The Power of Creativity \(Book 1\): Learning How to Build Lasting Habits, Face Your Fears and Change Your Life pdfdrive com

1
THE MIRROR
“We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.”
– Anais Nin
O
CTOBER
17
TH
, 2009
It was the morning after my thirtieth birthday party, and I was lying on the
cold tiles in the upstairs bathroom of my house. My skin felt sticky to touch, and
I imagined a shard of glassware was tearing my head in two.
I  got  up,  put  my  hands  on  the  sink,  looked  in  the  mirror  and  into  my
bloodshot eyes. I didn’t like what I saw.
I could (almost) forgive myself for having a crippling hangover the morning
after my birthday. I knew my life had some trappings of success: a healthy son
and daughter, a wife, a paying job and a modest-sized house.
But I knew I was a failure.
However,  since  I  was  a  five-year-old  boy  reading  a  tattered  copy  of  Roald
Dahl’s The BFG underneath the bedcovers with a flashlight between my teeth, I
wanted to be a writer. But to want something and to be brave enough to pursue it
are  two  different  things.  I’d  spent  25  years  being  too  afraid  to  pursue  what  I
wanted.
For  years,  I  read  books  about  getting  more  done,  coming  up  with  ideas,

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unlocking  fresh  thinking,  changing  habits,  writing,  and  managing  To  Do  lists,
calendars and even time itself, but I was the ultimate procrastinator.
I collected other people’s big ideas like they were rare coins that belonged in
a glass case at the back of my mind. I never put what I found into practise. I was
too afraid to start, too afraid to go after what I wanted, too afraid to think big.
Sure,  some  of  my  decisions  opened  doors  for  me.  I  talked  about  Ernest
Hemingway  and  Anaïs  Nin  over  pints  of  beer  with  friends,  and  I  studied
journalism in college (a suitable course for any would-be writer). I even talked
my way into a job as a print journalist for a Dublin newspaper.
There, I was paid to report on news stories each week. I was terrible at it. I
dreaded the weekly news meetings, and I couldn’t stand being in the same room
as  the  editor  of  the  newspaper.  I  was  permanently  devoid  of  ideas  to  write  or
report on, and everybody at the paper knew it.
I didn’t last long at that job or the next job in the media.
I left journalism and drifted into another career that had nothing to do with
writing,  a  career  that  snuffed  out  any  sparks  of  creativity  from  its  employees
with mind-numbing routines, policies and procedures.
I  became  afraid  of  taking  creative  chances  because  I  was  worried  about
paying the bills and of what others would think. I became caught up in the day-
to-day practicalities of life.
So  the  morning  after  my  birthday,  I  looked  in  the  mirror  at  my  receding
hairline  and  the  first  flecks  of  grey  in  my  beard.  I  saw  I  was  no  closer  to
becoming  a  writer  than  the  five-year-old  boy  who  stayed  up  at  night  reading  a
frayed, yellow copy of The BFG.
I realised I needed to face my fears. I was a zebra who needed to change his
stripes.
I needed to at least start, and I could do it with small, incremental changes.
I’d work on becoming physically and mentally healthier. I’d seek out new ideas
and put them into practise. I’d get over feeling afraid of rejection and failure, and
I’d learn the demands of my craft.

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