Jen Knox's Blog, page 15

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.

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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.

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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 Irfan

I 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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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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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.

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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).

On Returning to Flash

There’s something bittersweet about completing a long-form creative project. I usually have two going, and in the last few years, those two projects have been a commercial novel, Chaos Magic, and my collection of personal essays. This latter project has kept me company for a while, long before I started writing about it. And part of me didn’t want it to end.

The problem is that I think it’s done. I thought it was done six months ago, but then I kept tweaking.

Recently, River Teeth selected a short version of this collection as a finalist for their contest, which is a true honor (finalist from them is big for me). Also, a notable agent chatted with me on Zoom after reading a long sample and told me how much she loved the voice, the story, and the delivery. (She also said what amounted to the following: “If only you were famous or related to someone famous. Or had a bestselling novel out already. Do you happen to have a novel about the same topic in a drawer?” Which sounds shitty but isn’t. It’s business.) Her confidence in the project, to me, was a nudge not a disappointment. This woman reads a hundred times more than most humans.

There are more signs, but I’ll stop the list there. The point is that while I haven’t found the right publisher, these acknowledgments are the warning dings. I can’t keep tweaking and revising. Put a fork in this manuscript—it’s done.

So with Chaos Magic (I’ll share the cover soon!) and this fierce little CNF manuscript being released like balloons (or grenades), I’ve decided to pause any new long-form work for a while. Not so much to quit but to take time to reinvigorate my muse by turning up the music and finding a faster beat for us to dance to.

Photo by Drew Dizzy Graham

This new rhythm is all about keeping things “short” in the form of flash fiction, flash CNF, and prose poetry. It’s a form that is not only timely in our impatient, digital age, it’s fun.

I recently wrote an essay on aging, for instance. It was fun to construct. I was going to try to find a venue, then decided to post it here instead because why not? It’ll illustrate the process I’ll outline below. This aging essay is an exercise in taking a single concept and kneading it until it becomes something cohesive and sweet.

I plan to continue this approach. I’m working on a short essay about charisma (excuse me, Muse, I’ll dip you now). Next, I’ll approach the concept of impatience, then human connection and division, then masks, gardening, then . . . I have a long list.

In revisiting the short-form work, I’m remembering how tempting it is to skim the surface of a subject, throw in a few fancy words, and add a nice rhythm with a little alliteration, a little amplification, and a few analogies. And end up with rambling thoughts that are pretty but lack cohesion.

So on the advice of a fab writer, Carolyn Zaikowski, I’ve returned to a practice I abandoned a few years ago. I’ve begun using mind maps to organize my thoughts. For a non-linear thinker like myself, the mind map is a way to see the multifaceted in a simple, graspable image.

Here is an example of my essay thoughts a week before I share the piece.

I can’t wait to share the actual piece next week.

Flash is a beautiful form in our times, at least for me. It’s great fun. So if you need a little break from your longer work or have completed what once feels daunting and now feels like a gaping hole in your life, join me! Try the following:

Pick a single word.

Identify the concept behind the word (which is personal to you).

Make a mind map about all its potential angles.

Pick those that call you.

Write.

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On the trifecta

There is nothing like loss to remind us to live.

Gloria was beautiful beyond words, beautiful beyond this world. Beautiful beyond any shallow notions of beauty. She was one of two people who encouraged me to write.

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Strong in ways I have only begun to glimpse, Gloria did not accept toxic environments. A tender soul in some ways, she found interesting ways to rebel and fought harder than anyone I’ve met.

She, my grandmother, passed away a few months shy of 101 years old.

The primary inspiration for the character of Amelia in We Arrive Uninvited, my grandmother was a woman I watched with hesitant awe as a child. And while her life was not easy, it was romantic—full of drama, love, anguish, and high-stakes emotions. She made her own decisions and created her own world, for better or worse, no matter the diagnoses or limitations others placed on her. Her journey was unique, and only she could’ve lived it.

I have spent much of this week imagining I had been there by her side as she passed, holding her hand, feeling the coolness of her skin and the softness of her exit, and reminding her she was not alone. But she knew.

Grandma chose to leave at the onset of the full moon in Libra and the penumbral lunar eclipse. The symbolism of balance, beauty, justice, and chaos—all at the same time—feels right.

Yes, my grandmother was beautiful. But she left this world more than a “pretty face.” She was pure magic, and she couldn’t be contained no matter how hard the world tried to box her in (I’m being a bit ambiguous here, but she lived a long and complex life and to summarize would be a disservice).

Rest in Knowing, Grandma, that many were touched by your beauty. Your true beauty, which I think is captured in the photo below.

Gloria (1923 - 2024)

While my grandmother’s passing was not entirely unexpected, this past week also brought on the loss of a good writing friend of mine, Rob Dinsmoor. Rob and I found a fast connection in 2009. He too was a yoga instructor and writer with a cynical view of the self-improvement industry.

We formed a fast friendship and supported each other for over a decade. He left this earth swiftly, after a series of strokes, and he wasn’t that much older than me. After reading my novel, he offered the kind of review that depicts something a writer rarely receives—a different perspective with respectful acknowledgment and praise of the storytelling. He also messaged me privately and said he was cheering me on.

While Rob lived on the East Coast, we kept in touch via email and would often send each other fan letters. We had planned to read together soon. Rob was a wonderful writer but an even more remarkable human. A genuinely kind and fair-minded man, I will miss him dearly.

I said a trifecta in the title, didn’t I? Well, the old adage that things come in threes may be right. A few days ago, within this same week, I woke up to find a large, hard lump on my dog’s face. She’s been slowing down for months, and I am facing the fact that I will soon lose a furry best friend, who has been by my side for a decade. And today, I cherish her every lazy roll in the fresh grass and insistent gaze before treat time.

2013, when I first met my pup Ahti.

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While spring blooms, I am facing a trifecta of loss. The universal message is not subtle, nor is it missed.

It stings, but I’m listening. I welcome the bloom and, for this particular spring, I’ll honor these three beautiful souls who inspire me, keep me going, and remind me what it is to be honest and kind. To laugh and love without limit. The magical part of my mind believes my pup will be with my grandmother and Rob, and that they’ll all get along quite well.

There is no deeper sweetness than having loved and being able to sit with the fullness of the shifting of life on this earth. I am grateful. I appreciate what is true and beautiful, and as much as I can, I will remind myself to fully live.

This week, I will plant flowers in my yard. I will cuddle my pup and hope she gets to see the blooms. Either way, here we are.

Photo by Kouji Tsuru

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I’m posting early this week as I will soon be traveling to be with family, so there will be a slight gap.

But, friends, ah to be porous and slightly depleted … this makes us better able to absorb the light.

Thanks for reading.

xo Jen

On releasing the work

I recently signed a contract for my second novel, Chaos Magic, with Kallisto Gaia Press. This book was easy to write. Because it came to me easily, I believe it will be easy to read and fun to share.

That said, I’d be disingenuous if I told you I didn’t have mixed feelings every time I publish. I’ve written before that I never liked the analogy of “birthing” a book because it implies parenthood. And trying to be a watchful parent to creative works is nothing short of crazy-making.

I have often tried to release my words gently, as an offering or in exchange for modest paychecks. I visualize stories floating off like balloons, delicately journeying toward their perfect readers.

I’d intend to watch them and wave, ask them to keep in touch. Now and then, I’d glance up and catch sight of the way they reflected the light. I’d contain my pride and feign aloofness.

Photo by Chien Nguyen Minh

But even with all good intentions, I would soon remember I couldn’t control much about the release or the receptivity. I’ve had stories I thought might change the world fall flat and others I cared little for go viral or find their way into textbooks and college classrooms.

Then there’s the business end. And if I’m being entirely honest (who wants that?), I’ve chased down checks from large academic institutions for writing workshops and felt my heart sink when emailing the fourth time about a contracted advance from a small press; I’ve had bots rate my books (of short stories) with reviews such as “I liked the recipes,” with images of half-melted AI faces.

Sometimes, in other words, releasing writing into the world can feel less like releasing a balloon and more like a grenade.

Write something. Publish. Jump back and hide behind something robust, close your eyes tightly, and pray to Mother Earth that she’ll support you. Or, if you’re courageous, watch to see what will explode.

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We wonder why we did it in the first place, and then . . . we begin the next writing project. You may wonder why. You may know. If you are someone reading this blog who is not a writer, you can read this as a behavioral case study in the wildly creative mind.

If you are a writer, you know it’s because writers are helpless to the power of the muse and her song. We’re here to share what she brings us.

People have a choice to write, but writers do not have a choice. We’re easily romanced and wired not only to write our stories—to process the world in this way—but to share them. And just like anything in life that we embrace fully, this means we put ourselves in a vulnerable position.

So let’s flip the coin.

Let’s take money out of the equation. Remove the impact of bad actors and irresponsible tech. Let’s cut to the core and remember that what we do is a process. What creative people offer is only muddied by expectation. Joy lives in the offerings we provide the world and the truths we explore for ourselves. Despite the human desire to hoard, it’s the release and what we give that keeps us nourished. And this includes our artistic offerings.

Kallisto Gaia Press is run by people with integrity, who have already gone above and beyond. I believe in their mission and them because I recognize the care they put into their works. We try do to the same . I know in my heart that this will be a pleasant working experience, and I’m grateful. But the truth is, even if I knew Oprah would endorse my book tomorrow, I still can’t fully control whether it catches flight. It might journey around the world, but maybe it won’t catch the wind. I might collect a few accolades, and I might not. I love this book, but I can’t force it to fly, and I can’t make myself crazy watching the sky.

I will do my work to give it a good send-off, but I’ll also focus on letting go with pure intention. And we’ll see what happens. Artistic vulnerability is tough, but it’s inevitable if we are true to what we are compelled to do as writers.

As I mentioned in my website newsletter the other day, I am compelled to keep going, and my work will be a little stronger and a little more “me” every time. That’s all I can promise. And every time I get an unexpected email, often from someone I would have never imagined reading my work, that says, “Jen, I just finished your book. Thank you,” I realize how little power the negative experiences hold.

We are in this for that—the personal connection. The reader that somehow, despite it all, found our words and truly sat with them. In our digital age. Who found company in our stories or poetry. Who connected with our writing in a way that is beyond anything measurable.

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So I’ll keep you updated on this beautiful book, Chaos Magic, and I truly hope you buy it and enjoy it (I’ll give you a heads up). But at some point, I’ll release it completely. And in the meantime, I’ll be off to start the next thing. And that’s the creative cycle . . . It’s not easy, but it’s nothing short of divine.