Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life

I’ve known for months now this post was coming. These past few weeks I’ve made excuses not to write it, but I can’t stall forever. This is my 500th original post for this blog. I’ve been writing Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life for 10 years and 11 months. I’ve written more than 244,000 words, the equivalent of three novels.

For the most part, it’s been a weekly blog. And nearly always, it has steered clear of being pre-planned. Every week, I wrote about whatever question was pulling at my heart, feeding my curiosity, or fueling my passions.

A friend asked me recently what I thought I’d learned from writing this blog. What was the point? All I can say is somehow I arrived here, 33 years into a writing career, 57 years on this earth, 8 books and nearly 11 years of blogging under my belt, no significant fame, no real fortune, and no regrets.

But it’s true we humans can’t help but wonder sometimes, what did it all mean? Who did it serve? What difference did it make?

Because of the blog, I was asked to appear on a few radio shows and podcasts; I was picked up by some other bloggers and social media influencers and quoted in at least one book; I got to arrange some clever speaking gigs related to the blog; and I have a core group of avid followers, some of whom I’ve never met, who now feel like family to me.

The truth is, every single writer – whether they write fiction, nonfiction, memoir, children’s books, poetry, screenplays — is basically publishing a conversation with themselves. Teresa R. Funke, the writer, has been having deep philosophical discussion with Teresa Funke, the human. She’s been offering insights, encouragements, kicks in the butt, permissions, and camaraderie. The blogger has provided the human a safe place to admit her fears, obsessions, judgements, opinions, and doubts. She has challenged the human to grow wiser, only to challenge her months later to question that same wisdom.

Writing, though, is simply the means in which I conduct those conversations with myself. It’s the tool I’ve chosen. I think every scientist, educator, businessperson, health care provider, parent, artist, drug addict, criminal, and preacher is doing the exact same thing. We gravitate toward the places and people and professions that challenge us to constantly ask ourselves what we believe and whether what we believe matters at all.

It’s the conversations that have always interested me, much more than the answers. So, I explored them here. And like every writer and scientist and educator and preacher, I hoped that sometimes the questions I chose to ponder were questions that might interest you, as well. Nothing has made me happier than receiving a correspondence from a reader saying, “Yes, this!” It’s not so much that I felt seen, it’s that you gave me a chance to see you, and that is a feeling of connection that can’t be matched.

When I started out, I wanted to believe I was writing this blog for you, that if I said things just right –maybe with a bit of divine guidance—I could solve your problems and mine. I hoped that the blog would “take off” because by revealing myself, I would give you permission to reveal yourselves, too. That if you saw me struggling to understand something or heard me sharing a possible answer, you would feel less alone. I never assumed this blog was for everyone, or that any of you would read every single post, but I trusted that those of you who needed to hear the message, would somehow find it. That’s what I chose to believe, and like all things we believe, it was sometimes true.

What I now understand, though, is that this blog was always first and foremost for me, as I think all art is first and foremost for the artist. Yet it was you who inspired in me so many of the questions I explored. How often did I quote a friend or celebrity or line from a song in this blog? How many times did I repeat a comment I overheard or pose a question a friend had asked? How often did I refer back to my study of history or philosophy or medicine? I could not have written this blog without you, because without you, half the time I wouldn’t have known or been willing to admit to myself what question to ask.

And that is how we are connected. Yes, I wrote this blog for me, and it brought me great pleasure. It was my favorite part of the week. It was mostly my safe place, except for the moments when I worried what you might think. But maybe those moments of worry led to my greatest growth. Even if I didn’t entirely write this blog for you, I couldn’t have written it without you. And I sincerely hope it has served you, as much as it has served me.

I’m not sure how this blog will evolve. As a writer, I’ve been conversing with myself first in journalism articles, then in personal essays, then in novels, then in this blog, and then in a play, and maybe now it’s time to figure out a new way to have those conversations with myself, and a new way to invite you into the conversation. Maybe I will occasionally hop on here and write a post. Maybe it will become something entirely different. Maybe it will go away altogether.

But whatever happens next, I intend to keep asking the questions, and I know you will too. Because that’s the whole point of life, isn’t it? If we were born with the answers, what would be the purpose of the journey? And if we were to arrive at the answers, what more would we have to offer?

Find your place, find your people, find a profession where you can have conversations with yourself, and if you’re willing, share what you learned in those conversations with your students, your patients, your colleagues, your industries, your communities. It’s not egotistical to admit that some of the most important conversations you’ll ever have are with yourself, it’s only egotistical to think those conversations matter only to you.

This blog may not have changed the world, but it changed me, and in so doing, I hope I’m able to be a better, braver, stronger, more open member of this society. I hope I’m better able to listen. I hope I’m better able to serve. And if it took doing something for myself to make that happen, then I’m grateful.

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Happy Holidays!

Wishing you so much peace, joy, love, and creativity in 2025. I’ll be taking a break from this blog for the next few weeks to focus on family.

I’ll be back in January with my 500th blog post! A milestone that continues to astound me. And also a special announcement.

Teresa

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This post originally ran on July 2, 2022 and is reprinted here in honor of Thanksgiving Week 

I’ve been reading a book called Real: The Inside-Out Guide to Being Yourself by Clare Diamond. In Part One, Diamond deconstructs “self” by telling us all the things we are not. We are not our thoughts, emotions, beliefs, or even our past. It’s quite the liberating feeling to realize all the things you think you are, are just that. Thoughts. Momentary, transient thoughts. So, what if we applied that concept to our perceptions of ourselves as artists? What would that look like? Let’s try it through the lens of writing, understanding you can substitute your art or career for the word “writing”:

You Are Not Your Output: It doesn’t matter if you publish one book or twenty. In fact, it doesn’t matter if you publish a book or blog or article at all. Maybe you fill journal after journal but never show your work to anyone. You are still a writer. The writing was for you. It was for your soul’s journey. It was a tool to help you better navigate this life and learn more about yourself. This is not a competition. You could write 100 books and probably only one or two would stand the test of time. You could write only one book and change the world. You can force yourself to write every day just so you can call yourself a “real writer,” but most of your output probably won’t be your best work because it was an exercise in discipline, not a calling from your muse.

You Are Not Your Awards: We all know those writers who’ve racked up dozens of awards. After the first two or three, they often don’t show up at every awards ceremony anymore. Awards are great, but they’re subjective. It all depends on who is judging. Swap out those judges, and the results might be very different. Awards can help sell books, or not. I know award-winning authors who had trouble selling their next books because their first books didn’t earn out well. Awards are good for the ego, but as all things ego-driven, that elation is fleeting. Then we start wondering what other awards we might win, or whether our next book will also win, or we become envious when other deserving authors “steal” the award we thought we should have won. The real reward of writing is writing. Typing the words “the end” at the completion of a manuscript feels every bit as good as delivering an acceptance speech.

You Are Not Your Income: Most professional writers make very little money off their sales when compared with other products and professions. There’s the 5% who achieve star status and sell movie and merchandise rights, but they are few and far between and often don’t see that kind of success until their third or fourth book. I know authors who make good money off their royalties and still find plenty of things to justifiably complain about in our industry. And I know authors who make very little, work really hard, and relish every single sale as a personal success. Write because it brings you joy, because it adds a thing of beauty to our world, because your story might change one person for the better (even if that person is you). And if you hit the motherlode, great! That money you’ve made will move through the universe and do some good for others. If not, you are still worthy.

You Are Not Your Identity: There are many facets to your identity. You are a spouse or a parent or a child. You’re a good friend, a volunteer, a full-time worker. You’re a fitness lover or a couch potato. You’re many, many things, and artist is one of them. It’s not all of you, it might not even be the best of you, no matter how good you are. It’s who you are until you’re not. Many writers, for example, never retire. Some do gladly. Many love writing above most things, others start to love something else more. Many writers only write, others also sing or paint or act. Are they “a writer” or “a painter”? They are both, and more. Write for as long as you love it, as long as it calls to you, but don’t worry if something else calls to you louder for a while, or forever. We are shifting, changing, growing human beings. That’s our journey on earth. Nothing ties us down, not even our passions.

You Are a Gift: You’re here to make a difference, to be your unique self, to serve others, to discover your true and changing being. You are the gift. Your art, whatever it is, is simply a gift to help you. Be thankful for it, relish it, love it, but don’t let it define you. Stay creative, stay curious, stay open to all the gifts that may come your way.

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For most of my adult life, I’ve been engaged in the study of World War II. I wrote seven fictional books (two for adults and five for children) based on interviews with men and women who contributed to the war effort in various ways. It’s impossible to be a historian and not wonder, when talking to people about their experiences, how you would have reacted if you’d been in the same situation.

When thinking about my book, Dancing in Combat Boots: and Other Stories of American Women in World War II, I’ve asked myself often, if I’d lived at that time, would I have:

-Had the courage to volunteer with the Red Cross to serve on the front lines as Barbara Pathe did?

-Had the determination to join an army that would segregate me by both my race and my gender, as Judy Covington McKinnon did?

-Had the stamina to work the night shift at a war factory and “sleep with one eye open” watching my kids during the day as Clarine Riordan Johnson did?

-Had the tenacity to fly airplanes for the military despite the constant criticism, judgment, and inequity I faced, as Iris Cummings Critchell did?

-Had the confidence to take over my brother’s grocery store though I wasn’t sure I was up to the task, as Lydia Treviño de Alonzo did?

-Had the selflessness to quit a lucrative job to sketch 3,000 wounded soldiers in their hospital beds, as Dabney Shearer Didot did?

When studying people we admire, we like to say they “rose to the occasion” and we like to believe we would do the same. But I think it’s more accurate to say they rose within the occasion. They moved in the direction of their own will, their own passions, their own beliefs, even when they weren’t always sure they were doing the right thing. They moved in the direction of a call only they could hear. They would tell you they just did what they had to do, but what they had to do came from somewhere deep within.

To spend time wondering what we would have done in times of past crises is an exercise in futility, because this country needed Barbara on the front lines, but it also needed Lydia working long hours in that store. It needed Iris flying those planes, but it also needed Dabney sitting by those hospital beds. To spend time measuring ourselves against others or wishing we could be “more” is to waste time that could be spent bringing our own gifts to the table.

Today, this line I wrote in the story Las Estrellas de Oro is coming back to me: “It is true I am not where I expected to be, not even where I always want to be . . . I know I am where I need to be.”

The most that we can hope for is to know we are where we need to be. To rise within the occasion is to trust that the good we can do is already in us and will show itself in gestures and actions large and small. Some days our strength will be great, and other days it will simply get us through another day. So today, be where you need to be, however that looks for you, and ask yourself what your soul knows about the work that only you can do.

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I was once asked by a very nice homeschooling mother if my children’s books incorporated religious messages. “Not specifically,” I said, “but they do address issues of strong character, like being honest, responsible, caring, courageous, thoughtful, loyal, and hard working.” She felt those were messages her children would benefit from hearing, and she bought my books.

The young characters in my Home-Front Heroes series are flawed, as are we all. They make mistakes, sometimes big ones. They experience regret, shame, sorrow, anger, disillusionment, helplessness, and frustration. They are children living in America during the time of World War II, trying to make sense of a world filled with struggle, loss, inequity, and fear, but also love, respect, kindness, and sacrifice.

They are moved to action by their support of their country, but see with their own eyes the lingering effects of war on their communities. They grow up fast.

As today’s newest generation of voters heads off to the polls, they, too, have grown up in challenging times. They, too, have experienced struggle, loss, inequity, and fear. They’ve learned that ours is not a perfect country. They’re forming their own opinions of what works and what doesn’t in our democracy. But they’re also clinging to the hope that America is still a place where their dreams can come true and their voices will count.

I’m grateful to the young people who are standing in line to vote during this election; the ones who’ve knocked on my door canvassing for what they believe in; the ones who’ve collected signatures on petitions for the causes they support; the ones who are studying to enter politics or civil service; the ones who understand that voting is a right of passage and a sacred duty; the ones who encourage their friends to get informed. They are, indeed, our future.

And we are their role-models. All of us. They’re old enough now to think for themselves, as they should, and we are never too old to return to the lessons we taught them as children, the lessons we hopefully learned from our role-models about honesty, courageousness, kindness, respect, dignity, and duty.

To our newest voters, I want to say, your voice does matter. And with all my heart I still believe, with your involvement, your growing wisdom, and your passion, America can always be a place where your dreams can come true. Thank you for voting.

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It’s time to write my blog post (tick)

But I can’t think of a single thing to say this week (tick)

It’s probably just the foggy brain from this sinus infection (tick)

Oh, what does it matter anyway? The world does not need another blog post (tick)

But you usually enjoy writing your blog posts. What’s wrong with you today (tick)

The day is getting away from me (tick)

That doesn’t matter. Making time for your art is more important (tick)

Is this art, though, or is it navel gazing (tick)

Maybe I just need a break (tick)

Or maybe I’m being lazy (tick)

There are more important things to think about right now than a blog post (tick)

So why can’t I let it go? I can always run an old post (tick)

It’s such a nice day, you should be outside (tick)

No. This is a commitment I’ve made to myself and my readers (tick)

Yeah, but commitments can be a trap (tick)

Why did I ever create this blog in the first place? (tick)

Just start it and see what happens (tick)

Okay, it’s done, but is it good? (tick)

Is it true? (tick)

Yes

Then it’s good enough.

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I’m sorry to admit, Halloween has never been my favorite holiday. But I give it due credit for being one of our most creative holidays. Witness all the clever yard displays in your neighborhood, or the variety of spooky or adorable appetizers popping up on your social media feeds, or the myriad Halloween-themed crafts you see on the store shelves.

I’m a writer and an ideas person, not someone good with my hands. So, when my very young son announced he wanted to be a sabretooth tiger for Halloween, I called on my mother-in-law’s sewing skills and, lo and behold, she pulled it off.

In other years, our daughters asked to be a mailbox, a camera, and a Christmas tree. I left that to their dad’s creativity, and he did not disappoint. He was also in charge of carving the jack-o-lanterns. One year, he carved a pumpkin and some gourds to look like the characters from Veggie Tales. I was impressed.

Since I’m not a big fan of Halloween, today I’m choosing to focus on one other aspect, besides creativity, that I do enjoy about the holiday. An aspect we don’t focus on as much, kindness. If you’ve ever gone trick-or-treating with a young child, you know it’s the one time of year the neighborhood is guaranteed to come together. We walk our kids from house to house, where they’re greeted by happy faces who praise their costumes and hand them treats. On the sidewalks, we watch out for each other’s kids, just in case one toddler is running too far ahead. Even at the houses where no one answers the door, there is often a bowl of goodies waiting for the children.

For one evening, you hear laughter on the street, people greet each other as they pass, and kids share their candy with the smaller children. And we marvel at each other’s creativity, complimenting a homeowner on their porch display, praising the costume of a passing child, smiling at the parents who also dressed up to join in the fun, and appreciating the generosity in our kids when they offer us what they know was our favorite childhood treat.

Creativity can come from necessity, it can come from obligation, it can come from grief, it can even come from desperation, but creativity that comes from joy is the type that lingers the longest. As much as I dislike some aspects of Halloween, I still feel joy when I remember trick-or-treating with my little sabretooth tiger, or watching people giggle as they opened the mailbox door to deposit their candy, or knowing there was no way, even in the dark, I’d lose track of my lit-up Christmas tree.

This year, I’ll try a bit harder to enjoy the creativity of Halloween, to appreciate the kindness, and to focus on the joy.

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My husband showed me a TikTok video the other day of a chicken high-tailing it across a field headed for the henhouse, while a hawk swoops down repeatedly trying to snatch it. The people filming the video are too far away to help, but they’re screaming at the chicken. “Go, RUN, go, go, go!”

Some days I feel just like that chicken. Standing out in a field, doing my thing, and all of a sudden, a hawk appears out of nowhere, and I’m running for the henhouse.

“Well, that’s just nature,” my mom used to say. Out in the wild, every day is a struggle for survival, a relentless search for food, a constant awareness of the dangers around you. Why should humans have it any different?

But there’s one thing the animals and plants do better than people. They shake it off. Literally. A rabbit who has successfully eluded a fox will vigorously shake its entire body to release the stress. It pricks up its ears to make sure the fox is gone, and it goes back to living, knowing full well there will be another fox, but for now, it is safe. And maybe an hour later, you’ll find that same rabbit hopping high in the air to impress a potential mate, or nibbling happily on the strawberries in your garden, or lying stretched out in the shade of your backyard tree.

If you’re that rabbit, the hawk is going to swoop, the fox is going to chase, the human is going to raise those strawberry beds out of your reach, and every single day there are going to be challenges to overcome. But every single day, there will also be a soft bed of grass where you can lie down for a rest, and a fellow creature to keep you company, and a sunset to help you settle at night.

In case you’re wondering, the chicken in the video made it to the henhouse. The people filming the video cheered. And the hawk flew away with empty talons to go in search of food elsewhere. And that’s just nature, too.

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As a creative soul, I love digging deep into the paradoxes of modern existence. Here are a few I’ve identified for myself and circle back to all the time. Can you relate:

To ask people to avoid saying a derogatory word, you must first say the word.

To let people know you’re taking a break from social media, you must create a post to tell them.

To claim your identity, you must choose between your identities.

To earn money, you must believe you already have it.

To be selfless, you must first care for yourself.

To arrive at a new truth, you must dismiss an old one.

To move past your fear, you must first embrace it.

To create something new, you must accept there is nothing new.

To live by your convictions, you must surrender your freedom.

To become an expert, you must maintain the mind of a beginner.

To succeed often, you must fail often.

To feel safe, you must take a risk.

To create your best art, you must accept that your art is not solely your own.

And

To believe your art matters, you must give up hoping that it does.

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When I was young and listening in as the adults talked, I heard a common refrain, “Nothing surprises me anymore.” Usually, it referred to any type of behavior or trends with which they disagreed. As a kid, though, I found the expression kind of sad. I mean, surprises were the best thing ever. In my child’s world, the word “Surprise!” was usually followed by something that delighted me. But the grown-ups so often used the word in derogatory ways, “And then, surprise, he up and left her” or “You know me, I hate surprises.” I secretly vowed to never become the person who hated surprises.

Not long ago, my husband and I went to a concert. Though the musicians were young, the audience was mostly middle-aged or older. At times, the lead musician would jump up on his chair and shout, “Come on folks, let me hear you!” He’d raise his hands above his head and lead us in clapping. And for maybe thirty seconds, 2/3 of us would clap along. Then slowly the clapping would die out. After a while, he’d try again. And the situation would repeat itself.

The musicians were obviously extremely talented, but every song sounded the same to me. Nothing about the concert surprised me, except maybe how disengaged I felt.

Where once I turned to art for the thrill of discovery, lately I find myself moving quickly through art museums, putting down books for the night after reading only a couple of pages, scrolling endlessly through lists of movies and TV shows looking for anything different.

Have I become jaded? Does boredom come with age? Have I finally reached the stage where nothing surprises me anymore?

Or is it more that our collective consciousness has shifted? That our minds are so distracted we can no longer sink into deep appreciation of anything, including art? Is that why people no longer feel the desire to clap along, because we’re too busy wondering if it would be rude to check our texts, or if our boss sent that evening e-mail, or if we should Google the band to see what town they come from.

Or is it the sheer abundance of art that has dulled our senses? When I was a teen, I looked forward to the Thursday night line-up on TV. I expected to be delighted by those shows and to gasp at their cliffhangers, knowing I’d have to wait a full week or a full summer to find out what happened. And when the next episode finally aired, surprise, the secrets would be revealed.

The art scene was not so abundant back then. Concerts were mostly on the weekends, giving you something to look forward to. Now, they run nearly every night of the week. Whereas once we had to listen to the radio for hours waiting for our favorite song, now we can pop in our ear buds and listen anytime we want. Is that why few things feel special these days?

All of this, of course, makes being an artist harder than ever because we have to work harder than ever to surprise our audiences, to delight them in a whole new way, to stand out, to get them off their complacent butts and so firmly into the moment they can’t help but leap to their feet and clap along. It’s not enough anymore just to be good at what you do, you have to be different. You have to surprise us.

And as art lovers, it’s not enough anymore to buy season tickets just because we always have. Instead, we should choose the shows that really call to us so we’re more likely to be moved to awe or wonder or delight when we do attend, because that kind of energy is contagious.

Several people left the concert early the other night, some because they couldn’t see the stage and therefore felt less engaged; some because the music was too loud and their discomfort trumped their enjoyment; some because it was a weeknight and they had to work in the morning; and some because –while the musicians played flawlessly and the obligatory light show was fine—the band did nothing to engage the audience other than the typical appeal for us to clap along. They told us nothing about themselves, they told us nothing about their songs or their style, they stayed in their seats where we couldn’t see them. In other words, they provided us no surprises.

Wild light shows, pyrotechnics, and brash new sounds are all very exciting when we’re young and everything feels new. As we get older, though, we’ve seen all those things a million times. We know all the tricks. If you want to keep surprising us, let us see you! Help us feel a connection. Give us space to wonder and anticipate. Show us only your best stuff and not all at once. Don’t just ask us to clap along. That’s too easy. And if you have to keep asking us to clap along, you can assume we’re just not feelin’ it.

Remember, regardless of how jaded we longtime arts lovers may appear at times, inside each of us is that kid who still loves a good surprise. So, please, surprise me.

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