all these memories back. The parts I had highlighted seem so obvious to me now, and lines that stuck out to me during this reading had gone completely over my head last time.
Occasionally, I was even met with genuine surprise. Behold:
Stumbling upon this little artifact hit me in the chest. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Before me were remnants from both times that I had picked up the book—times in my life that I had almost completely forgotten.