An update: 2nd July 2021

I am writing this after last night’s Planning & Accountability session and I have to say you lovely lot are just so inspiring.

It was our first time experimenting with the Zoom format and many of you were brave enough to come on camera. I cannot stress how wonderful that was from my perspective - after a couple of months talking to my own face on my iPhone I am now seeing real people.

But please don’t feel bad if you are not able to switch your camera on. Please don’t feel you have to verbally contribute or use the chat function. It was just enough that you turned up and were there. You never have to apologise for not turning your camera on or not speaking because I totally get it.

When I first came online back in 2006ish I didn’t even share a photograph of myself. It took me a long time to show my face. Even longer to speak. You are in good company here!

The link to last night’s session is now available to watch. You can see it by clicking here.

A few more admin updates:

• I have updated the membership website with links to previous Masterclasses and Planning & Accountability Sessions.

• I’m not going to link to the Coffee Chats on here as they’re all going to be in our private group on Instagram so are easily accessible. If you click on the IGTV link on The Confident Creative Club profile on the left hand side above the first IGTV it says ‘series’ and you can click on Coffee Chat so it just brings up those sessions. The same with the mindset and planning sessions - although in the future the links to those will be on this site and I’ll share a link through my own Instagram account to my ‘close friends’ - which is you!

• I have updated the 25% off discount code for anyone wishing to purchase one-to-one mentoring sessions or my workbook. I forgot to do that last month - apologies. Recently I increased my mentoring prices but it didn’t feel right for me so I’ve reduced them again.

• We have one new member so far after opening up the doors. A huge welcome to her and hopefully we’ll get to know her soon - but there’s no rush to reveal yourself and I won’t mention your name until you’re ready. The club is a wonderfully friendly, supportive group. Some members have made huge progress over the last two months, some are still finding their feet, many are somewhere between the two. Don’t compare your creative journey to anyone else’s. It’s a supportive group but your creative journey is yours and yours alone.

• I know not everyone can make it to the live sessions. If you’d like to DM me on Instagram or email me at any point to let me know how you’re getting on I’d love to know. Please don’t think you don’t want to bother me. As I was saying to one of my one-to-one mentees this morning - when I hear about your progress it really does make me happy. Almost emotional. And if you’re not making progress - or feel you’re not - please email me or message me and we can work out how/if I can help.

• I have also added another Patreon essay on the essay page. There are now six essays on there for you to read through anytime with a cuppa.

Right, I think that’s everything for now. The next session we have is a Coffee Chat next Friday. I’ve made that 11am UK time but I’m thinking 1pm might be better for those across the other side of the Atlantic? In fact, I might have to make it 12.30pm BST as my daughter finishes school early that day - which would be about 7.30am for you. Let me know what you think.

Club Member Creativity: by Kimberly

I remember it was snowing.

The cold stung my face as Mom packed me, my baby sister, and a bag overflowing with clothes for the three of us, my Chatty Cathy doll on top, into the car.  I remember worrying that Cathy might fall out of the bag.

I think we had the Ford Galaxie at that time.  Big upholstered seats, swallowing up me and my sister as my mother swung the car out of the driveway.  My sister was in her booster seat, I held onto the handle on the passenger side with both hands as my mother drove, fuelled by her fury.

The next thing I remember is arriving at Terminal Tower.  We must have been driving for a while.  Downtown Cleveland was about 35 miles away.  My mother parked the car, gathered up the bag and my sister and told me to hurry up and grab her hand as she already walked away from me.  I wanted to stop and put on my mittens, but I was afraid I would lose her, so the mittens just dangled from the sleeves of my new winter coat.  I ran to grab her hand as she didn’t miss a step, marching to the elevator.

Once we stepped out into the arcade of the Terminal Tower, crowds surrounded us.  I held on to her hand even tighter.  

I finally asked, “Mommy, where are we going?”

“We’re leaving.  We’re getting train tickets.  Just hold onto my hand,” she answered.

A wound to my heart opened wide.

“What about Daddy?” I started breathing harder, my voice got higher.  My steps started to slow against her fast pace.

“He’s not coming.  We’re leaving him,” she said, jerking my arm a bit to keep me in step with her.

I started to cry and shake as the realization hit me.  My mother was taking me and my baby sister away.  Who knows where.  My father was still at work, closing up the bait store, oblivious to the fact that his wife was leaving town with his two daughters.

I tried to remember if there was a huge fight or blowup that preceded this action.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  My four-year-old brain couldn’t figure out the reason for this drastic decision.

I stopped in my tracks and started to sob.

“I don’t wanna go!  I want my daddy!” I cried.

“Eileen, come on, now.  We have to go,” she said.

“Nooooo,” I wailed.  “I want my daddy!”  I wouldn’t budge.

I could barely breathe, I was crying so hard.

My mother was only 5’4” tall.  She was already carrying my baby sister and a bag that was weighing her down.  She was probably at a loss to add a stolid wailing four-year-old to her load.

She tried to talk to me but I wouldn’t hear it.  By this time, the passersby were looking at us and wondering what was going on with this woman and her two shrieking children.  My sister decided to join in the crying once she heard me.

My mother grabbed me by the arm and marched me away from the ticket counter.

She must’ve taken us to the hotel right there at Public Square.  The next memory I have is sitting at the end of the bed at the hotel watching television.  My mother was sleeping, my baby sister sleeping next to her.

I couldn’t fall asleep, still stricken by my mother’s attempt to take us away.  I sat at the edge of the bed, holding Chatty Cathy.  The late, late show on TV was The Man With the Golden Arm. I always had a soft spot for Frank Sinatra after that.

In the morning, my mother called my father.  They had their usual profanity-laced I-hate-you-how-could-you-I-can’t-live-without-you-either-I-love-you-too-you-son-of-a-bitch conversation.

She packed us up into the car and drove home.

That was the start of my increasingly frequent allegiances with my father.  My mother took it personally and I don’t think she ever forgave me for it.