Jen Knox's Blog, page 2

When Clarity Finds Us, Not the Other Way Around

“Every time we become aware of a thought, as opposed to being lost in a thought, we experience that opening of the mind.” ―Joseph Goldstein

What is enlightenment? And what does it have to do with writing?

On morning walks this month, I’ve been listening to Joseph Goldstein’s talks on the Buddha and enlightenment, which are lovely. He speaks clearly and succinctly about the eightfold path and the value of meditation to see ourselves and our world with less attachment and more awareness.

On evening walks this month, I’ve been listening to The Body by Bill Bryson, which discusses the brilliance of the human body from a purely scientific perspective.

“The great paradox of the brain is that everything you know about the world is provided to you by an organ that has itself never seen that world … To your brain, the world is just a stream of electrical pulses, like taps of Morse code. And out of this bare and neutral information, it creates for you—quite literally creates—a vibrant, three-dimensional, sensually engaging universe. Your brain is you. Everything else is just plumbing and scaffolding.” ― Bill Bryson

The agreements between these texts are stunning. Where they differ, in large part, is language. There is a language for science and a language for spirituality, and if you go deep enough into either, they meet.

They both seem to suggest that when we remember what we are (and are not), we realize that who we are matters less. And it seems paradoxical but often true that when we release striving and grasping for comfort or hoarding for selfish means, we find ourselves expanding. Perhaps this is “enlightenment.” A one with, rather than a one apart.

Photo by Mehrab Chi

My father said that once, in his thirties, he felt this expansion. His enlightenment lasted for a short time, but he described it this way.

His thoughts were suddenly clear, and his awareness was heightened. He didn’t have the emotional attachment to outcomes, but rather immersed himself in whatever he was doing, fully understanding it, even embodying it.

He was working at a hospital and found himself in highly technical conversations with doctors about medical procedures he’d never studied, but he understood. He said he no longer felt anxiety or worry and could grasp any concept presented immediately. He understood how everything fell into place, and he said it—life itself, for all its seeming vastness and riddles—made sense.

He trusted it all and felt a part of it all. There was no fear.

This state of heightened awareness lasted for an entire week, then came the day that he woke up to find himself feeling exactly as he had before.

A smart man still, sure, but as hazy and baffled by world events as ever and as eager to prove himself. Meanwhile, he was no longer able to discuss highly technical medical procedures in-depth, even if he had studied them. He was an orderly at the time and hoped to take art classes. He had no great ambitions. He was neurotic and dreamy. He was human.

When I asked him what he was wearing and what he was doing to find this state of enlightenment in the first place, he shrugged.

“Was it drugs? Was it meditation?”

No. He said, “It just happened.”

The human brain is a strange thing. As is the human body. It’s a miracle of a machine, and yet so vulnerable. The cynic in me can’t help but think sometimes that someone at the hospital spiked my father’s hashish with a mild hallucinogen that week (sorry, Dad), or perhaps he has an allergen that he only managed to avoid that one week of his life.

But maybe he truly got a taste of enlightenment, and maybe that was just a sort of surrender.

Imagine what pure clarity, if only for a day, might mean. Imagine the kind of creative flow that allows you to channel, as a brilliant artist says she does with her paintings.

I like to think it would mean great relief. No “Why am I here?” questions. No trying to figure it out or rationalize. No arguing! Simple awareness and surrender to the miraculous nature of what is.

Accepting our foibles and limitations as individual humans on this planet is a radical thing. But maybe pausing the search also allows us to remember that if something like total clarity arrives in our lives, it’s unlikely it will have happened because we sought it out. It’s the search, after all, that may keep us from seeing and feeling our potential as humans.   

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Creative prompt: Explore what enlightenment means to you in your art/writing, or if you even think it’s possible, even for a moment. What might it look like on the canvas or page?

Paid subscribers: Join our creative resilience and accountability circle by signing up here, and we’ll see you on Aug 1 on Zoom.

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A candid glimpse of the early stages of writing a novel, and how to balance productivity with sanity.

The first draft is just you telling yourself the story. —Terry Pratchett

In general, I’m a writer who prefers to work behind the scenes, secretly, and I don’t share anything about my current project. Not even with close friends.

It’s not that I’m worried about ideas being stolen. What worries me more is superstition. I do not want to release the story from the trap of my mind for fear it will wander off, and I’ll lose momentum.

For some strange reason, this time I can’t seem to shut up about my novel-in-progress. It feels urgent.

This is my first historical novel, and it’s occupying at least 90% of my brain space. In true form, I figured I’d write a dual perspective because I love that idea, and it feels like a delightful cheat for me. This novel will take place in both 2025 and the mid-1800s.

As I’ve spent a few weeks at residencies in Nova Scotia and Tennessee, I’ve watched with a meditative eye how the novel takes up my attention, sometimes blinding me to the beauty in my daily life.

The novelist destroys the house of his life and uses its stones to build the house of his novel. —Milan Kundera

Artists and writers must balance living and creating. What fulfills us, likewise, is what we can best share with the world to have the most impact.

My novel is about a woman who refused to stay small, despite being thought of as “too much,” then and even now. Hers is a story that offers me inspiration that I hope to share. And it is a story with quite a bit of mystery and disappointment as to what was and is true, and what was sensationalized.

After two “warm-up” novels, I’ve learned to seek out the bones of the story to best write scenes. This doesn’t mean outlining everything, but it does mean asking how each scene lends itself to the overarching change—or plot—that is occurring.

With writing coaching clients, I recommend creating a sort of proposal, as though you are ready to query what you’ve already begun. Something along the lines of a synopsis, a title, and a clear sentence or two about what has changed in the character from the opening to the ending.

To me, this is enough of an outline because it leaves just enough room to move and grow and adapt, but also reminds me to stay on track.

While I may still keep some of my cards close, I’m feeling less compelled by superstition and more compelled by a realization that this novel is a living and pulsing thing, always changing. And it’s not just my story, even though it’s fiction.

I have met with researchers and historians to gather information, which means (as I always tell my leadership students), I now have people who were consulted. And a person consulted is a stakeholder.

This novel is a group effort and is catalyzed by a brilliant woman’s life. I’d say she was before her time, but I am sure she’d struggle with the same message today. She is beyond our time, and her story will, I hope, bring some hope.

I will nurture it and help it to grow by returning to the heartbeat of the story, being generous and curious about my subject, and balancing my productivity with appreciation for all that occurs in my daily life.

If you are embarking on a writing or artistic journey, especially one that is longer form, I applaud you. I’d love to know how it’s going and how you begin.

: “Impulse” makes me interrupt or speak out of turn. Ideas bubble up and itch to be formed into words spoken. Sometimes the ideas are different and beg to be written. I don’t formulate into a medium the phonographical lines daily, but I think and reflect and what looks like a whim becomes a story. But really that story has been simmering like lava and to write is to control the flow.

Prompt: Write a short letter to your ideal audience explaining what your work is about. What question is it exploring? Then tuck it away. Retrieve it in a month. Is the question the same?

Paid subscribers: Join our creative resilience and accountability circle by signing up here, and we’ll see you on Aug 1.

On the edge of the ocean: the wisdom of two visual artists and a pheasant

I thought I was there to be alone with my novel. I thought nourishment would come from solitude.

At an artist residency in Nova Scotia recently, I watched a pheasant strut by my window, often stopping to pose. When he allowed me these moments of reprieve from my work, I couldn't help but laugh. Chest out, he allowed me to appreciate him.

We entertained each other for a moment. Then, for seemingly no reason, he turned his tall, skinny legs and ran off, disappearing behind the tall grass and into the blurry space beyond my view.

Brier Island Pheasant, name unknown

My morning routine at residency involved walking to a small studio to write for a few hours before meeting my writing partner and friend for breakfast or a chat. I wasn’t on my cellphone much, so I balanced solitary time with the privilege of meeting those who lived on the island and learning more about other artists’ work and what inspires them.

We met an artist who lived on the island. He said the ocean was medicinal and had called to him. The wonder of nature seemed to bring him peace and perspective. “But I’m alone a lot,” he said.

I wondered if he meant lonely or just alone, but I didn’t ask.

Another artist, who was part of the residency, told me she found inspiration in being at the westernmost or easternmost places. I couldn’t relate to this as much, but I was in awe of her work.

I often find inspiration in transit. On the bus, in the car, on a plane … even while getting dressed. Always when I have somewhere else to be or something else to do.

The residency went by quickly, and as proof of my claim, the muse tackled me to the ground just before I returned home. I wrote at the airport and on the plane. I might have even written more during my travels than I did those mornings in solitude at the residency.

Before I left, numerous islanders had told me how beloved the artist who felt alone was. I wondered if he knew. I didn’t see him again.

After two weeks away, I was eager to see my husband and pups. I felt my heart lift when the plane landed, and I placed a piece of chocolate on my tongue. A kid next to me watched, envious but polite.

I shifted on my feet at the baggage claim, breathing slowly. A steady onslaught of texts arrived.

As I unpacked and settled back into the Midwest, I wondered about the artist who feels connected to edges. There was nothing quite like our fire on the edge of the ocean, at the westernmost tip of Nova Scotia; there’s nothing quite like knowing you are at a precipice.

We can’t all be in residency often, or at all, but I think we can all explore the aspects of what inspires us in new ways, simply by paying attention to others’ words.

I realized that in my quest to be alone, I found instead reconnection and perspective.

This might be the most valuable thing we have in our lives, and it seems an offering that is always there, just waiting for us to remember.

It’s how we find creative resilience.

Subscribers: Join me here today. We’ll discuss how to carve out a similar experience by shifting our attention to the words of one poet seeking advice from another.

Creative prompt: Reconnect with the world for a short time by spending an entire day asking others what inspires them.

: Writing is how I synthesize life. It’s how I learned to process my thoughts, my feelings, my interactions with the world around me, and everything I’ve known and will ever know. I could never let an artificial intelligence do that for me. I also tend to bring some… unorthodox ideas to the table, and AI could never articulate those ideas the way I know I can — not egotistical, just factual.

: I write to create a new reality. One where my self-doubt has been replaced by confidence and where my promise to myself that “one day, I’ll be writer” is finally true. I write to prove to myself that I can 😊

Why do you create ?

Stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.

I love to tell people to share their creative gifts with the world because I truly believe creative offerings are gifts. But the creative cycle can be exhausting. It takes devotion.

Devote some time, folks. It’s worth it. You are worth it.

Creative devotion can feel out of reach due to deficits in our discipline or self-belief. It can also seem constrained by time and access. I am feeling rather spoiled at the moment. I just got back from not one but two residencies, which gave me a lot of time and access. But even before I learned about the residency circuit, I learned that I could create in any situation.

True devotion is about understanding what you need to say—be that at a residency (I’ll post about Brier Island next week) or simply by slowing down your routine so that you are better able to listen.

“Every action you take, you can indeed take in love.” —Jericho Brown from his recent offering at the Townhall.

Many writers I know are discouraged. It’s understandable.

This era of violence, coupled with overstimulation and unreliable news, makes it easy to feel full and overwhelmed. When we create, we release what we take in. All of it contributes to feelings about what we create and its relative value.

Some of us feel we should be creating more, others wonder if writing even matters in a time of automation, plagiarism, and censorship. Then there’s time. Those with little time, or who try to do things quickly, often produce works that contain a sort of fever pitch. We think we can only produce in fits and spurts.

But all of this can work to the benefit of the outcome of our writing and our ability to connect on a human level. The seeming lack of IP forces us to adopt the “write for myself” mindset. Lack of time might add momentum if it is not forced.

We need to come back to this reminder. Creative effort is worth it. We must believe in ourselves and our unique messages. You, my friend, cannot sing my song. And I cannot sing yours.

“As any classically trained singer or actor can tell you, trying to make your voice sound like someone else’s can do all manner of damage to it.” —Lauren Elkin

To my mind, we don’t have the luxury to wait to share our messages. Easy to say, I know, but fostering creative confidence is the order of the day.

I’ll be honest that what follows hints at a sort of creative destiny that I buy into. You don’t have to, of course, but I find more grace in reminding myself of the call to authenticity over the pressure to strive.

Sure, we are in an environment that tells us otherwise, that tells us our worth is defined by the few with funds. We are in a time that pressurizes artists and tries to diminish contributions by replicating them en masse. Got it, got it! but! Here’s my message.

Stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.

You are where you need to be. You are creating what you are supposed to be creating. There is no ideal timeline. The ideal audience is those who find your work, whether that’s a few friends or many strangers. Despite what you sometimes think, you are on the right track, and it matters, and it matters in the way it should. Share your messages in the way you are sharing them, not from a place of pressure or guilt or fear or competition or even urgency. Share what you are called to share and nothing more.

Again, stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.

Yes, our voices matter, but perhaps the more important message is that we will say exactly what we need to say and release what we observe in our own time. All we have to remember is not to get in our own way or psyche ourselves out.

The dystopic narrative is just that, after all—another story. And we’re the writers.

Monthly offering for subscribers: Check the “Here We Are” tab to access new meditations. Also, let’s meet and discuss the writing life.

: Stories connect us. In a world that seeks to separate us, I write stories about universal emotions and life experiences so that we can see how alike we are. Love more/hate less.

Halona Black: In the age of AI, I write because it helps me learn more about what I’m thinking about. Writing organizes my thoughts. It tells me where I’ve grown in my life. I get to see where I’m still struggling AI can only reflect where I am in life, it cannot fully write from my perspective. Yes, it can spit out writing, but it isn’t fully me.

Isabel Wolfe Frischman:

Why do you write?

Prompt: Search your archives for something you’ve created and abandoned. See what can grow from it if you offer it a loving touch and a new possibility.

The day job narrative. What would your manuscript look like?

Photo by Mike Hindle

I’ve had a lot of jobs. From my first foray into the working world as a bagger at a grocery store to a short stint selling fine jewelry or bussing tables early mornings at a breakfast diner, the writer in me has always been collecting. I’ve worked at a large corporate firm and a small nonprofit. And all these decades later, I am a business owner, writer, and academic program manager.

As you can probably deduce, I am well beyond the 21+ category above. Part of this is because long before it was the only option, I was a gig worker. I often had 2 or 3 positions at once and participated in more orientations than I’d like to admit. Each was a study of self and the world.

I remember sitting in rooms participating in this phenomenon known as "orientation.” I love this word. The dictionary definition states that it is about determining the relative position of someone or something. At work, it’s about a person’s position within a system.

We orient to new environments, which is both exhilarating and anxiety-producing. And each time, at least for established industries—even the arts—a specific role seems attached to a desired persona.

If you’re in sales, you will almost always benefit from displaying charisma and enthusiasm. If you are an expert, you are expected to share a lot about a single topic and carry a certain weight to your words. If you are a teacher, you are tasked with knowledge sharing in a way that is equal parts nurturing and disciplinarian.

If you’re an artist or writer, you are often expected to cultivate a captivating persona to sell your work. Persona can stem from our identity as well as the identity we attach to the work we choose to share, but it’s often only a small window into the artist’s true self.

I grew up thinking adopting an artistic persona meant owning pet alligators or lobsters, having drinking problems, engaging in mysterious downward glances often, being surrounded by inpenetrable cliques, and wearing either the latest fashion labels or only thrift-bought clothing. Seeing as how I am a sweatpants and sneakers kind of person, this version of a persona felt like the opposite of authenticity.

Creating a persona for work, even artistic work, is often something that happens without us even realizing. It’s ego doing ego’s thing.

It’s survival, connectivity, and familiarity. And it often earns us a sense of belonging or safety in a space where we spend many of our most alert waking hours. But I believe it’s also necessary to keep a safe distance from that persona, so we can always have enough wiggle room to adjust and realign. Or reorient.

For most of my working life, finding identity in a day job was a losing game, and as much as I’d probably have enough pension to retire in ten years if I’d stayed at one place, I wouldn’t give up the wild experiences I’ve had.

I liked being an outsider at jobs I disliked because I never got too attached to the wrong situation, and it taught me more about myself and others than comfort ever could. I learned that belonging in a space that is not right will never feel rewarding, no matter how hard we try to make it work. So throughout my teens and twenties, even in my early thirties, I treated each role as a case study, and I’m glad I did. And now that I’m an artist, I’m satisfied to align my persona with whatever work is at hand.

Paths are made by walking. —Kafka

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Our ultimate career or vocation can be rewarding. The day jobs and gigs and projects we do to fulfill expectations or survive offer us something else: clear and poignant insight into what we don’t want, do want, never want, and why.

There is so much a lackluster job, in particular, can teach us that can’t be learned second-hand, through simulation or the classroom.

I’m thinking of putting together a class on how to write about day jobs before my book is released. I think it could apply to any genre, because I think there are a lot of interesting entry points for this material. It’s worth meditating about how, across experiences, our identity shifts, even if slightly, from role to role. The way people see us changes, and this can often change the way we see ourselves. When we realize this, however, we can see the ego for just what it is: an actor in need of a role.

Where have we been most aligned with our working persona? Where have we felt unable to abide? These questions get to our essence.

Writing prompt: What did the role, the way you dressed, the shift, the breaks, the expectations, and the lighting do to your sense of comfort or belonging, and how did your leader get it right or fail miserably?

This is a fun exercise, and one I’m finding adapts well to fiction. I hope you’ll try it. Disclaimer: It’s a lot easier to dissect roles and work that reside in your past.

If you’ve ever written about day jobs or plan to, tell me about it. If you’d like to read one of mine, go here.

Subscribers, Join me Friday, July 11 at 2 p.m. PT / 5 p.m. ET for this community Zoom get-together to practice Creative Resilience and discuss Letters to a Young Poet. To RSVP, go here.

: Because words are the original magic. They don’t need batteries, they don’t crash (unless hurled at a wall), and they’ve been debugging humanity for thousands of years.

: Because writing, when I get that perfect line, that perfect verse, is as close as I’ll ever get to touching another plane. Another existence. Something beyond me. And reading is the same way. We are human. Until we write.

Judi Sullivan (artist and healer): For me, it is to better express/ clarify/sometimes discover myself at a greater depth while also allowing the sharing of whatever comes through with others, if writing to loved ones or for a higher, more public purpose.

Why do you write ?

Quick plug: check out the most endearing video review from my talented narrator for Chaos Magic. She does not blow smoke, and I’m heartened. My collection of essays mentioned above, AT WORK, will be available in 2027.

Calm the mind and body

Meet yourself where you are with this three-part meditation designed to reduce stress by leveraging three of the most studied techniques: progressive relaxation, simple breathwork, and self-compassio…

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Strengthening our creative constitution: write more words, create more space

The thing I love/hate about writing is that, as a general rule, it takes a lot of time to get your stride. There are exceptions, but writing savants are rare. There’s simply too much nuance to grasp quickly.

Finding your voice and delivering from that voice confidently and consistently takes time.

That doesn’t mean writing well isn’t possible with less experience. But when I think of writing that endures and cuts across the limitations of genre and time … writing that takes its time and reflects something vulnerable, it’s not about fancy words or technique. It’s about trusting voice, being concientious and true.

That said, if we want to be good—however we define that—we can fold time one way: by writing more words. By creating more space.

Just tap tap tap. Of course, in the typing it’s good if something comes along that is interesting to say, and such things don’t arrive every day. You’ve got to wait a couple of days sometimes... So, tap tap tap... —Charles Bukowski

When we get going, we know we’re doing the work.

I recently met with a scholar and new friend about an aspect of my historical novel and found out I had a few things wrong. It was a strange feeling, unraveling the mystery and also coming closer to the story. The trick now is figuring out which story to tell.

As I chip away at this draft of my novel, I know I am headed in the right direction, but I’m in no hurry. In fact, I am more inclined than ever to erase and redo, erase and redo. 30,000 words can be pared back to 19,000 words before I get to 24,000 words. It’s a slog, but it’s a delightful slog.

And, to be honest, it’s more rewarding than what I used to do (glimpse: write without a care, have a very shaky first draft, skim and edit lightly, think it’s genius because I can’t get distance from it, then send out into the world only to have it propelled back toward me with clarifying rejections).

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The solace I’d like to offer anyone reading this who is working on their own project with an occassional nagging critical voice: Let’s think of every word, every meditation, as a desposit into an account that is strengthening our creative constitution.

Even if we delete words, each one has taken us somewhere closer to where we are going.

For subscribers, this is going to be the theme of our writing session together on June 21st. We will play with words and experiment with a few timed prompts that will challenge our notion of what a writing session can look like. Hope to see you there.

Jen Faith: This is why I write, to look deeply into our human shadows in order to find the light and bring it to the surface; to find the in-between spaces where we humans rise above our collective suffering.

Jen McConnell Doron: What I don’t get about people using AI for creative writing is ”to make it easier” is that I don’t WANT it to be easier. Wrestling with words, coming up with new ways to express what can hardly be expressed, that’s what I love about writing even though it’s heartbreakingly difficult at times. Maybe AI can write a story but it can’t write MY stories.

Mark Burns: I write because I cannot sing.

Ryann Marie King: If someone uses real thoughts and words and expressions, I am celebrating them.

Why do you write ? Let me know.

Let’s all practice a little creative resilience. Please know that I appreciate your support.

Let's take a breath on the page

I’m a woman obsessed. To be immersed in a creative project is a beautiful thing. But sometimes we can forget to pause. This has been my life for a few weeks.

“When you are writing, you're conjuring. It's a ritual, and you need to be brave and respectful and sometimes get out of the way of whatever it is that you're inviting into the room.” —Tom Waits

When I reflect, I reailze this is a pattern. I did this when I wrote memoir, too. Creative immersion is not something that just shuts off, no matter all the tasks of life waiting for us. No matter the obligations to sustain our health and find strength to stand up for what we believe.

I’ve been feeling a lack of presence off the page. Sure, it could have something to do with the mass trauma being thrust on anyone with integrity (who doesn’t want to dissociate a little?), but it also has something to do with process. When I write, I freefall. I let go and just allow the story to come through. But reassociating with the world can be tough.

I asked a trusted coach and friend, and she suggested a ritual or routine to transition from art to life and back again. She told me I probably knew the exercise she was going to suggest since I used to teach yoga (see audio below), and I did. In fact, I had just recorded this for Insight Timer. Sometimes we offer what we need.

What she reminded me was that breath is the magic of transition.

And like any person obsessed, I had to ask … can also be true for the writing itself?

Is it possible to find our breath on the page?

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Breath = pause and attention. For me, especially when writing personal work, this meant approaching the material from a different angle. Some of the essays, for instance, couldn’t be written in first person, not at first, so I started with an imagined third or a distanced self looking at the self in the scene.

Some writing is delivered straight-up but requires many breaks. Many breaths.

Writing with distance and pause is how we find breath on the page. If the art takes us over, finding a way to take a step back, feel our lungs expand, and reexamine will allow reintegration.

Breath = space. The space that we create, in our minds or in our bodies, is power. Recognition of this space can be a gift to ourselves. It expands our ability to endure and practice creative resilience.

We take around 17,000 breaths each day, give or take. Our lungs are purging who-knows-what from our bodies. Meanwhile, taking a moment to recognize this brilliant mechanism that flourishes with the right amounts of air, food, hydration and heat is easy to forget. As stewards of story, we must give our work the same balance.

Besides, watching our breath for a time might just help us to better see what we are trying to say.

So my invitation to you is to take some time to remember the power of the pause, the exhale, and all that we take in. I hope you enjoy this breath practice (when you have a handy 7 minutes), and I hope it helps you to find pacing and presence as you create whatever it is you are called to create.

Interpretive prompt: Rush through something on purpose: a poem, an essay, a work of art. Then go back and expand any areas that invite a deep breath. A pause. A little white space. This might mean deleting words or creating literal space on the page or canvas. It might mean pulling out a single detail and giving it its own space.

Monthly offering for subscribers: I posted the “Breath practices for frustrated creatives” course here. Check the “Here We Are” tab to access. Also, let’s meet (soon!) June 21 at 12 ET .

: I feel like humanity has been waddling towards the precipice of losing itself. Getting caught up in its own inventions and losing its soul. It’s a cliche by this point, but it feels true that has we grow increasingly connected by technology, we disconnect more from the human experience.

I feel compelled to write. I have for as long as I can remember. Before it brought me anything, I had to put things down on paper. No matter how good or bad things got. Whether it was a diary entry, a bad poem, or telling a story.

It meant connection to me.

Connection to others, and connection to myself. I felt like I couldn’t understand anything in my heart or mind until I forced myself to try, at least try, to write it down.

Lisa Cortez Walden: I am not an amalgam of voices. My voice is singular, it is a part of a chorus—maybe. But singular still. I tell the stories that I think are necessary for humanity. AI is never necessary for humanity—it is literally the antithesis of it.

Other posts you might enjoy…Why do you write ?

Let's take a breath.

I’m a woman obsessed. To be immersed in a creative project is a beautiful thing. But sometimes we can forget to pause. This has been my life for a few weeks.

“When you are writing, you're conjuring. It's a ritual, and you need to be brave and respectful and sometimes get out of the way of whatever it is that you're inviting into the room.” —Tom Waits

When I reflect, I reailze this is a pattern. I did this when I wrote memoir, too. Creative immersion is not something that just shuts off, no matter all the tasks of life waiting for us. No matter the obligations to sustain our health and find strength to stand up for what we believe.

I’ve been feeling a lack of presence off the page. Sure, it could have something to do with the mass trauma being thrust on anyone with integrity (who doesn’t want to dissociate a little?), but it also has something to do with process. When I write, I freefall. I let go and just allow the story to come through. But reassociating with the world can be tough.

I asked a trusted coach and friend, and she suggested a ritual or routine to transition from art to life and back again. She told me I probably knew the exercise she was going to suggest since I used to teach yoga (see audio below), and I did. In fact, I had just recorded this for Insight Timer. Sometimes we offer what we need.

What she reminded me was that breath is the magic of transition.

And like any person obsessed, I had to ask … can also be true for the writing itself?

Is it possible to find our breath on the page?

Subscribe now

Breath = pause and attention. So, for me, especially when I was writing personal work, this meant approaching the material from a different angle. Some of the essays, for instance, couldn’t be written in first person, not at first, so I started with an imagined third or a distanced self looking at the self in the scene.

Some writing is delivered straight-up but requires many breaks. Many breaths.

Writing with distance and pause is how we find breath on the page. If the art takes us over, finding a way to take a step back, feel the lungs expand, and reexamine, will allow reintegration.

Breath = space. The space that we create, in our minds or in our bodies, is power. Recognition of this space can be a gift to ourselves. It expands our ability to endure and practice creative resilience.

We take around 17,000 breaths each day, give or take. Our lungs are purging who-knows-what from our bodies. Meanwhile, taking a moment to recognize this brilliant mechanism that flourishes with the right amounts of air, food, hydration and heat is easy to forget. As stewards of story, we must give our work the same balance.

Besides, watching our breath for a time might just help us to better see what we are trying to say.

So my invitation to you is to take some time to remember the power of the pause, the exhale, and all that we take in. I hope you enjoy this breath practice (when you have a handy 7 minutes), and I hope it helps you to find pacing and presence as you create whatever it is you are called to create.

Interpretive prompt: Rush through something on purpose: a poem, an essay, a work of art. Then go back and expand any areas that invite a deep breath. A pause. A little white space. This might mean deleting words or creating literal space on the page or canvas. It might mean pulling out a single detail and giving it its own space.

Monthly offering for subscribers: I posted the “Breath practices for frustrated creatives” course here. Check the “Here We Are” tab to access. Also, let’s meet (soon!) June 21 at 12 ET .

: I feel like humanity has been waddling towards the precipice of losing itself. Getting caught up in its own inventions and losing its soul. It’s a cliche by this point, but it feels true that has we grow increasingly connected by technology, we disconnect more from the human experience.

I feel compelled to write. I have for as long as I can remember. Before it brought me anything, I had to put things down on paper. No matter how good or bad things got. Whether it was a diary entry, a bad poem, or telling a story.

It meant connection to me.

Connection to others, and connection to myself. I felt like I couldn’t understand anything in my heart or mind until I forced myself to try, at least try, to write it down.

Lisa Cortez Walden: I am not an amalgam of voices. My voice is singular, it is a part of a chorus—maybe. But singular still. I tell the stories that I think are necessary for humanity. AI is never necessary for humanity—it is literally the antithesis of it.

Why do you write ? On flow

Finding the right conditions to grow: why creative work needs light, not permission

We need the right conditions to grow. If something is not working, perhaps it’s time to plant a seed elsewhere.

Every voice and every word we infuse with meaning is powerful. Each is helping us to grow, and, if we’re doing it right, each will help us to connect to others seeking to grow.

But can we be ambitious in the kindest sense of the word and still remain true to ourselves?

Maybe. And if so, I think this is how: We have to create what we feel called to create and share it with those who appreciate it. Then carry on doing so forever.

Trust the creative call no matter how unmarketable. Trust your voice. Take your time.

I personally find solace in reading the nuanced stories of artists, such as Olga de Amaral, whose work transcends but also took lifetime to be seen. A textile artist who received more recognition in her 90s than he she did at any other point in her life is a quintessential example of devotion. But also, she was simply a woman who didn’t stop and didn’t expect.

She just did what she loved.

Of course, we can also look at Kafka, who was never recognized during his lifetime the way he desired, but, nonetheless, he practiced with radical discipline because he did what he loved and loved what he did.

Think about all those who are underrecognized or recognized narrowly for appearance or relational connections during their lifetimes, those who were true change agents, ushering new perspectives into a world that so desperately needed them.

This doesn’t just happen in art, after all. In academia and corporations, this occurs often. Those in power surround themselves with “doers” and “creatives,” those who do the work anonymously under the name of the person with higher position or wider recognition.

“I wanted to be seen, but I didn't want to be watched.” —Ashley C Ford

After reading more deeply into histories of the mis- and underrecognized, I’ve been meditating more on why I want my own art to be seen and recognized, and who I want to share it with.

For many years (and even now, sometimes) I was embarrassed about asking for attribution or support, no matter how hard I worked.

But the truth is, in far too many cases, the messages that we feel are important are gifts, and to share the work is truly to share.

To wait for recognition or attribution is a waste of time. We can only control ourselves and who we share with.

To the extent that we position ourselves in the best possible places to feel comfortable enough to be and do what we want without fear or censorship, we are going to find resonance in our work.

We don’t want to be forgotten; we also don’t want to be misremembered. But others’ memories are, ultimately, out of our control. As a result of not wanting to be seen this way, we might also shy away from sharing candidly and sharing enough to find the people we need to find.

I am telling you and me both: Claim your words, and write the tough stuff; work your ass off, but don’t try to grow in unfavorable conditions.

No one notices what we do not claim. This is also a leadership lesson, and it’s one that has been tough for me. I didn’t want to be like those who overclaimed.

But there has to be more balance. More people deserve to shine, and I believe we are headed for a future in which more of us will: writers of all genders, identities, races, and ethnicities. I suppose this is a kind of burgeoning faith that seems counter to the trends of the world, but I believe that recognizing the value of each human voice is the rebellion we need.

What’s inside you ready to grow, and how can you find the right amount of light? Where are conditions most favorable?

“I write this not for a many, but for you; each of us is enough of an audience for each other.” —Epicurus

Let’s all contribute to a more brilliant tapestry of ideas than what has been distilled and packaged for us. Let’s trust the divine chaos of our nature and reach upward without needing permission.

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: There are the purely selfish parts. Writing is like a compulsion for those it calls. It is impossible to stop, in the best way. It is a drug of sorts. To capture the essence of something through careful language. The communal extension of that is finding the right language to express something universal that makes other people feel less alone. That is the big win.

: I think one of the things humans do when they make art is witness. It’s not ‘content’ or ‘entertainment’ (soley) but this deeper thing of witnessing — seeing the other and in do so expanding compassion. Another thing we do is reach beyond ourselves (which is is related to witnessing and attention). AI is constructing a story based on inputs in, outputs out — it doesn’t have the element of transcendence. This for me, keeps me persisting in crafting writing and life by hand, heart and human mind.

: Writing to me is like breathing: it is essential, at least for me. I don’t know why this is so except my mother was also a writer too, so perhaps it was ingrained early or simply is part of my DNA. A pleasant mystery.

: I’ve recently returned to writing after decades away, and the first thing I asked, perhaps a bit cheekily, was to AI itself: “If you can write everything, is there even a need for me to start again?” The answer it gave me was simple but powerful:

“I can write many things, but I can’t bring your emotions, your reflections, your lived experience.”

That was it. I had my answer. So here I am, writing again, and feeling more alive with each word. Thank you for this space and for asking the question. It matters.

Tracie Ball: I’ve been on a writing journey (travel memoire). The process of writing about my experiences has been deeply healing and nourishing for me.

Many times along the way people have shared their work with me… memoire and non-fiction assisted by AI and I can tell. It lacks the soul of experience. The language is flowery and superfluous.

I may not be writing the next best seller but I am authentic to my experience and embracing expression and that matters to me. Completing the writing has been rewarding because I put so much time and dedication into the pages. I wouldn’t know that satisfaction if it was written for me.

Why do you write ? Let me know. Monthly offering for subscribers: I posted the “Breath practices for frustrated creatives” course here. Check the “Here We Are” tab to access. Also, let’s meet June 21 at 12 ET.