Jen Knox's Blog, page 13
June 27, 2024
On mining the messy feelings in creative ways
It’s Week 6! Are you with me?
When I think about this year-long experiment, I think about how not to waste time and, instead, embody each moment. I think about taking all my messy feelings and putting them to work.
I think less about managing emotions and more about listening to them. After all, creativity can be sophisticated reactivity. Feelings like anger and angst have fueled much of my creative work, especially when I was fresh out of grad school.
I’ve been angry lately, but I won’t tell you why. Not yet. Instead, I’ll broach the topic of anger retrospectively to get to the present. The question driving today’s blog is how we can work with feelings like anger and not let them distract us from the true potency of our experience and artistic voice.
Guernica by Pablo Picasso, painted after the bombing of Guernica during the Spanish Civil WarHere’s an example of what used to FUEL me.
As a grad student, I remember the sinister mixture of imposter syndrome and anger, mostly at myself. While I was grateful to be there as a high school dropout, and I met incredible friends and teachers, I also met those who were less supportive or passive-aggressive—the human animations of my inner critic.
“How are you even here?” a semi-famous writer and CNF teacher once asked me.
I didn’t know. And the question asked so overtly in a breakfast diner in Vermont—the farthest I’d ever been away from home—lit a fire.
I began to notice how certain people were groomed for success. Without getting too in the weeds, I saw upclose the literary world was no meritocracy. And even if it had been, I wouldn't have had an advantage. I was academically and monetarily behind.
But my writing sample had gotten me in, and I knew I had a story to tell.
So. From a place of inadequacy and anger, I wrote my thesis draft about how, as a rule, only the wealthy were historically famous writers (esp. memoirists) for a reason—the practice demanded time and resources that people hustling for a living do not have. I wasn’t wrong. I did a lot of research to back up my claim, and my husband, a student of economics, put together an economic model that substantiated my obvious but unspoken truth.
Not surprisingly, I was shot down quickly by a professor (a different one from above) who said, “Your argument is nothing new, and it’s not literary.”
But it felt new. It felt urgent even, because no one talked about the privilege of art in 2008 or 2009. The “no” answer is one I wouldn’t accept today, especially not in my final year (see: AYTL), but at the time I acquiesced and wrote a new paper.
The undercurrent of anger I felt about her response and the guilt at my inability to stick up for my idea fed my desire to write and publish the following years. I was determined to defy the odds. My perspective and experience may not have been new, but they would be shared. I was sure of it.
As counter-productive as that sounds, anger became my friend. She gave me great pep talks. I would share the working-class story and injustices of currency exchanges—socially and professionally—again and again. That’s what I wrote, in myriad stories, for years.
As I matured, my anger about human rights violations broadened. I got slightly more political. Anger led me to explore topics where I felt there was no justice, such as women’s healthcare violations and the sickening cloud of superiority some people seem to be surrounded by. Anger was an endless topic to explore on the page.
Now, I see anger differently.
I still get angry, as aforementioned. And according to the number of listens to my meditation on anger, I’m not alone in feeling the emotion regularly. I think that's just fine. Let’s get angry! I want artists to get angry. I want teachers to get angry. I want good people to get angry. Not to be violent or waste time, but to explore the power of that emotion and see what's on the other side.
What better than anger to note who we are amidst the ever-flowing change of life? What better than an artist's anger to explore the world with less apology and more momentum? After all, we have no time to hide from what's uncomfortable.
That said, we all know how harmful anger is if she sticks around too long. I think of her as that toxic friend who showers you with empty compliments, but after a certain number of hours or days, transforms, stealing back the compliments with veiled jabs.
In the short term, our friend anger can give us a boost. She can visit and tell us to make a mean face. We cross our arms and enjoy the self-satisfaction of a good scowl, and she cheers us on. But if we're truly clear-headed, we notice ourselves in the mirror and can’t help but laugh at our self-importance.
Anger doesn’t understand humor. We say, “A fish swims into a wall …” We say, “Dam!” We say, “Get it?”
But she continues to scowl. “Fucking wall!”
This is when we need to see anger to the door.
I have committed to (and am recommitting to) letting my anger with current events go. I will use it, but I also find humor in the jabs and try to stay humble enough to remember perspective is always limited. Because behind that angry energy, there might be something beautiful, even magical—something like happiness, just waiting, as Hafiz says.
This week, I am focused on working with anger, and moving beyond it. My writing is focused on what lives behind the veils, behind the obvious. And I am nothing short of elated as I allow this unveiling, one week at a time.
AYTL/Writing prompt: You read about my creative journey with anger. Now, explore your own. But if you’re in this yearly challenge, don’t just write. Embody your anger. Let her bring up everything you’ve not been addressing. Turn on some Jinger if you have to (if you watch that video, go past 1:14), or take a run. Let it surface in meditation, but don’t try to be polite. THEN, write for 10 minutes and let anything that pisses you off come up as raw and organically as possible.
If you do this with intention, you’ll have material. But more, you’ll begin to see what irritations have been accompanying you recently. Just because we do not acknowledge our anger, does not mean she’s not there.
Give her some space. Let her open your eyes to the FULL experience of life, even the unpleasant parts. When we confront rather than circumvent emotions we call negative, as Levine notes, we liberate ourselves to live.
We open to the little angers, fears, and doubts, not circumventing them just because we are able to, which decreases aversion to pain and displeasure, and increases our ability to do the work that we were born to do. —Stephen LevineWhat lives behind your anger? Is it humor? Happiness? Hurt? Joy? Ecstasy?
June 20, 2024
On writing your letter & week 5 of 52
That never wrote to Me—
Emily Dickinson
What would you write about or share if there was no fear? What would you write even if there’s no guarantee anyone will write back?
The topics that we feel strongly about are often the projects we put off. Maybe because most humans will do anything to avoid negative judgment.
We want to be liked, to be taken seriously. We want to be impressive and important. But if we get all that, does being the best or the most important end up being what we really want?
True creative fulfillment comes from authenticity and feeling content with who we are and what we do. It’s not complicated, not in writing and not in life. But it’s something we’re told, repeatedly, not to do. We need to fit the mold we’ve been given and color inside the lines (or only outside of the lines if that’s what’s popular).
We need to conceal anything that might “expose” us. Sure, many people own their labels and identify with family or class or race or gender or what-have-you, but when we root out who we truly are, there is always something unique and potent beneath all that.
That potency is what connects us. It is what holds the message you feel compelled to share but are fearful of, the one that many put off so that they can focus on work with a clear outcome.
Maybe it’s not just judgment but the fear of being ignored, which (let’s be honest) happens to most artists when compared to their expectations. But to go into a project that you are passionate about is to go in with vitality. Life force. It’s to go all in. To do that at the risk of being ignored or attacked is courageous and, at least to me, admirable.
“I have come to believe over and over again that what is most important to me must be spoken, made verbal and shared, even at the risk of having it bruised or misunderstood.” ―Audre Lorde
Let’s go all in.
Why? Because why not?
The reason something is done or created or exists is rarely tied to short-term public opinion. Also, you can do nothing at all and still be ignored and/or judged.
This claim can be backed by the numerous influential artists, such as Emily Dickinson, Kafka, and Zora Neale Hurston, who were not recognized during their time but whose work remained influential. It can be further backed up by the template-based commercial artwork that is popular in its time but fades away in a month or year, which is most of it.*
We may not be able to predict responses, but we often try. We do so to keep ourselves safe and secure. But assuming we all have that divine thing beneath the surface identities, it’s worth asking what that inner, authentic part has to say.
That inner part is not always screaming. It might be quiet right now.
But it will speak and when it does, that’s the magic of creativity. That’s the muse. That’s the daemon. That’s the passion. That’s the purpose. That’s the thing we are here to share.
So again . . .
AYTL: What would you write and share with the world if you didn’t have to witness the reaction? Would there be a guarantee of no judgment, attack, or embarrassment? What letter will you leave the world, even if it doesn’t write back?
Learn more about the AYTL experiment here.
Writing prompt: Ask your muse what it wants to say and see what happens.
*Quick shout-out to jingle writers from the 90s who were VERY good at what they did. What Midwestern woman my age doesn’t still remember the “My Buddy, My Buddy …” or “I’m a big kid now” songs? *Shudders*
June 16, 2024
"After the Gazebo"
Photo by charlesdeluvio“After the Gazebo” was originally published in the collection, After the Gazebo: Short Stories. New York: Rain Mountain Press, 2015. Print. It’s also featured Great Writers Steal: “What can we steal from After the Gazebo.” This piece was republished in Germ Magazine, Change Seven Magazine, Fox Chase Review, and The Original Van Gogh’s Ear.After the Gazebo© Jen KnoxShe felt it in her toes that morning—dread that she would shove into ivory heels and dance on beneath heavy clouds. He felt a surge of adrenaline that he thought must accompany every man on his wedding day.
Everything had been set into motion when they adopted a pug abandoned in a nearby apartment complex. They were unsure they’d have the proper amount of time to devote to the puppy, but the pug’s bunched face and little square body endeared them. It would be a responsibility test, a trial run before they had children.
The pug had dermatitis between his folds, which cost money to correct, as did his shots and medications. It was enough to tear a small hole in the couple’s new car fund, so they had to reevaluate the year and model. The older car they selected had good reviews, and the salesman even admitted—after realizing they had told him their actual budget—that it was more durable than the newer ones. They sped off the lot, drove the periphery of the city and metro areas, and stopped for Jamaican jerk chicken at a restaurant they agreed they must return to regularly.
They took the pug to the dog park on Saturday mornings. He enjoyed overeating and watching Animal Planet. They babied and indulged him, learning everything about the breed and how best to care for him. They decided on a name after reading that the strange little forehead wrinkle pugs share is referred to as a prince mark because it resembles the Chinese symbol for prince.
She got a corporate job that replaced her occasional gigs as a yoga instructor. She hated the work but made friends, fast, and thought it an okay trade for now. He too had a corporate job, and he rather enjoyed it.
They made resolutions often. They both wanted to be somewhere else but were unsure exactly where. They lived near his family but far from hers, so they spoke of moving somewhere in the middle. Her sister would call some nights, crying because her husband was out late again. She longed to go watch bad movies and make orange cinnamon rolls with her sister, tell her she deserved better.
Her mother, an artist, presented her with a black and white painting of Prince when she arrived at the hotel. She loved it. Her sister offered an apologetic hug, explaining her husband couldn’t attend due to work.
Prince refused to wear the doggie tux. She understood his apprehension and clipped a bowtie on his collar. She hoped her fiancé would remember to pack the collapsible water dish. His father was picking him up. His mother was in a wheelchair after having reconstructive foot surgery. She was a loud, beautiful woman. Her three grown children, husband-to-be included, had blinged out her chair while she was in surgery so that it now resembled a throne.
The gazebo was perfect. Nothing was overdone. The couple didn’t see each other until the vows. The sky was overcast but with no threat of rain. The clouds framed them in pictures. The couple kissed. Prince jumped up and down. His mother danced from her chair. Her mother sketched the children’s faces. Her father smoked cigars with his father as they talked about drone strikes and then football and then the quality of their cigars.
The recall notice hadn’t reached the couple because they’d forgotten to write the apartment number down on the paperwork, and his email had filtered the e-copy to junk. This would strike the parents as ridiculous, seeing as how all the bills had reached them just fine. The recall notice concerned hyper-acceleration and asked that all owners of the make and model and year get their cars checked. The parents would file a lawsuit, and they would become quite rich.
His mother’s foot would heal, and she would walk with only a slight limp to the two graves that sat alongside the back of the yard by an old, abandoned house the city was unsure what to do with. The family would gather here on the anniversary of the couple’s wedding, and they would sob and laugh and smoke cigars.
The money would not reconcile the odd chain of events—how the car surged due to faulty brakes, how the SUV that was taking over the lane eventually did see them but the momentum of the shift had caused the tail end hit. It was a slight hit that sent the couple’s small car spinning into the median strip. It was instantaneous for him. It was drawn out for her. She had that brief window, a chance to say goodbye. She’d told her sister that she knew, somehow, that she had dismissed it as cold feet, but she knew.
The family was smaller now. The sister divorced, and Prince rested his wrinkly head on her belly as she cried. Until his final days, Prince would continue to comfort the sister, but he would never jump up and down for her. Instead, he would conserve his energy and spend every night at the door, waiting, unable to believe in fate.
"An hour before sunset"
Photo by Simon Berger This poem was originally published in Midway Journal. An hour before sunsetText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedGrumbling arrives as we workshop creative ideas in a volatile space.Better to cluster, align. Like a starling finding its …
"Always a Story"
Photo by Delaney Van Always a Story© Jen KnoxWhen Grandpa’s unable to move, he yells at my grandmother, and she yells at my mother. The residue of this yelling sticks to Mom so, to lessen it, I make her house look nice.
Rain taps away at the roof as I wait on Mom's porch. She's a little later tha…
"Circling Home"
This poem was originally published in Poor Claudia. It was also read before a Che Malambo performance, which was a strange, wonderful, and intimidating opportunity for me.
Circling Home© Jen KnoxText within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedAway from home, we converse with nature. We laugh at what seems a drunken raccoon in the dead of morning. Mosquitos clean their legs on our fly swatters as we gulp hot coffee from metal cups. Blinking ourselves awake, we realize the creature is sick.Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedLonging to go home, we balance freedoms in still-soft palms, swaddle guns like babies and carry them close to our chests as we march in the bone-splitting cold. Heading straight as the crow, we invite history to circle round.Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedCircling home, we wander with stories, sit with art. We carry theory on our backs and balance opinions on our heads like books, waiting for an accepting nod. We dance slowly, eager to find the suggested formation, the perfect shape, until we learn to break away.Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedHere, at home, we turn over memories as though they are tangible things, play them like instruments in our minds. Fingertips tapping keys, we create new meaning, reframe reality. It is here, with senses numbed or heightened; it is here, with nature and conflict and art; it is here, where we realize we’ve been all along.Author’s note: I altered this poem at some point but cannot find the revision. If I do find it, I’ll post it below.
June 12, 2024
On Hide & Seek - Week 4 of 52
As a kid, I was always fascinated by the melancholy nature of most adults. Other kids seemed just fine, but the adults I met seemed so intense and restrained; it was as though stories were swirling inside them, pulsing in the tight containers of their bodies.
I felt sympathy for most of them, and I suppose my former self might feel the same for my current self. This idea makes me wonder how I appear to my nephew Tommy when we play kickball or chat about dinosaurs.
Does he look at me and think, “What’s going on with this one?” or “Poor adult. I’ll help her to remember how to play.” Was it a calculated move that he ‘forgot’ about me when it was my turn to hide during a game of hide and seek?
Judging from his laughter when I finally emerged, arms crossed in mock anger, it might’ve been a lesson in “loosening up.”
My childhood self was probably right to feel bad for many adults. We have issues. We’re often too tired or self-conscious or reactive and maybe it’s because we don’t just scream when we want to scream. We don’t just run when we want to run. We can’t. We live in societies. We live by social norms.
Noting the times we feel cloistered by life, the times we want to scream or run or laugh uproariously at inappropriate moments is something Levine brings up in AYTL as quite beneficial. Noting, according to Levine, is simple but not refined without practice. He offers a simple exercise that I’ve encountered in emotional intelligence literature. It goes like this:
… focus the attention inward, and count how many states of mind come and go in just five minutes. At first we may notice only a dozen or so. But as the method of relating to these states, instead of compulsively reacting to them, develops, they no longer distract us from our observation, and they are gradually exposed to inquiry
Warning: To note our emotions can make us feel a little off-kilter at first. That said, it’s an interesting and worthwhile practice that, yes, made me wonder about my sanity at first but ultimately offered assurance as I began to realize how quickly emotions and thoughts move on. The knowledge that every sensation is in a constant state of flux can be comforting when we’re ill at ease (this won’t last) and gratitude-inducing when we’re doing well (this won’t last, so I should cherish it).
So back to adults and our social norms … those tight little containers of emotions …
Writing prompt: (This is a good one.) Write about a time you/a character violated social norms in favor of emotional release.
AYTL prompt: Try the exercise of noting a few times this week, and keep your journal close. How many emotions or sensations do you notice in a minute? In five?
You might feel like you’re forcing it at first, but if you stick with it, it gets easier.
Tell me how you get on.
June 5, 2024
On Boredom & Week 3 of 52
—Me to my husband whenever we’re about to have company
“Don’t just do something, stand there.”—Very privileged people and The White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland
I watched my ego, and it seemed to dissolve. Then it came back to demand I pay attention to it, which I did, and it dissolved. The past week has been interesting, and this is the line of thinking it led me to:
Photo by Tatiana Colhoun I am always busy, and I am always starting new things. And I’ve long said this is because I am easily bored. It’s partly true.
Those of us who stay busy might do so to avoid things, but we also love the movement and flow and noise and learning. We want to experience life … ALL of life.
And yet, to experience it all is often to remain bored. Why?
As a walking sequence of recessive genes (see: redhead, short, etc), I like the science that tells me the capacity to get bored will help me survive. And yet, if I’m being honest, it feels habitual.
Even when I meditate, I generally go for the busier meditations.
Think chanting, listening to drums, pranayama, or—best—guided meditations that give me a steady voice or story to focus on. These practices have changed my life. They’re powerful.
But … as I move into Week 3 of living as though this year were my last, I can’t help but feel called to something I haven’t done in over a decade: silent, daily meditation.
No music, no guidance, no dogma, no help, no distraction. Just me and my (gasp!) thoughts.
It’s hard, friends. It’s hard.
Silent meditation is not for everyone; it’s confrontational. All the noise from the day bobs to the surface, but so do the aches and pains, the suppressed feelings, the avoidance, the conversations that should’ve been had.
The practice only seems quiet and still.
“All things flow, nothing abides.” — HeraclitusAs I continue to practice, I realize there is no stillness. But I also realize there is no boredom, not when we’re paying attention.
In fact, to sit still with attention means it is impossible to be bored. And perhaps the boredom I referred to amid my busyness is something else entirely. Something more akin to avoidance.
This week, therefore, is about confrontation. Listening. Within. Maybe even releasing some of whatever it is I’ve been avoiding.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Writing Prompt:
Write about a person trying to avoid or lie about something (there are plenty of real-world examples, but fiction might be fun) and how that pans out for them.
AYTL Prompt:
It’s Week 3 of 52. Here is the full challenge if you need to catch up. Where in life are you bored? Where are you not paying attention? What’s beneath this?
For me, it’s avoidance. For you, maybe not. But reflecting on the areas of life where we go numb or “check out” is an interesting experiment.
May 30, 2024
"Dandelion Ghosts"
The original story was published by Flash Fiction Magazine and won their Editor’s Choice Prize. This book is part philosophy, part exploration, part commentary. I wrote it in 2020.
"Prerequisites"
This is a very short except of a collection of essays I’m working on. It appears at Prose.onl
