Creativity Q&A: What Does It Mean to Live Creative?
Heading home from the center of town in the oppressive August heat, I heard a sound I’m sure I heard in my mother’s womb. The sound of tinny music, though not played particularly well, was inviting all the same. I searched ahead and found the source: a man sitting on a cushion on the sidewalk, playing the harmonica. I was born in Texas. My mother’s father was a cowboy rancher who played the harmonica like a magician. I suppose this man reminded me of home. I...
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