Jen Knox's Blog, page 13
May 23, 2024
On moving forward: week 1 of 52
“My actions are my only true belongings. I cannot escape the consequences of my actions. My actions are the ground on which I stand.”
Thich Nhat Hanh
I’ve been blogging here on Substack weekly since January of 2023. This platform has been a wonderful place to land and explore (random ideas). I wasn’t sure I could be this consistent for so long. Consistency can be an issue because my energy and attention have often been hard to wrangle. But here we are. 🎉
I appreciate your attention and support. Genuinely.
As such, I invite you to watch curiously or join a year-long challenge with me. It starts now, the third week of May 2024, or whenever you read this. Mark your date accordingly. And before I get to the details, I’ll explain the why behind the challenge.
I was recently elected President of a nonprofit women’s organization affiliated with OSU. This is a huge commitment and one I wasn’t sure I wanted due to the political climate in Ohio (and in general). A strong voice is required for this role (and not just on paper). But, terrified as I am, I’ve resolved that it is the challenge and opportunity I need to explore the value of exploring what it is possible to CREATE and set in motion, despite obstacles.
Every year, the president picks a word/theme. You can probably guess what mine will be (see paragraph above).
Photo by Kerri ShaverSo why did I take this on, especially weeks after writing about burnout?
Well, friends, this brings me to the challenge. I’m rereading A Year to Live by Stephen Levine again. I like to reread this slim exploration every few years and work through its challenge for 365 days/52 weeks. In the book, Levine proposes that we a.) confront and explore our mortality b.) leverage that exploration to help realize/remember how beautiful life is and c.) attempt to live this year as though it were the last.
What’s remarkable about this book, which I’ve written about before, is that it highlights how diverse responses are to terminal illnesses and how much we can change our perspective quickly by remembering the ephemeral nature of life. Some people slow down, others speed up; some travel more, and others spend more time at home gardening. Some gain spiritual practices, and others leave them behind.
I love to remind myself of this because it flies in the face of the idea that to cherish life or get the most out of each day means to live by a particular playbook.
For me, this year is about choosing wisely and choosing what will help me grow. It is about releasing expectations and welcoming what comes. Even the tough stuff, even the impossible stuff. But it’s also about refining my ability to listen within. If you’d like to explore this creatively, check out the writing prompt below. More holistically? Hey, join me!
Writing Prompt:
If you had a year to live, what changes would you make? If you’re writing fiction, how would your character’s perspective change?
AYTL Prompt:
Go on this journey with me. I’ll check in each week at the bottom of the post here. I’m personally beginning today, so it’s Week 1 of 52. This week, I will write a few sentences at the beginning and end of each day to remind myself of this project and self-assess. I invite you to do the same.
Thank you for reading Here we are. This post is public so feel free to share it.
May 17, 2024
On the value of a human voice
“Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” ―Ferris BuellerPhoto by h heyerlein
If I ask Google anything, the first response is a generic summary or a paid advertisement. When I shop online, AI summarizes reviews, and an increasing number of news stories (and newsletters) seem to be AI-written or supported.
In case you haven’t noticed, AI is embedded in everything in a way it never was before. We are going the way of the baseline, crowd-sourced, group-think, convenience-over-everything response. Technology promises to make life easier, which is a half-truth, but it’s one many are willing to accept so as not to be “left behind.”
The editing software available with AI is brilliant. It can do things I don’t want to do, such as organize data and complete citations. Sure, it might do so in a way that is completely wrong, but more often than not, it’s a passable attempt. This time last year, I don’t think we could’ve said that.
AI is a big, umbrella technology, after all. But its role in the literary world (don’t get me started on education) is already proving destructive.
I like to hold steady to the idea that you can’t buy the valuable things in life. It’s something my mother always emphasizes.
“I’m proud of you, honey, but … I don’t love you for what you do,” she likes to say. What a phenomenal woman, right?
Contingencies, trades, and payments received … for redundant work can lead to temporary wealth or a feeling of being on the cutting edge, rather than a dissenter, but for what? And will it last?
AI might be able to write a blog, generate an image, provide quick and shitty research, and more ... It can pretend to feel and mimic others’ feelings but it can’t actually “be.”
To be imperfect and not just do what we set out to do, but be exactly as we are, is a human right. And somehow, somewhere, we learn from messing up along the way. If we go baseline for convenience, we lose the good stuff of life.
*Steps off soapbox*
*Steps back on soapbox*
Why bring this up again?
OK. Maybe you disagree, but as an artist, I love the struggle. I love/hate my typos and digressions (see above). I love my fourteenth draft better than my thirteenth, and I love my critics. I love them all because they simply are, and they are proof that I am doing work that’s being seen by other humans, which means a lot to me.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been receiving emails with lines like “This will be our final newsletter” or “We’ll miss you all!” from literary journals and literary orgs. I also notice some of my poet friends, who I thought were lifers, have The Block for the first time or are taking up things like macrame instead.
I realize that I will not stop AI. Though, I do in my dreams.
What I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, however, is what I can do. What writers and artists need right now (also, what I need right now). How can I help them (me) to find sustainability and prowess?
And I keep coming back to the value of the artist’s voice and the responsibility of the whole community to honor it.
I’ve been reading submissions for a work-in-progress contest that we’re holding at Unleash, and I adore the feeling of finding a new voice that rings so authentic and clear and novel to me as a reader that I can experience life anew. This is what good literature does. This is what a single, human voice—one with purpose and fed by imagination and wonder—can do. It can enable us to see what we couldn’t before.
To try to erase this in favor of convenience is a desire that confounds me. But more than figuring it out, or trying to figure it out, I feel compelled to honor more individual voices, to encourage others to do the same, and to continue to write what I know can be replicated but can never be recreated.
I think I’ll stay on my soapbox. I like it here.
I like the few extra inches it gives me, and I like the idea that I might be able to see a little further with the view. I want to see further, too, because I’d like to see beyond what’s convenient and toward the possibility that is alive for us as artists at this time.
But I don’t know exactly what that is.
I want to say … Let’s support and uplift each other from a place of mutual benefit, not mutual payoff. The benefit, after all, comes down to a true reverence and attention to a work. And the value, deeply felt, is undeniable on both sides.
So all this to ask: If you could wave a magic wand right now and get any creative wish answered or support you need (aside from cash), what would you wish for? What would keep you going?
May 11, 2024
On energy
I’ve been thinking a lot about burnout. I recently heard someone say on a podcast that to be “burnt out” didn’t mean being overworked so much as it meant not doing the right work. This sounded good, but I’m not so sure I agree.
Sometimes when we don’t have satisfaction in one area of our lives, we open up new channels. I know I’m guilty of this, anyway. I want to bloom but don’t see it happening, so I start something new. Then I do so again. And again. But what if what I’m being called to do (or calling myself to do) is simply take some time to let my energy and expertise build?
Richard C. McPherson, a talented and wise friend I met some years ago thanks to his stellar writing, recently told the rest of our Unleash crew about the superblooms that sometimes grace California's deserts. While it doesn’t happen every year, what makes the poppy and bluebell blooms “super” is their suddenness, unpredictability, and expansiveness. A staggering number of these flowers arrive at once and blanket fields in color and soft beauty that change the very appearance of our planet from space.
When I lived in San Antonio, I remember a smaller version of this delight when people would drive to the Hill Country to see the bluebonnets explode across arid fields in late March or April. For weeks or months, the flowers were “on it,” as though they’d been waiting for the opportunity to emerge wholly, to reach up toward the sun.
Some of us are like that.
We wait, we think, we plan, we take steps, and then there is the moment that everything seems to bloom. To think we can have balance in day-to-day life can mean putting undue pressure on ourselves during dormant times.
So much of nature holds back, waiting for the right time, taking time to transform or delay development until the conditions are right. Nature responds in a way that is not sentimental or worried about fulfillment.
Meanwhile, so many of us go in two (or more) directions at once, hoping we’ll increase our odds of blooming quickly, intensely … but science class taught us that potential energy is about an object or organism’s inputs and position.
And maybe potential builds when we hold back.
I say this while reflecting on residencies and their value to writers. I think about technology’s emphasis on efficiency and subsequent erosion of attention. To exert too much energy is to work against ourselves, to burn out or tighten into what may feel stronger at first but leaves us more vulnerable than ever. We need to ease on forward and know when to step aside. And maybe sometimes we need to wait before beginning something new.
If we allow the energy we need to build, we may find ourselves blooming—surging ahead—and creating something more magnificent than we can imagine while grinding away.
I was feeling a little burnt out over April. In the last few weeks, I began taking blackout periods in my day, where I refuse to answer emails (I’m not ignoring any of you). I’m slowly, ever-so-slowly, writing new things. I’m planting flowers.
I’m doing all this not to hide or withdraw (don’t get me started on the messaging around that) but to nurture. Because to be burnt out doesn’t mean to do too much. (We’re always doing, even when we’re resting.) It means to try to go in more than one direction at once, or trying to hurry along what needs time to build.
All I know is that where I want to be is right here. Writing. And in a way, I’m also waiting. And that’s okay.
Photo by John Fowler
May 3, 2024
On the Who, What, When, Where & How
I’ve been a creativity coach and writing instructor for over a decade. I’ve taught leadership for 7 years. I love watching people grow and flourish as creatives and humans.
But over the past year, the social and literary landscapes have changed dramatically, and I’ve heard different needs and challenges expressed, especially by writers. I’ve also noticed, more recently, low morale among creatives in general.
Photo by Nik To broaden my offerings and better help, I signed up for an intensive coaching certification program focusing on mindset coaching and helping people build adaptive skills. It had nothing to do with writing. The lessons about active listening and asking the right questions were things I knew but had never practiced so intensely.
The live demos and practice sessions allowed me to use different parts of my brain with intention, and I will apply these skills to my business and the writers I support.
But here’s the thing . . .
One of the biggest takeaways was advice I’ve also come across in leadership research, negotiations, and mentorship. Said advice goes as follows:
If you want to support someone to find their own best answer, you never (or very, very rarely) ask them why.
Specifically, you don’t ask why they . . . feel a certain way, think a certain way, are attracted to a certain person, desire x or y, look up to z, or are hurt by a. You don’t ask because it rarely leads to an action-oriented outcome.
Meanwhile, what do writers do?
We create from the why. We live in the why. The WWWW&H are just background details. Why drives everything.
Why are we on this planet?
Why do we die?
Why is guacamole so good?
Why are the most peaceful movements often the targets of violence?
Why do we crave the things that poison us?
Why are some people “dog people” and others “cat people”?*
Why do dangerous people (who probably aren’t dog or cat people) end up in leadership roles?
Why are the most fleeting things the most precious?
Why do we think we need the things we don’t need?
Why is manipulation so simple, yet so effective?
Why do the simple moments end up being the most profound?
Why, why, why…
We work these whys out in fiction, CNF, poetry, and visual art. We (and, yes, I’m profiling a certain kind of writer here but likely the type who’d read anything I write) crave discussion about the meaningful questions over what Taylor Swift wore or how much rain is expected next Tuesday.
If we’ve been in the writing/art game a while, we learn not to impose answers but rather place our questions (all of which can be boiled down to why?) ever more delicately and insistently in the reader’s palm.
We make people think about the big questions. This is what writers do.
As a coach, I will help writers explore the whys that matter to them by asking what, who, when, where, and how.
But as a writer, I will ask why. And so should you.
So here’s a prompt: Ask a BIG “why” question in a short piece.
*If you know of a well-written example of a writer tackling this one, from a humorous or serious perspective, I’d love to read it.
Next week, I’ll talk about energy, and I can’t wait to explore the whys around that topic. For my supporters, here’s a qigong-inspired meditation in the meantime. Make sure you have a little room to yourself for these 6 minutes. :)
6-min energy practice
Appears as part of a 3-day course on purpose at Insight Timer.
April 26, 2024
On life in miniature
Approximately a million years ago, I took a workshop on how to write flash fiction. Instead, I found myself writing obituaries.
The teacher, Lyle Rosdahl, had us read a few more traditional story texts and a few obituaries from The Economist. At first, I was confused. They weren’t fiction, and obits are not generally what I think of when I think “I want to find inspiration to write.”
But for those who don’t know, The Economist has published some beautifully written encapsulations of lives lived. A well-written obit has to tell an impossibly large story and honor humanity while also focusing on craft, concision, and compassion.
Photo by Muhammad IrfanI studied these obits and tried this exercise a few more times after the class because I couldn’t figure out how to distill something as complex as a human life in so few words. The examples, which I believe are from this book, were balanced and beautiful, like a powerful still photograph that truly “captures” a person.
If you’ve been a writer for a while, you’ve probably run across prompts that suggest writing a letter to your former or future self or writing about yourself from the perspective of another. But writing your obit is a whole other ballgame. For this reason, the prompts must be approached with care so as not to feel like a hollow self-help tool but something that can go deep and excavate something that lives beneath the surface of life. The shared experience, as told through the lens of shared and strategically unshared details.
The short form can offer magic when delivered with balance and written with constraints. If an entire life can be glimpsed in so few words, after all, big topics can be explored. Fictional worlds can be properly introduced. Constraints provide a writer with unexpected freedom.
I identified as a fiction writer when I took Lyle’s workshop and started reading obits as part of my writing training. I was writing short stories about made-up people who were painfully and beautifully ordinary, and I limited myself with word count and perspective.
So now, as I shop my memoir (another agency just requested the full!), I realize that the biggest obstacle in writing this book was similar—examining my life in a way that took my 385,400* hours on this planet and distilled them into a few-hour read.
Here are a few things I learned to ask myself, a million years ago (don’t check my math) and again in the past few years. I asked these for every single essay/scene. They can be helpful for fiction as well.
Did I get vulnerable? It’s easy to attempt to detach so much that we overcompensate with journalistic tones and cross out the “I” where it only makes sense. What makes a good obit also makes a good essay or short story—a glimpse at the narrator’s vulnerability.
What did I want at the time of the scene? What do I wish I had wanted? Think about the be and the do of the piece, but let the questions drive the narrative. How accurate or numbed were senses then? How complex and (in)accurate are memories about events?
Where can I make interesting connections? What did a smell/sound/symbol mean to you/your character in 2000? In 2010? In 2017? In 2020? Now? What images seemed to repeat in the life explored?
With these explorations, any attempt to write a scene of something complex (such as a life, made up or real) will become a little more vibrant. It sure worked for me anyway. And as I try to figure out what I’m going to write next, I’ll return to this technique myself.
So if you’re in, let’s do one together. Write an obit — either of your future self or a character. See where it takes you. Want bonus points? Keep it under 800 words.
*eegads
April 24, 2024
A short practice for my fellow worriers
If we weren’t worried here and there, we wouldn’t be paying attention. That said, it’s good to keep these things in check. I hope you enjoy this one.
April 17, 2024
On owning all the parts
It doesn’t take years of deep soul-searching to forget our ambitions and remember who we are. If we pause our striving and take in the breadth of our experience, amazing things happen, and everything becomes clear.
Sometimes it just takes a walk or a little time away from digital devices. Sometimes it’s about paying a little more attention than we’d paid a minute before. When we gift ourselves these moments, we can remember our mission. This is true of creatives. This is true of everyone.
I’m thinking about clarifying messages and how we share them in impactful ways because this week marks the wrap-up of another semester. I am witnessing the graduation of another group of amazing humans I’ve had the privilege of teaching.
These young people will likely do more than I can imagine. They will be productive. They have big dreams. But they are not only what they do.
Every semester I think about the final message I want to leave with my students on the last day of class (assuming they’re listening), and this semester the message that keeps coming up is the challenge of finding and maintaining the confidence to influence others without compromising authenticity or integrity.
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Loss of integrity can be subtle, but its temptation is quite predictable. A person has ambition, so they compromise their time. Then their energy. Then themselves, just a little. Then they get the “offer of a lifetime” if only they change everything about what they want to share.
Loss of integrity due to ambition can mean bending just a little to find ourselves in better favor with those around us because we think we have to, or it fits the cultural norm of today—of working too hard or too much or doing too many things or censoring ourselves or placating others. But soon, the little moments add up.
To me, compromising integrity is connected to a desire to feel included and accepted which, ironically, keeps us from being ourselves with others. And it keeps us from true compassion. Our aims, ambitions, strengths, and challenges can get in the way if we assign too much weight to them. Ambition is great, but it can carry us away swiftly and make us forget our purpose.
Here’s the paradox: I spent the entire semester lecturing about the value of being aware and the necessity of being conscientious of others. Awareness is vital, but so is letting go and allowing ourselves to experience our lives genuinely. After all, self-awareness is not so much about our desires as it is an accurate assessment of action and a rooting into our mission rather than potential outcomes.
I speak from experience, of course. People have tried to scare me into silence when I’ve voiced opinions they didn’t agree with (I got a death threat to my Wix site after a post I made in 2020, for instance).
If I think further back, I compromised the integrity of my voice for many years as a writer (and human) because I was trying to sound smart. I entered college not knowing the difference between a simple and complex sentence, so when I somehow started studying English to write, I realized I’d have to make up for lost time. Moreover, I’d have to PROVE to others that I had the chops. So I used big words. I mimicked. I studied in all my free time, maybe to the detriment of my health.
Integrity means wholeness, the summation of integers. But the whole is representative of what is actually here today, not what we want to be here. So in compromising our voices to sound like another or hide from others, we lose pieces. Likewise, in rushing to “catch up,” we sometimes lose our footing in the moment. Sometimes we even fall apart.
To amass influence (via writing or otherwise) is to put ourselves in a position of extreme vulnerability. One more example: I recently received a personal letter in the mail to my home address that was addressed to me, but the writer used “Genius” in place of my name throughout the letter (I’m guessing facetiously, but either way it’s creepy).
I won’t get into more details, but it was a strange letter. I am happy to say, it didn’t rattle me the way it once would have because I know this letter is a reflection of the individual writing it, not me. Such extreme responses are a clear reminder that we must be willing to be disliked, to attract strange attention, to go against what’s easy, and to be unabashedly ourselves in the face of strangeness, hatred, and even insanity to maintain integrity.
Every word and message we share has an impact. So to waste authenticity because we want to amass adulation because we want to fit our perception of someone else’s desires (or because we want to hide from the creepers) is to waste time. And I, for one, don’t feel like I have time to waste.
So on the last day of class, my message will not be simple to put into action, but I think it will be clear.
Maintaining integrity means finding your center and holding it. It means finding your message and exploring it. It means sharing it unapologetically. But it also means letting go of expectations. And if you amass any influence, even on the smallest scale, your entire job becomes staying whole.
This is the challenge of leadership, impactful storytelling, and living in the world in a way that allows us to remember its splendor and not dwell in our silly ambitions means not folding beneath the weight of what we think should happen. It’s not even about hiding to avoid the potentially dangerous. It’s about showing up and appreciating the splendor that exists all around us, despite our expectations.
Join me online for a free workshop Monday during the lunch hour.
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April 11, 2024
On anger
What lives behind the anger?
Since I accidentally posted twice last week, here and here, I figured I’d share a meditation this week.
This is an excerpt from an Insight Timer course I created. There are a shit-ton of reasons to be angry. Why not explore it with a little creative curiosity?
*Leave a note if you’d like to try day 2.
April 4, 2024
On the humor of middle age
Disclaimer: This short, meandering essay has nothing to do with the solar eclipse.
For over a week, all I wanted to do was sleep. I dozed off during the final resting pose in yoga class and on my couch while reading. My body temperature began to oscillate from its rather chilly default to the sort of internal heat I only knew from my few (mal)attempts at plyometrics a decade ago.
“You’re at the age. Women who are nearing menopause often have these symptoms.” My doctor, a patient but no-nonsense man, suggested supplements.
Over the next few weeks, I tried to find answers. The supplementation helped with my energy but not my body temperature. I marveled at the fierce surges of heat and began to find humor in the fact that Chris needed a scarf in the snow.
“What’s wrong, honey, are you cold?” I’d ask, laughing, coat unzipped.
After reading over a dozen articles about hormonal changes in women around my age, I learned nothing. At forty-four, the internet told me, the rhythms of my body were resetting, and there were many “cures” for aging.
I saw promise after promise about how I could stay young if only, I tried Botox ®, Pilates, took a magic collagen pill, floated in a sensory deprivation tank, meditated two hours a day, etc.
The more I realized I didn’t want to click, the more I took the news of this shift in stride, maybe even enthusiasm. Where was the article that said I was going through normal changes? Where was the celebration? What if this whole “you’re at the age” thing was correlated to the other shifts I’d recently noticed as well?—the unabashed honesty when someone asks me how I am, the lack of caring how polite I am when saying no to inconsiderate requests, the humor I feel around things that used to cause me anxiety, such as being a few minutes late or admitting I don’t remember a person’s name?
I wanted to read something that reflected the idea that aging just is, that there is balance with transition and transitions help us grow and redefine ourselves. Sure, I might sometimes feel as though I am standing at the center of the sun. But standing at the center of the sun is also powerful.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not romanticizing the perils of a middle-aged body. Supplements and stretching are great, and feeling healthy is the order of the day, but for this human body, I welcome change. And for the wellness of this woman’s psyche, I am grateful for it.
So much of women’s lives are summarized by their ability, likelihood, or desire to reproduce. We measure this economically and argue about it politically. Where we live in the world, what religious doctrine or healthcare restrictions have been thrust upon us, how many babies are needed to reach economic quotas, how “attractive” we appear according to some limited standards, and whether or not we are allowed rights to our reproductive organs—it’s all exhausting. So the release of all this societal pressure is no small thing.
I recently learned about the Cailleach—a divine older woman, according to Celtic mythology. She is said to have created the mountains. She brings the storms of change and has earned every right to arrive without apology or hesitation because she understands the necessity of cycles. She embodies them. She doesn’t care if you call her a hag because she knows things must be destroyed to be reborn.
As a middle-aged woman, I finally experience the world as someone who can honestly say she’s seen a thing or two. I can pay attention to and find gratitude for what is exponentially greater than it once was. As a middle-aged woman, I no longer have time for the trivial things. I’m ready for my rite of passage. I welcome it with open arms.
While aging slows us down, it also brings a fierceness, and I see it now—this potential I couldn’t even imagine before. I’m not deterred by ageism or trading one discomfort for another because I feel the necessity of this shift.
I’ve felt pressure to look or be a certain way my whole life, and age, to me, comes with permission and an invitation to say no thank you. I’m good. I’m better than good. I’m standing at the center of the sun.
Now someone get me a fan.
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This short essay, which has nothing to do with the eclipse, was fun to write. I wrote about writing it here, and accidentally posted it a week early (but here we are).
