In thinking of how to use my stint as a blogger, I have decided to focus on some of the major challenges I have faced as a writer, and how some of my books have been conceived and taken shape. I invite you to join in and share your own ideas about creativity, whether as a practicing writer, or as a reader responding to the work.
First, there is the issue of how the idea for a story or novel is sparked. I have been asked on a number of occasions how is it, that although I am not of a Greek background, the leading characters of my most recent novel, ‘Sea of Many Returns’ are Greek, and its stories and themes encompass many of the key moments in modern Greek history and migration. In a way the answer is simple. Hemingway has famously said, write about what you know, what you love or hate – or words to that effect. I have been visiting the island of Ithaca since 1987. Situated in the Ionian Sea, between Italy and Greece, it is the island where my partner, Dora’s, father and four grandparents’ were born. We have stayed on the island at various times, usually in the ‘patriko’ the patriarchal house, in the northern village of Ageos Saranda, sleeping in the same room where Dora’s father was born. Over the years, both on the island and in the company of Ithacan friends and relatives in Melbourne, we have heard countless stories of Ithacan journeys. Who could not be inspired by the name of the island itself – Ithaca, home of the archetypal voyager, Odysseus, who made his way to the Trojan wars, and did not return for twenty years? So many of the stories of contemporary Ithaca replicate Homer’s epic – tales of individuals who set out for journeys to the ends of the Earth, expecting to return in the not too distant future, but who, like Odysseus returned decades later, or never returned at all. On Ithaca, the stories can come at any time, in chance encounters while walking the roads and paths, on the inter-island ferries, and above all, in the old Kafeneoin in the largest northern village of Stavros, where the retired fishermen  and seamen play cards. The stories come ones way, just sitting there, over a coffee, on the patio, overlooking Polis Bay. Someone joins you at the table, and soon a new story is born. The island is full of tales. To be a storyteller, it seems, one must first be an attentive listener. But there is something else, when it comes to creating a short story or a novel, and that is acting on that distinct feeling that a great story has come your way. I had that distinct feeling from the moment I first set foot on Ithaca, that I would one day write a book, whether fiction or non-fiction, about the tales I immediately began hearing. I wonder how many of you have experienced this sense of inevitability, or that moment when you know that a great story has come your way, a story that is crying out to be told?  Each of my books has been initially sparked by such a moment, when it became obvious, this is a story meant to be told. Stories may be inspired in many other ways of course. The very landscape of Ithaca, its winding roads, mountains and cliffs falling away to the Ionian Sea, suggest epic stories.  An earlier novel of mine. ‘Scraps of Heaven’, was triggered by a conversation I had with a friend who like me, grew up in Carlton. I recognised instantly, that by drawing on my childhood I had a great story to tell. Another novel, ‘Cafe Scheherazade’ was inspired on a winter’s night in the 1990s, when I sat down in the real life cafe called Scheherazade, and began listening to the tales told by the owners as to how the cafe got its name. By the time I left that night, I knew that this was potentially a novel. How to then shape it into a story that works is another matter, and that includes doing the research  that fills in the gaps, that provides the historical backdrop, and provides the details that give texture and authenticity to the telling, and so much more. Above all it requires persistence, endurance, and infinite patience. More on that in later blogs.

A few weeks ago I mentioned to a friend that Addition was the first creative thing I’ve ever done in my life. Before 2004 when I began writing it, I’d never painted or sewed or practised photography or even written a short story before. I had no hobbies or interests, other than yoga classes and reading. (Although I’ve always believed in creative reading, but that’s another topic.) Addition is my first ever act of creativity, I told her.

Not true, she said. You used to cook.

So I did.

Before 2004, I loved to cook.  I would make five course dinner parties starring elaborate curries (I’d roast the spices myself) and homemade samosas and naan. I made French desserts, ice-cream and casseroles I’d simmer for hours. I went to the markets every Saturday morning with a long list—all the week’s meals, planned ahead.  Mayonnaise from a jar? Never. I even studied cooking, taking Balinese cooking classes in Bali and Sri Lankan cooking classes in Sri Lanka. EVEN (wait for it) a glorious week in a converted monastery in Tuscany, studying traditional Tuscan cooking. (Of limited practicality, actually. It’s difficult to find wild boar, caul or freshly minced rabbit at Safeway.)

So now that I write for a living, what’s for dinner?

Um…Spaghetti? Sausages and mash? Take away?

Now that I’m exercising my creativity all day long, I couldn’t care less about cooking. I’ve always had a one-track mind—maximum intensity in a limited field. I’d never before considered cooking as an act of creativity, but perhaps it is; it’s as if my creative energy is now going in another direction and I just don’t have the room for it any more.

I don’t like this conclusion. I prefer the idea that we are all creative people, because we are all marvellous individual creations who experience life afresh every day. I prefer to think that our capacity for creativity is unlimited, that the more we create, the more energy and vitality our imagination will develop.

Pablo Picasso said: Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.

True, but I think this is part of a wider problem we all face: how can I live my life creatively, so that each day is something a little different, a little special? So that, on my death bed, I can look back and say:  It isn’t perfect, but I made this life with my own hands. I created it. It is my painting, my sculpture, my book.