Jen Knox's Blog, page 20
July 3, 2023
On problems and solutions
There’s a writing problem that I’ve had for some time (I’ll get into this later), and it made me think about how valuable some relational leadership concepts are to creativity.
Stay with me here . . .
In my course at OSU, I dedicate a lot of time to the topic of social responsibility as it pertains to individual interactions and community impact. I assign a team project that undergraduates take on as a way of exercising their leadership skills by addressing an issue that means something to them.
When I ask them to create a list of social and community problems they’d like to solve, they begin with things like “eliminate homelessness” or “save our planet/environment,” and get overwhelmed. How can they make a difference in one semester? In a group of five? With no money?
To answer, I ask them to create a problem statement/question that correlates with their chosen issue, such as “How can I get people to stop littering on campus?” or “How can I decrease homelessness in Central Ohio?”
Then I ask them to research the issue itself and find reasons these problems persist. What is the cycle that feeds these problems? Take a magnifying glass and find a little pinhole from which you can disrupt the problem loop.
For instance, if they are concerned with the environment and decide to tackle littering on campus, a team might research the issue and find out that litter always collects in a particular place, which would allow them to refine a problem with a more systematic question . . . “Why is there so much trash near the lake?”
Upon asking this more specific question, a group might notice that there isn’t a trash can or recycling bin anywhere near this common area to chill and study. Maybe they’ll notice a common area where a sign might remind students to take their trash with them. And so on …
Ultimately, the students are able to construct realistic ways to make an impact by identifying the pattern (the systematic issue) and how they can interrupt the problem loop by interrupting this pattern at some accessible point within this loop.
So here’s an example from my writing life.
I write a lot of exceedingly long sentences. Unnecessarily long sentences.
This has been a blind spot for me since graduate school, and it is one that was recently pointed out by a brilliant woman who plainly stated that my circuitous sentences were exhausting (and I agree — have you noticed this sentence is exceedingly long?).
“How can I stop writing long sentences?” I wondered, and I thought about my class.
I started investigating my writing and noticed that my long sentences show up far more often than I could’ve imagined. They’ve haunted me for a long time and likely stem from a desire to sound smart, I thought. But no! I investigated further and noticed that I tend to write long sentences when I’m “in the flow.” I write them at the openings and endings or during digressions. They are my default.
So I refined my question.
“What techniques can I adopt to improve the cadence of my writing?” So I built in a checkpoint for digressive writing in my revision process. I’ll let you be the judge as to whether it works moving forward. I doubt I’ll abandon my long darlings altogether, but perhaps I’ll address them here and there.
If there is a recurring problem you’re facing creatively, personally, or socially, see if you can find the loop and disrupt it. Because why not try? If you do, let me know how it goes.
*Speaking of problems, I opened up a new meditation on pain. Find & download by clicking the podcast. It’ll be open to free subscribers for a week and paid subscribers indefinitely.
July 2, 2023
June 26, 2023
On envy & jealousy
I’ve never been envious or jealous,* of course, but I can imagine it’s a remarkably uncomfortable feeling . . . something like a wave of self-consciousness and distrust collecting in the body and collapsing all strength and rationality, if momentarily, as the mantra repeats, “Why not me?” We evaluate another’s success or read another’s words and might as well cross our arms and stomp our feet.
This two-pronged emotion fascinates me, especially when it comes to creativity. Even the impetus of creativity. I grabbed the following paragraph from The Evolutionary Psychology of Envy and Jealousy.
Jealousy is a motive of immense potency. Although you are often consciously aware of being jealous or envious of someone, sometimes the actual reasons for the envy are buried in your unconscious and disguised by rationalizations. Ironically, what you really value in life is more often revealed by asking yourself who you are jealous of rather than asking yourself directly “what do I value.” The latter often taps into what society expects you to value; your “superego” takes over – and you are aware only of what you should want rather than what you really want. Envy and jealousy, on the other hand, kick in as a gut reaction in your emotional/evaluative system long before you become conscious of it.
My favorite takeaway from this passage, “sometimes the actual reasons for the envy are buried in your unconscious and disguised by rationalizations,” suggests an interesting frame for this uncomfortable emotion. It suggests that the emotion itself is not something we can think ourselves out of because it’s not even conscious.
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To me, this is partly disconcerting and partly cool. It suggests that we can use our work, as writers and artists, to explore this complex emotion.
While I don’t often covet other humans’ publication credits or fame/fortune, I catch myself wishing I had more time and energy. Maybe this is a type of jealousy that comes with age. And, if I’m being honest, sometimes I wish I found fashion more intuitive (I’m minimalist). Meanwhile, I used to be riddled with envy of the more petty variety. Anyone who had a better education or more monetary resources had me doing the internal foot stomp.
Feel free to diagnose this.
Perhaps I felt intellectually stunted compared to others and feared I didn’t have natural gifts, or maybe it boiled down to a simple sense of safety. I’ve since resolved (or at least reduced) this feeling by exploring the idea in fiction and nonfiction through characters and essays. Because writing, for me, is a personal development practice that taps, if briefly here and there, the subconscious.
It introduces me to whatever soundtrack plays in the background of my life’s plot. Such realizations are often reduced to writing as therapy, but I think of it more as writing to get to know one’s self.
If jealousy is more subconscious than conscious, can we tap into the reason behind it through artistic expression? I have yet to try this prompt myself, but if you’re game, let’s do it together.
Optional freewriting prompt: Freewrite about anyone or anything you’ve been jealous/envious of/about, then write about what’s beneath it.
Optional research prompt: Read some of your old writing and see if you notice any patterns or clues in older work. Does this emotion surface?
Let me know if you try it. In the meantime, I added a meditation on this topic. I wrote it a few years ago and still find it useful (see podcast link).
xo Jen
*Sarcasm alert - AI can’t do that (okay, maybe it can, but probably not well … foot stomp).June 25, 2023
Our Sky, the Ocean
I just found out that The Glass City, a collection of climate fiction I released in 2017 with Press Americana will be reprinted on Zero-Emissions day. This very short story (one I dissect in a previous post) is featured in a slightly different form.
Photo by Evan Bollag
June 21, 2023
Meditation: envy & jealousy
Happy Solstice! So I thought I’d offer a sneak peek into next week’s blog post with a short practice. The meditation above is slightly longer, so wait till you have time, or feel free to download it.
I’m so happy you’re here. Thank you for your support.
Not enough people speak candidly about this two-pronged emotion. I love this illustration (below) and often share it in my leadership classes. No one wants the cucumber when there’s a grape. It’s okay. Be gentle with yourself. Explore.
xo Jen
June 19, 2023
On abandoned writing
You’re writing something so immersive and deeply universal that readers everywhere will forget their problems and disappear inside your well-placed words. You are motivated and have the tools, the skills, and the coffee. Your words flow, propelled by your brilliant idea for a novel, play, screenplay, or poem. You’re at it for hours, then you get up and live the physical life for a while.
Photo by Sharon Pittaway This is where things get unpredictable. You return to finish a draft, or you don’t. The number of projects artists and writers begin does not always equal the number of completed projects. There are more unfinished projects in the clouds than completed drafts in front of readers’ eyes. Struggling to finish art is a universal problem.
It makes sense. After all, the divine moments of inspiration pass. Life happens. Bills need to be paid, the world is on fire, AI takes your job, or you just get distracted. The project simply loses its momentum. You still want to finish, but the story seems suddenly unrealistic, even daunting. Your brilliant idea begins to feel stale.
If you’re in this position, please remember that there are no wasted words. Before you abandon anything, the following strategies could be helpful:
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1. Determine whether it’s worth it. Look at your work in a new way by trying the following exercise:
Set aside a small block of time to rewrite your opening lines or page. Do not look at your existing draft. Do it from memory. Is the essence still there?
If the answer is yes, it is the same story (possibly even a tighter version), then you MUST finish this project. It still lives and breathes inside you, and it is time to purge. If it feels like a completely new project, great! Maybe you haven’t finished because you haven’t found the work’s heartbeat yet. Look for lines that are most alive and follow them home
2. Once you’ve determined a reason for the forward trajectory, the best way to work through the low points, or return to that abandoned manuscript, is to set a series of small, attainable goals at all stages.
Set a routine that is as low-maintenance as possible. Five minutes of writing or editing a day can do wonders.
Record the number of words you’ve written or edited, or the number of minutes you’ve written/edited. Add this up weekly and text the number to a friend for accountability.
3. Write down your overarching goal. This creative project is a mission, after all.
Fill in the following: “I am writing this story/poem/play because ______________.”
However you choose to finish this sentence, put it next to your computer so you have to look at it every time you sit down. It’s as simple as this: the path will emerge if you can remember where you’re going. And if you determined the work is worth abandoning, hey, you’ll have a lot of words to play with. Take the best sentences and move on. Either way, now you’re on a journey. With momentum to arrive at a final draft. You’ll get there. I know you will. I’m cheering you on.
xo Jen
My original musings on this topic appeared in Chill Subs’ Write or Die publication.
June 13, 2023
On contentment as a writer
flourish: grow or develop in a healthy or vigorous way; languish: lose or lack vitality; grow weak or feeble. —OxfordLanguages
At the height of the pandemic, Adam Grant wrote a viral article for the New York Times about languishing and how to move beyond it. While a lot of us are back in the world doing whatever it is we do for work and enjoying whatever it is we enjoy for entertainment, the concept of losing or lacking vitality is something most creative people can relate to.
Languishing as a writer could be equated to block or self-doubt. It’s simply a lack of impetus or sustainability when it comes to our creative output and passion. Of course, many of us know the joy of flourishing as well — those moments when we are full of motivation and swimming in oxytocin. We feel connected, and the journey of writing takes us toward the unknown and introduces us to new sides of ourselves and the world.
Photo by Nathan Dumlao While flourishing is the ultimate feeling I used to equate to my own sense of contentment (or, dare I say, happiness) as a writer, I wonder what meaning we can find in the languishing times and why they happen. I also wonder what both states mean to our evolution as creative beings and how we can leverage them in ways that don’t lead us to the trappings of self-aggrandizement or self-doubt.
Recently, an agent asked to read my memoir-in-essays, which I’ve been working on for the last few months.
For me, agent bites are not new. At one time, an agent represented We Arrive Uninvited but wanted me to repackage it as a YA novel, which I did not want to do. I no longer have an agent, but the prospect of having a partner who specializes in the business of writing would be nice (I can be this for others, but I too need support).
Accordingly, having an agent bite feels like a little nudge to produce, and it’s made me realize how little I’ve been writing while promoting my new book (the last event for a while is next Thursday at Two Dollar Radio). I’ve found my energy to sit and write has been faltering for sheer lack of time. And while I love the public readings, discussions, and signings, could this mean my creative/productive self is in a state of languishing?
Does one area of life need to languish while another area flourishes?
I admit that I want to feel content most of the time. I want to be able to navigate emotions and keep a healthy detachment from the work I do, but I also want to feel vital, especially creatively, because this is my identity.
Maybe this creative languishing then is yet another part of the creative process. And if so, we should honor it. Not try to skip over it or push ourselves to do it all.
After thinking about this for some time (and journaling my thoughts), I have come to the conclusion that being a writer (for me!) is not about flourishing or languishing, feeling good (pretending to feel good), or, as Grant described it, feeling “blah” about a particular act of work, output, or routine. Neither state has to be permanent.
True contentment might mean allowing space for both.
Flourishing and languishing can just be what they are, and the writer’s job is to observe and question and use all experiences to deepen the human connectivity of her work. To flourish usually equates to productivity and high motivation, whereas languishing may mean we’re slowing down a bit, but it could also mean we’re seeking change. An evolution of the creative process, perhaps. To languish might be seen as a signpost that we’re ready for something new and different.
So while my output is slowed, I’m excited for what’s next. And if the agent relationship is meant to be, well, wonderful. If not, I’m still content to flourish and languish. I like the idea of this flow of movement, after all. It feels natural.
xo Jen
June 8, 2023
Sleep meditation
This is a progressive relaxation exercise with meditation for ending the day with gratitude and total release. Feel free to download and use it on your own device.
June 6, 2023
On losing and gaining authorial perspective
I’m a natural-born cynic.
Not because I see the darkness that lives at the center of all light but because I like looking at all angles, and nothing infuriates me more than a false/myopic claim that life can be easier/better if only we [fill in the ideology].
I always associate false promises with childhood. I remember a friend of our family who once approached me and, in good spirits, told me to pick a hand. Both fists behind his back, he beamed.
I asked him why, and he said to play along and pick a hand.
But why should I? I wondered. I mean, if he has bubblegum, I’m not a fan. If there’s chocolate in his hand, it’s probably melting. And as a kid, money only comes in cards on birthdays or after losing teeth.
I did not pick a hand.
As a writer, it’s INCREDIBLY EASY to become cynical. We see celebrity memoirs ghostwritten and lauded for “bravery” because they include scenes about puking up hot dogs in a mansion while adorned with $40,000 worth of jewelry (I made that up, but it’s a possible scene) and, conversely, we see immensely talented literary writers, whose works evoke empathy and understanding, ignored.
Some of the best writing out there is passed over by large publishing houses for what an agent/editor at one of these houses once told me was “work that appeals to the lowest common denominator” because “it has a better ROI.” Fifty Shades of Grey is the quintessential example, having sold over 150 million copies despite being of a quality that, dare I say, could be replicated by an algorithm.
To decode: I took this to mean work that focuses on sex, violence, overhyped promises, or anything to hit that adrenaline trigger in the system is work that appeals to the “lowest common denominator.”
Work that examines the prismatic nature of life or toils over sentences for the cadence that cuts to the soul is work that makes a reader pause. It might be unforgettable, and it might be read for a hundred years in place of a few months or year on the bestseller’s list, but it’s also more often assigned than picked up on a whim, ahead of its time, or destined to find an unorthodox way into the word.
I’d like to explore the beauty of this . . .
I am a small press author a few times over. And I’ll be honest, it’s hard. You ask friends to tell friends and hope they do. You get invites to events that turn out numbers in the dozens, rather than thousands, and booksellers say a silent prayer when they cosign your book.
I share things and post things, but I am also not a salesperson, so I post and share less often than recommended. And I’m (honestly) not a fan of those who market to me in traditional ways. Nor am I a fan of authors who feed their egos at the cost of swallowing up resources (monetary and human).
As a writing coach, I tell clients they MUST LOVE THE ART OF WRITING. They must love the act. They must love the process. Because there is a point where a project will either take fire or burn out. And unless one is a celebrity (or related to one or is friends with one or writing about one), it’s not guaranteed that a book will find its widest readership, no matter how good it is.
But there is that possibility … that slight possibility that people might find your work and not only find it but find it truly transformational. Whether that’s a dozen, a few hundred (the average small press book finds about 200 buying readers in its lifetime, folks), a few thousand, or a few million.
That possibility is nice, but how’s this for radical optimism: I am THRILLED to be a writer. I love it. I look forward to it. I love writing, working, and reworking sentences. I love those personal notes, even if people never share. I love the FLOW of words tap, tap, tapping on the keyboard with no guarantee of sensical meaning. I love reading others’ words when they feel as though they are speaking just to me, that writer and reader can have the sort of intimacy that is not to be bought or sold but feels deeper than that. The work we write and read that cuts through is what I live for.
The mendacity of Capitalist promise has consumed me many times in my life, wrapping me in promise and illusion. But the optimist in me shakes all that off and remembers how incredibly privileged I am that I grew up with access to a library and books that were not afraid to explore a variety of human experiences. These books helped me to visualize something better than I often felt as a child. They told me I was okay, more than okay, without picking a hand.
And if I can do that for any one person, I feel good about this life.
