Rachel: Your constant hustle to be creative online might be the very thing killing your creativity. The pressure to post, to produce, to perform... what if the secret isn't to do more, but to go deeper, into places you've been taught to avoid? Justine: That hits a little too close to home. It’s this feeling that if you’re not constantly shipping, you’re invisible. But that frantic energy definitely doesn’t feel like where the best ideas come from. It feels… thin. Rachel: Exactly. And that feeling is the central question in a fascinating book called Deep Creativity: Seven Ways to Spark Your Creative Spirit by Deborah Bowman, Jennifer Leigh Selig, and Dennis Patrick Slattery. Justine: Three authors! That's unusual. Rachel: It is, and they did it on purpose. They’re a multi-generational team from the world of depth psychology, and they wanted to create a conversation, not a lecture. And it clearly resonated, because the book won a Nautilus Award, which recognizes works that promote spiritual growth. Justine: So it's not your typical '5 hacks to be more creative' book. It sounds... well, deeper. Rachel: That's the perfect word for it. And it's the perfect place to start. The whole premise of the book is a rebellion against our modern, surface-level creative culture.

Justine: Okay, so what does that actually mean, "surface-level creativity"? I feel like I know it when I see it, but how do they define it? Rachel: They have a perfect, and painfully relatable, story for it. One of the authors, Deborah, was writing for online magazines, and an editor told her, "People don’t have the attention span to read much anymore. We need short, catchy pieces." She was then asked to write an article on the complex topic of trauma… in 500 to 800 words. Justine: Wow. That’s impossible. That’s like being asked to explain quantum physics in a single tweet. It’s an insult to the topic and the reader. Rachel: Precisely. And then a social media guru told her that to build a following, she needed to post three to four times a day. The book describes this as being like a water strider—an insect that just skims across the surface of the water, never diving in. That’s surface creativity: fast, frequent, and fundamentally shallow. Justine: Oh, I feel that. The pressure to have a 'take' on everything in 280 characters. It's exhausting. So what's the alternative? What does 'diving deep' actually look like? Is it just locking yourself in a cabin for a month? Rachel: That’s the common myth, the lone genius trope. But the book argues it's less about isolation and more about a different kind of engagement. It’s about cultivating what they call 'taste.' There's a beautiful story in the foreword from Thomas Moore. As a teenager, he was frustrated by the terrible music at his church. Then one day, a new, highly trained organist arrived and played a Bach fugue so exquisitely that it completely transformed him. Justine: It woke him up. Rachel: It woke him up. He started taking lessons from the organist and asked him, "How do you develop and maintain good taste?" The organist’s advice was simple: "Study the masters. Listen to good music, good performances. And trust yourself." Deep creativity starts there—not with frantic production, but with deep appreciation and learning. It’s about filling your well, not just constantly drawing from it. Justine: I like that. It feels more sustainable. It’s not about a sudden burst of genius, but a slow cultivation of your own perspective by engaging with greatness. Rachel: Exactly. It’s a vertical movement into the depths, not a horizontal skimming across the surface. And what you find in those depths can be surprising, and sometimes, pretty uncomfortable.

Justine: Okay, so developing taste and being receptive makes sense. But the book goes to some pretty uncomfortable places to find that inspiration, right? It talks about… suffering. Rachel: It does. This is probably the most challenging and profound part of the book. The authors propose the "Way of Suffering," which reframes painful experiences not as something to be avoided, but as a powerful catalyst for creativity. Justine: That’s a heavy concept. It's one thing to say suffering can lead to art, but it feels dangerous. How do you even begin to 'sift suffering for its gold' without just getting stuck in the pain? Rachel: The book uses this incredible metaphor. It says that a profound suffering can cause a 'rupture within,' and through that crack, 'soul-birds' can emerge. These soul-birds are the unaccessed parts of ourselves, our hidden creative potentials. One of the authors shares a deeply personal story about a trip to India where she became so ill she was hospitalized in several traumatic locations. Justine: Oh, wow. Rachel: The experience left her with severe post-traumatic stress. She had to drop out of her PhD program, leave her healing practice. She was completely broken. But in that brokenness, she found herself writing prolifically, giving voice to parts of herself she never knew existed. The rupture forced the soul-birds out. Justine: That's an intense, powerful image. But does it always have to be so dramatic? I mean, most of us hopefully won't go through something that extreme. Rachel: No, and that’s the other side of this. The book also tells the story of one of the author's clients, a man with terminal brain cancer. Towards the end of his life, he started painting. He painted all over the ramp leading to his house, along the walls. When asked why, he said, "It was my way of getting everything out. Of making something out of this mess." He was alchemizing his suffering into beauty, right there in his home. Justine: He was transforming it. That’s incredible. So it’s not just about grand tragedy. It’s also about finding meaning in the small, everyday pains and joys. The book talks about falling in love with the 'particularity of things,' right? Rachel: Yes, which is the "Way of Love." It’s the flip side of the same coin. It’s about paying such close attention that you fall in love with the world. The book tells the story of a painter who, when asked why he painted a particular scene, just said, "I fell in love with the way the light hit the surface of the water." Justine: It wasn't some grand, symbolic meaning. It was just the light. Rachel: Just the light. Another story mentions the director of the film The Revenant, who said the secret to the film’s raw beauty was shooting in natural light, "when God speaks." It’s about finding the divine, the inspiration, in the specific, tangible world right in front of you. Whether that’s the light on the water or the pain in your heart. It’s all material. Justine: That feels so much more accessible. It means you don't have to wait for a lightning bolt of inspiration. You can find it in the way the snow falls on a city street, or even, as the book says, in a 'particular kind of cold.' Rachel: Exactly. And that act of paying such close, loving attention—to suffering, to light, to cold—is what the book frames as the "Way of the Sacred." It's about treating creativity not as a task, but as a spiritual practice.

Justine: The 'Way of the Sacred' sounds intimidating. It brings up all sorts of religious baggage for people. Rachel: The authors are very aware of that, and they tackle it head-on. One of them, Deborah, shares her experience growing up in the Catholic Church, reciting the line, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you" every Sunday. It created this deep sense of separation and unworthiness. Justine: That feeling of unworthiness is so universal, especially for creators. That 'imposter syndrome' voice is loud for so many of us. Rachel: It is. And her journey was about flipping that script. She realized that for her, the sacred wasn't about being worthy or unworthy in the eyes of some distant God. It was about entering into a dialogue. She started to see the divine not as an external entity to please, but as an essence within and all around her. She changed the prayer in her own mind to, "Lord, I am worthy to receive you." Justine: Wow, that’s a powerful shift. So the book is saying to treat your art like a prayer or a sacrament? Rachel: Precisely. But not in a rigid, religious way. It’s about seeing the act of creation itself as holy. The book quotes, "It is only through creating that we become like a Creator." The focus shifts from the final product—whether it’s good enough, whether people will like it—to the process itself. The process is the sacred part. It’s about participation, not perfection. Justine: I love that. It takes the pressure off. If the act of creating is the point, then you can’t fail. You’re just participating in something sacred. Rachel: You’re participating in a dialogue. The book uses the image of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling, where God is reaching for Adam, and Adam is reaching for God. It’s a reciprocal act. What we seek is also seeking us. When you sit down to write or paint or compose, you are entering that sacred, two-way conversation. Justine: It reframes the entire endeavor. It’s not about ego or accomplishment anymore. It’s about connection. Rachel: It’s about connection. And that’s why the book is called Deep Creativity. It’s not about creating more, it’s about creating with more of yourself, with more soul.

Justine: So, if I'm getting this right, the book's message isn't just about new techniques. It's a fundamental shift in perspective. It’s about moving from producing content to engaging in a soulful dialogue—with yourself, with the world, and even with your own pain. Rachel: Exactly. It’s an invitation to slow down and listen. So maybe the takeaway for our listeners isn't to start a new project, but to try one of the book's simple practices. Like the 'Way of Love' practice: just go outside and find one small, particular thing to fall in love with—the crack in the pavement, the color of a leaf, the sound of a distant siren—and just be with it for a minute. Justine: No agenda, no need to turn it into a post. Just notice it. And maybe ask yourself, as the book suggests: What does my creativity serve? Is it serving the algorithm, or is it serving my soul? Rachel: A powerful question to end on. Justine: This is Aibrary, signing off.