[WILF] Birthday Candles & Blowing Things Up
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Welcome to What I Learned From…, a curious little newsletter full of essays, advice, and rabbit holes for writers who want to sharpen their craft without losing their edge. If someone forwarded this because they think you're one of us, they’re probably right. You can subscribe here. “She had a fire inside her. She wondered if the fire was to warn her or destroy her. Then she realised. The fire had no motive. Only she could have that. The power was hers.” ― Matt Haig, The Midnight Library What I Learned From …I’m not much of a birthday cake person. Give me a pastry, something with layers of dough and fruit, preferably still warm from the oven. A berry-rhubarb pie with a buttery, flaky crust, or maybe an apple turnover that shatters delicately under the fork. But those towering, sugar-loaded cakes with their thick coats of frosting? Hard pass. And yet. When my birthday rolls around, I still find myself leaning over a candle, eyes closed, breath held. I don’t believe in birthday magic. Not really. But there’s something about that tiny flame, the way it wavers for just a second before you blow it out, that feels bigger than frosting or tradition. A birthday candle isn’t just decoration. It’s a ritual. And like most rituals, it didn’t start with buttercream. Long before candles were stuck into cakes, fire was how humans spoke to the divine. The ancient Greeks offered round honey cakes to Artemis, goddess of the moon, each one topped with a candle to mimic her glow. The smoke carried their wishes upward, silent pleas for protection, abundance, or mercy. It wasn’t about celebrating age. It was about reverence. This idea, that fire carries a message, shows up across cultures. In China, lanterns lit during the Mid-Autumn Festival symbolize guidance and hope, their glow carrying family reunions and prayers into the night (and they have “mooncakes” as well, round honeyed cakes stamped with various flowers and symbols on top.) In Hindu traditions, diya lamps are lit during birthdays and festivals, their flames representing knowledge pushing back against darkness. Even in Shinto rituals, fire purifies. It wasn’t just about birthdays. It was about reverence. A candle’s light marks transitions: from one year to the next, from one version of yourself to another. We’ve kept the flame but forgotten its purpose. Today, we call it “making a wish.” Thousands of years ago, they called it prayer. By the 1700s, German Kinderfest celebrations gave each child a candle for every year they’d lived, plus one extra for luck. But unlike our modern habit of blowing them out immediately, those candles burned all day. People believed evil spirits circled closer on birthdays, drawn to the vulnerability of a soul entering a new year. The flames were a shield. Light as defiance. I think about that now, how a birthday isn’t just a celebration, but a narrow escape. Another year survived. Another year where the ghosts didn’t drag you under. The ancient Egyptians took it further. For them, a birthday wasn’t the day you were born. It was the day you were crowned. Your true beginning came with transformation, stepping into who you were meant to be. Pharaohs became gods. The rest of us? We keep trying. Blowing out candles year after year, hoping the smoke carries our unspoken plea: Let this be the year I become myself. (Or at least remember where I left my keys.) It’s strange how these old beliefs linger in the quiet rules we pass down. Blow out all the candles in one breath, or your wish won’t come true. Never say it out loud, or it won’t happen. As if the universe is a jealous god, ready to snatch back anything you dare to claim. Honestly, it’s easier to negotiate with a boardroom full of shark-moguls. I used to think it was superstition. Now I wonder if it’s wisdom? There’s power in the unsaid. This week, I turn 45. Not a milestone anyone throws parties for, but I feel the weight of it. The way the number settles into my ribs. It would’ve been Craft Your Content’s tenth birthday, too. A decade of work, of building something that mattered. But last year, I stopped feeding the flame. Not with drama, not with some grand explosion, just a slow exhale. Letting go isn’t always cinematic. Sometimes it’s just striking another match. There’s grief in that, of course. But also relief. Fire isn’t meant to burn forever. The Norse knew this. During their bonfire festivals, they threw offerings into the flames, old belongings, fears, regrets, letting the fire transform them. The Latvians leaped over flames to purify their futures. Even the Celts baked cakes with hidden charms, believing the act of breaking bread could reveal fate. Because nothing says ‘milestone’ like almost breaking a tooth. These weren’t endings. They were thresholds. Maybe that’s why we still light candles when everything else about birthdays has changed? The cakes get fancier. The gifts shift. But the candle stays. A tiny, flickering bridge between what was and what might be. A ritual so old we’ve forgotten how to name it, but not how to need it. Creativity works this way, too. You light a spark, a draft, a sketch, a new venture, and for a while, you feed it. But eventually, you have to send it into the world like smoke from a blown-out candle. That message in a bottle. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s necessary. It’s the fire. The same flicker that has marked moments across centuries, empires, and quiet kitchen tables. No matter how the world changes, we still lean in, close our eyes, and hope. So yes, I’ll light my candle this year. I’ll take a breath heavy with all the things I’ve carried, the doubts, the quiet wins, the projects that didn’t land, the ones that did, and I’ll exhale. I won’t say the wish out loud. But I bet the smoke will know. Previously in This Writing Life …All the good stuff you were meant to see but probably didn’t.
Thought Threads …For when you want to tug at the edges of your own thinking.
Notes from the Masters …Craft advice that holds up, straight from the ones who lived it. “The Buddha said, “Those who rejoice in seeing others observe the Way will obtain great blessing.” A Sramana asked the Buddha, “Would this blessing be destroyed?” The Buddha replied, “It is like a lighted torch whose flame can be distributed to ever so many other torches which people may bring along; and therewith they will cook food and dispel darkness, while the original torch itself remains burning ever the same. It is even so with the bliss of the Way.”” — Kasyapa Matanga (迦葉摩騰) and Dharmaratna (竺法蘭), The Sutra of Forty-two Chapters Glossary of The Forgotten …Because life’s too chaotic for bland words. Lucubration [loo-kyoo-BRAY-shun] (n.) — From Latin lūcubrātiō, rooted in lūcubrāre (“to work by lamplight”) and lūx (“light”.) First recorded in 1623, this word originally described the act of burning midnight oil. Literally. Think: scholars squinting at parchment by guttering candleflame, inventing calculus while their cats knocked over inkwells. By the 1800s, it also came to mean a piece of writing so dense it could extinguish its own light...yikes! We’ll always stan the OG candlelit grind. Sorta synonyms: witching-hour genius, pulling an all-nighter, that 3AM Google Doc glow Use it for: The feverish scrawl of a poet who knows this stanza will outlive them. Your magnum opus, ‘The End’ timestamped 1:37AM. Shakespeare’s first draft of Hamlet (probably.) Try This Thing …No promises. Just a potentially brilliant shortcut or two. My Fridge Food — Burned the midnight oil and now you feel like eating mustard and despair? This site lets you choose what you have on hand, and turns that into real recipes. The Final Chuckle …Serious writing deserves unserious endings. Speaking of wishes I whisper into the void… ‘Til next time ~ Elisa P.S. This newsletter takes hours of writing, research, formatting, and wrestling with obscure footnotes. If you want to support that chaos (or explore my work), you can do that here. |