Jen Knox's Blog, page 20

From Worry to Love - Day 2

This is the second of three sessions about reframing worry.

“Love is the mirror of divine beauty.” Rumi

Photo by Katie Rainbow 🏳️‍🌈

Meditation 2 of 3

Total Time: 9 minutes

In the first session, we looked at a worst-case scenario. Today, I’d like you to develop an appreciation for what you have right now. At this moment. Because anxiety is based on a predi…

Read more

From Worry to Love - Day 1

I thought I’d share my other course on Insight Timer.

In the first session, we examine ways to reframe worry or overwhelm with a meditation to look at a worst-case scenario. What you’ll need? 10 minutes and a little silence.

What does it take to appreciate what you have right now? Worry or anxiety is based on a prediction, and predictions are never entire…

Read more

Coming soon . . .

Listen on your commute or while you clean the house! This story is set in Toledo, Ohio, a city known as the “glass city” due to the Libbey Glass factory, which has been headquartered there since 1818. A few of my ancestors worked for this company, but none of that has anything to do with this fantastical story.

Originally published in Sequestrum. “The Glass City” is the namesake story in my forthcoming climate fiction collection, soon to be (re)released by Press Americana/Hollywood Books International.

I’ll post more about this soon.

Photo by redcharlie

On celebration

I have never been good at celebrating accomplishments. Usually, when things go well, I feel a quick rush of joy and then simply move on.

Not long ago, I was thinking about how much I had to celebrate, but instead of enjoying the feeling, I immediately busied myself with the next project. I don’t think this is uncommon. People, writers I happen to know especially, do not stop to celebrate their successes. And all too often, we don’t celebrate others.

With this in mind, I recently asked my students to reflect on a leader they admire. I told them it could be a parent, a teacher, a business or community leader—any person the respective student knew.

They wrote without hesitation and shared stories in class.

Assignment Part 1: Write two paragraphs about someone you know who inspires you and demonstrates personal leadership skills you admire.

When I told them there was a part two to the assignment, they got ready to write again. But when I told them what I wanted them to do next, they looked around at each other and smiled nervously. There was the collective sense of being on a roller coaster, about to tip over the apex and feel the rush of gravity.

Assignment Part 2: Text, email or call that person. Let them know that they’ve positively influenced your life and that you appreciate them. Do not ask them for anything. Just say thank you.

I’ve given this assignment before in different contexts. Sometimes I tell emerging writers to share appreciation with authors. But this is somewhat self-serving if the author is trying to network. Also, sometimes people do this just to endear themselves (Samuel Johnson: “He who praises everybody praises nobody”). But what about the people who have already given or inspired, from whom you have nothing to gain … who you merely appreciate?

For the first time, I had the thought that maybe I should do what I expected of them. I emailed a mentor from my young adulthood and thanked her for being a light in my life when I was an emotionally and mentally fragile mess. My stomach dropped as I hit send on the email, and I was confused by my own nervous energy. Not much makes me nervous anymore, but sending that email made me feel oddly vulnerable.

Those who positively influence us (especially without reciprocation) are human too. We need to celebrate them. And celebrate ourselves and our own efforts, for that matter. My email was answered promptly with appreciation and a note of surprise. And I realize that any time a student emails me out of the blue with a thank-you message, I feel the same. It’s not the norm.

So if you’re here reading this, thank you for your time and attention. Your presence. Secondly, why not do this yourself?

Even if it is the norm for you to show appreciation, is there someone underappreciated in your life? Someone who could use a little acknowledgment?

It’s remarkable to me how much more inclined I am to celebrate my own wins when I can celebrate others.

Heartfelt gratitude for your support.

What’s coming? I have another short podcast series coming up for subscribers and quite a lot of BIG writing news. In the meantime, celebrate, friends! Yourselves and others.

xo

On death

I catch myself paying closer attention to the cadence of my breath when I see a tombstone.

As a kid, riding in the back of my parents’ Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais, we were always on the lookout. Mom would say, “Hold your breath!” whenever we approached a cemetery. My sister and I would suck in oxygen and expand our cheeks.

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

While I don’t remember discussing the reason, I knew we didn’t want ghosts and spirits to recruit us. So I made a game of eluding death by holding my breath for longer increments each time we drove along the cemetery that extended a few blocks on Olentangy River Road. It was a route we traversed often.

After a while, I became boastful about how long I could remain inert. Playing dead to fool the dead, I could suck in oxygen at the traffic light, when the cemetery was barely in sight, and hold my breath comfortably as I squinted to read the names on the stones, wondering at the life stories. I’d hold it beyond the cemetery until my body faltered. Just when we were in the clear, I’d find myself gasping after the inevitable release.

For a long time, I imagined gasping would be how I’d take my last breath.

Now in my mid-forties, I appreciate the wisdom and philosophical framing that arrives with middle age. I wouldn’t go back in time for anything, but I can’t say aging is without its perils. I wonder currently, for instance, if the cartilage in my right knee is atrophying or if this twinge is just overuse. It’s hard to tell. Small parts and processes of my body are beginning to weaken. There are more foods I cannot tolerate. I appreciate a good nap.

I wonder about the number of years I have left and the quality of those years, but not in a depressing manner. I’m not taking anything for granted.

I have to admit that on my birthday I succumbed to the urge to enter basic lifestyle information into a death calculator online. It told me I had about ninety full years to live. This means I am about halfway through, assuming I’m incredibly lucky. This death calculator is likely just a way of collecting marketing information, but even if it happens to be accurate, this is the sort of data the mind can’t quite digest. It feels abstract, albeit less so than it did in my twenties.  

In my thirties, I published a lot of short fiction staring a protagonist named Rattle. He was a seeker, internally tortured, and he seemed to have a proclivity for mocking death. I named him after reading about the death rattle, which refers to a sound the body emits when a dying person’s fluids build up in the throat and upper chest. But Rattle also had a certain innocence, a wonder.

I do not have children, but friends who do tell me that the sound of a rattle is transfixing. It evokes a sense of curiosity as babies puzzle about where the scattered sound came from. They investigate the object and begin to explore its shape. When a rattle comes from inside, perhaps we find ourselves just as transfixed. Just as curious and in awe.

“Lift your feet so they don’t get wet,” Mom would say if we drove on a bridge over a large body of water. I am pretty sure she made this one up. My sister and I would lift our feet and legs, finding an isometric hold, but we weren’t convinced. If we forgot, we’d laugh it off.

We never forgot to hold our breath.

I still remember the day we drove past a graveyard, and I chose to breathe. I did so defiantly, mocking the spirits. Take that, death, I thought, as my sister looked on in horror, her cheeks expanded and eyes wide. I tried to smile confidently, but I had immediate reservations about what I’d done.

I took conscious inhalations, feeling everything—the temperature, length, expansion in my body—and, for the first time I can remember, felt total appreciation for every single breath. This appreciation wanes and swells to this day, and the older I get, the more I feel it.   

After all, the ephemeral is what makes everything worthwhile.

Prompt: Death is one of the most compelling topics in literature, so I invite you to write a piece about death. A character, a process… an end.

4 of 4: The Alchemy of Creative Living

Week 4: Your unique creative voice

Time: 10 minutes

Hey, get that notebook again!

Dear friends,

I am heading back from a trip to Alberta, where I met a good friend and so many kind people in Calgary. It was lovely to meet these Canadian Rocky Mountains. What a creative and soulful boost for my birthday.

But if you’re like me, you’ll need a little fortitude as we approach the fall months and commitments swell.

This week’s installment is like an SOS for creative stuckness. A reminder that you have a creative why even if it’s not clearly defined in your mind, even if the how is inaccessible.

I hope you enjoyed this series!

If you’re a paid subscriber, you should be able to download and replay them as needed. Let me know how these meditations and short exercises worked for you.

3 of 4: The Alchemy of Creative Living

Week 3 (8/8): Methods for keeping creative momentum

Time: 13 minutes

Outline: meditation & talk

Get ready to write!

The last installment is next week. Aim to keep momentum till then.

xo Jen

Read more

On creative trust

What have you done that you previously thought was impossible?

I recall thinking I’d never be able to write coherent sentences, let alone write a book.

I was once sure that I would never get a college degree. I got two.

At one time I was afraid of drowning, so I avoided the pool; some years later, I soared off the high dive. (Okay, maybe soared is an exaggeration, but I dove in my own special way.)

There were times when I thought I’d never forgive another person. Or myself. But I did. I moved on.

All of this took a certain amount of trust that what I saw in front of me was not all there was. An ability to trust, in my experience, is an attribute that fluctuates. But it is especially valuable to creative people, especially writers. After all, as Alan Watts said in so many words, the writer’s job is to describe the indescribable. In other words, to do the impossible.

We have to trust that one word will lead to the next and that the words will provide us with shapes and symbols that allow others to imagine. This is nothing short of magic, and it’s impossible without a little trust.

But let’s talk about the fluctuations.

Subscribe now

There were plenty of times that I found myself hiding or taking the familiar route due to a lack of trust, in myself or others. And wow were there a lot of times that I’ve remained quiet as opposed to speaking.

So what is the difference between the days we *soar* from the high dive and the days we run from the water?

Sure, it’s possible that the position of Jupiter and Saturn or the retrogrades of Venus had an impact, but I think other factors were in place. One of which is Necessity. When you are hungry, you find a way to eat. You don’t have time for doubt.

I often showed up when I felt I had no other choice. When I was too broke to indulge my anxiety, I realized the value of pursuing a degree. When I was committed to an event, I showed up. When I told people I was going to study writing and signed up for classes and saw them through. There was always still an opportunity not to show up, but for the most part, the added pressure (positive and not so much) kept me moving forward.

Amy L. Eva at Berkely’s Greater Good Science Center cites perseverance and clarifying values as two of the key differentiators between the days we muster the courage to get out of bed and the days we pull up the covers. I wonder if trust is similar. And I also wonder what role safety plays in complacency.

If we’re comfortable, are we more inclined to play it safe?

Most artists I know want visibility in some ways, but there are often blocks around what comes with it. Exposure brings attention, both wanted and unwanted.

I think it’s important to address this candidly because while it’s tempting and popular to offer advice such as “Speak your truth!” or “Write from the heart,” this isn’t necessarily what is best for us on all days. We have to be ready. We have to practice climbing the ladder and looking down at the water before we make the dive.

Share Here we are

As writers, it’s easy to play to the market or society’s mood instead of trusting the true story that wants to come out. Ask the bots what is safe and marketable before making a comment or posting your opinion.

In our day-to-day life, it’s easy to let extremists or famous people, or algorithms run the discourse. It’s easy to placate and avoid others’ emotional triggers. However, to censor ourselves or play to a market pulse is to sacrifice integrity (artistic and personal). And it’s to compromise our creative trust.

We all [okay, most of us] want to do what’s right and cultivate empathy and search for the beauty and nuance that lives in the human condition, but to have a genuine, honest view is to be vulnerable enough to take the dive.

Your artistry is directly connected to your vulnerability. —David Whyte

As we hone our creative, authentic voices, we need to check in with ourselves honestly regularly to ensure we’re not speeding ahead recklessly or playing it safe at our work’s peril.

But fluctuations are real. So how about checking in today … Where are you on the creative trust scale? How much trust do you have in the next sentence and your voice? How much are you holding back?

While I’d like to aim for the conscientious risk-taker each day, I’m not always there. But perhaps the breakthroughs will continue. The trust increases with practice. It increases with need. It increases with genuine inquiry. But it’s never fully guaranteed.

And perhaps the variability is what makes writing, and us, human.

Prompt

Write about something that shakes your comfort level a little. TRUST. Get bold. You don’t have to share it. Just see what happens. Give yourself 10 minutes to write with no other aim than to take risks. If you’d like, ceremoniously (but responsibly) burn it all later.

Let me know how it goes.

Here we are is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

2 of 4: The Alchemy of Creative Living

Week 2 (8/1): Learning how to ground & focus despite distractions

Time: 12-15 minutes

Bring a notebook & your attention

Find more meditations here and here.

Subscribe now

Next up…Week 3 (8/8): Methods for keeping creative momentum

Time: 13 minutes

Get ready to write!

Week 4 (8/15): Your unique creative voice

Time: 10 minutes

Hey, get that notebook again!

I hope you enjoy and appreciate this offering. I hope it offers you a little new perspective as you embark on whatever creative journey you’re on. Comment below if you have questions or feedback.

Music credit: Adrift Among Infinite Stars by Scott Buckley
Music promoted by: https://www.chosic.com/free-music/all/
Creative Commons CC BY 4.0

On the writer self, yesterday and today

“I can’t believe I wrote that.”

“Where did that come from?”

“I never thought about it that way before.”

#1. Have you ever written something only to later stand back in awe? I’m not talking about the egotistical kind of awe, but true wonder—a realization that you accessed some truth or insight that was previously inaccessible.

#2. Have you ever written something only to later stand back and see just how underwhelming it was? I’m talking about the kind of writing that you remember feeling so filled with profundity but now, in fact, reads a little shallow or disconnected or self-indulgent.

I recently experienced both.

And while I wish I could say the awe factor has been more prevalent in my literary career in general, underwhelm is right up there, too. Luckily more so with works that are not published. I’ve written many words that I consider filler or, more optimistically, a trail of words that have led me toward more important realizations.

I wrote a considerable amount of climate-based fiction from 2012 to 2016, at a time when the genre was less popular than it is now. I was only a few years out of my MFA, and I was working multiple jobs to pay off debts. My writing happened in early mornings or late hours in our twice-robbed one-bedroom apartment in San Antonio. In fact, one of the robberies forced me to rewrite a few of the stories.

Anyway, I recently revisited a lot of these stories due to a forthcoming republication (I’ll discuss the details later). In so doing, I tapped this awe, though I feared just the opposite would happen.

My initial response was hesitation to return to this older work, but a publisher, Press Americana, expressed a desire to re-release a collection of climate fiction due to its timeliness. When it comes to fiction, I am usually of the mindset that once a thing is done creatively, it’s time to move forward and start the next thing.

Unfortunately for us, climate concerns are more resonant now than they were then, and they were more resonant then than they were when Al Gore was being chastised for holding congressional hearings on human responsibility when it comes to planetary health in the mid-70s before I was born. Climate change will be more topical in five minutes than it is now.

And, due to the “hot topic” of climate change (sorry … I had to), here I found myself leading the unexpected resurrection of older fiction. And wow has offered me quite an interesting journey of discoursing with my former writer self. As I reread, I saw glimpses of insight that seemed beyond my experience at the time. I was busy surviving then, not keeping up with social issues. But the magical/strange stories I wrote then seemed driven by some deeper truth.

If you are organized enough to have older work on your computer or in your files somewhere that you can return to, I invite you to do a search. Try to find something that is five or ten years old, something you saved for some reason at some time. Something you wrote at a time distance just long enough that you can’t remember quite what you were thinking when you wrote it. Read it as objectively as possible and discourse with it. Honestly.

My own experience with this process has been remarkable, especially because while I’ve had to update references and tweak language here and there, I realize both the value of my perspective then and now. I also understand that both moments of underwhelm and awe exist in response to my former writer self, and both are valuable on this artistic journey.

As a person who will never be in danger of hoarding, who eagerly purges and finds Swedish Death Cleaning a genius and comforting practice (metaphorically and in practice), to return to the cluttered art of the past has brought unexpected joy. It’s led me to reevaluate the depth and nuance of my current works in progress.

Prompt: Resurrect old work, no matter how self-indulgent or how profound. Have a dialogue with that work and see if you have anything to add or change or rework.