Jen Knox's Blog, page 22

On Onions

A homeless man, who often slept in our backyard when I was a child, had a unique philosophy on perception. This man often bartered with my father and looked out for our house on the few occasions our family traveled. He surfaced in my mind yesterday as I was reminiscing with my sister, which got me thinking about the nature of change.

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On the vulnerability of the artist

As writers, we spend a lot more time hovering over our computers and reconsidering words than we spend presenting them to audiences. In fact, presenting our work can feel like a pressurized situation at times because it requires an author to represent a complex journey and story in a concise amount of time.

Many of the people reading this blog are familiar with my journey toward novel publication. For those who aren’t, the short story is that it took me a while, but the time investment was worth it because the story meant a lot to me, and the characters needed those years to fully develop in my mind.

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But now that the book is out, now that I’ve shared it, I need to let it go. Meanwhile, I find myself in the familiar position of vulnerability that arrives with the artistic share. There are events, readings, book fairs, and reviews. Oh my! Here are a few notes on each.

Book fairs:

A part of me loves events. As an ambivert, I need my quiet time in general and could do with or without a house party, but wow do I love the stage. Moreover, I LOVE talking about writing, philosophy, women’s rights, and big-picture issues, which I’ve found writers are able to tackle in a way that encompasses the patience needed to explore complexities.

Waiting for Ohioana Book Festival for things to get started with my hippo full of Werther’s Originals

When it comes to events, writers and book lovers are a wonderful crowd because they inherently care about the nuance of the human experience. Also, they want to be entertained. And they are often quite entertaining in their own right—those who devour stories are able to create them seamlessly.

And this proved true at the Ohioana Book Festival this past weekend. Aside from logistical issues (authors often have one or two major bookstores order their books from publishers for such events, which sometimes need to be tracked down, and we have to find our table and set up), the event itself is usually pretty straightforward for the visiting author and participants.

These events are usually free. People wander in and stop by a table. You, the author, sit or stand, ask them about their day, and they buy your book or take a piece of candy. Sometimes they walk by very quickly or try to pretend not to see you. When people do stop, you can either try to sell them your book, or you can just relax and ask them about their day. I did a little of both.

When people stopped by my book table on Saturday, I remembered (it’s been quite a few months) that book fairs are an excellent opportunity to get to know interesting people. I learned so much about life and human experience. Moreover, I found the experience incredibly entertaining and, at times, full of characters. Here’s a glimpse:

-A lovely young woman taught me how to properly blow dry my bangs (thank you, lovely young woman, also, for buying my book despite your mother’s hesitancy).

-A local politician’s wife stopped by my table. I complimented her purple dress, and she shared that Queen Victoria wore a shade of purple that was so expensive only she could afford it. I thanked her (for this piece of color elitism trivia) and fought the urge to tell her husband to change his stance on most things.

-An elderly man who took more than his share of the Werther’s Originals I had on hand shared with me (as an ice breaker) that redheads will likely soon be extinct. If you read this, thank you, sir, for coming to my table to say that - you are a character indeed.

-I had engaging conversations about women and writing and stigmas and what’s changed and changing.

-There are many beautiful writers I met for the first time, and I unexpectedly ran into a few students, which was delightful.

-A homeless man told me he was a ghostwriter and worked on books similar to those of Dr. Suess, but, he said, “My work is not as strange.” One never knows.

-A teenager roamed the aisles and stared at ALL the books with disdain, never making eye contact with the authors. (I love this kid.)

All this to say, events can be fun! They can be energizing as well as draining, and my best advice for writers is to simply show up with a healthy curiosity. Odd, wonderful things happen every moment if only we pay attention.

Any nerves or worries over losing energy during such events are valid, but they can also be replaced with wonder when we just pay attention to just how strange and beautiful the shared world of storytelling is.

Panels:

I have been on my fair share of panels, and they are always a bit unpredictable. I often find that panelists come in with some idea about what they’ll say, but then they end up getting sidetracked.

For this reason, I think writers should have a few notes, but just answer honestly. In an age of derivatives, why not just focus on authenticity? Even at the potential cost of slipping over words.

For Ohioana, I was on a panel with three other women who shared both different and similar perspectives, and we all wrote in very different genres but shared similar stories and tips on the writing life. It was wonderful to chat with these women and hear their perspectives.

So I stand by only one tip for panels: be authentic. And maybe make eye contact with a few folks.

I have a few more for tips readings. My next one is late May at Prologue Bookshop (all are invited).

Readings:

-Show up early, so you know what the stage or space looks like and how you can best position your book. Sometimes lighting is awkward or a podium is there/not there, and it’s all important to the way you are able to see and hold your book.

-If you tell a story about the writing you’re going to read, audiences usually offer bonus points if it’s funny or relatable, in some way.

-Read with flourish but not too much (unless you’re already a voice actor, and this rule is mute for poets).

-Please do not set up special flashing lights or entrances that are convoluted or overly theatrical. I once saw a poet read at AWP who had flashing lights and mood music as she struggled up to the stage. It was cringe-worthy.

-Break any rule you want if it’s authentic to you.

Reviews:

They’re coming in, folks. I’ll save this for next week. In the meantime, I’ll be grading final papers and listening to philosophical podcasts.

Wishing you a lovely week ahead.

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On time

How do you lose time or skip time or try to rush time in your life?

I was walking to my office on campus the other day and heard a group of visitors behind me commenting on the robots we have all over campus delivering food. These little delivery bots have been around for a while now, but they are fun to see for the first time, so I shared in their delight.

“Next we’ll see flying cars,” one of them said.

Again with the flying cars, I thought.

I always ask students (and, let’s be honest, anyone I meet) what their one prediction for the future will be, and I get responses ranging from “flying cars” to “drone delivery” to “we’re headed for peril if we don’t save the planet” to “we’ll save the planet” to “we’ll eradicate isms and find peace” to (and this person delivered the answer stoically) “we will get food delivered in tubes and never leave the house.”

The answers to this question are always odd and insightful and fun. Even the more dire responses are compelling. The flying car or AI or developments in holograms or robotics answers all seem to depict a future in which we can be more efficient and effective, albeit more vulnerable to the unknown.

These are exciting (and nerve-wracking) developments to dream about. They will speed up time, after all. But why? (My true, uncensored thought is, Why not slow the fuck down, people? Goodness - where the hell do you think we need to race to and why? But the polite essence of my response is Why?)

Are we rushing because we have some destiny that is timestamped? I suppose there are myriad answers to this question found in religion and philosophy. We have to check boxes so we can feel fulfilled, right? But I’m pretty confident that fulfillment doesn’t come from rushing.

Meanwhile, I realize I’m contributing to this rushing with my icebreaker (I want to know what’s going to happen! I want to prepare. I want to know what others think!), and society is with me. We’re all asking. The business world is with me. The wellness world is with me. Leadership is with me.

We are all in a big hurry. Think about how we live. Even meditation and “mindfulness” seem to be promoted as ways to be more effective in life and work and to think more efficiently and clearly or make more money. But we recognize the irony here, right? To meditate is to reflect.

But while we even use meditation time as the means to an end — to barrel ahead and rush forward, toward . . . flying cars? (Personally, I don’t even like driving on the freeway, and if there will be the same number of Amazon trucks flying up there, I’m good.) — I’m curious about what this means internally.

Everyone wants to master their domain. I get it. Evolution, mastery, achievement, etc… to check the boxes before we die, etc… To leave a legacy, etc… To prepare for what’s to come.

But what about the value of reflection or the beauty of what’s right here? The beauty of you, right here and now, reading on a screen human-written words that may or may not resonate with you and understanding that either response is okay. More than okay. The process of living is beautiful. We ingest, we think, we process, and we feel. We agree and disagree. We think about the future but don’t rush it.

This is not a message to “be mindful” or live in the present. It’s a call to pay attention not only to the future. Or the present. Or the past. Instead, let’s do it all.

It is often said that we share messages that we need to hear personally. I believe this is the case, but I hope nonetheless that this post will resonate with one or two of you.

Just imagine what might happen if we both pay attention and remember lessons. Think about the future, but don’t rush. What if we do it all—live across timelines?

I truly believe we have that ability. And here are tiny things I’m trying in an attempt to seek that balance:

I stopped taking my phone on my walks with the dogs—I don’t need to be answering emails as my dogs meditate on the vast world of activity that lives in a few-inch stretch of grass on a spring day.

I reflect on the day in my gratitude journal.

I plan ahead, but only to the extent that it makes sense.

I notice if I seem to be in a rush. I don’t beat myself up for it, but I do ask: Why, Jen?

I’m working on a new icebreaker. Something like . . .

“Tell me three things: What are you most proud of? What is meaningful to you right now? What would you like to see happen next in the world?”

And I’ll ask myself the same. I’ll let you know how it goes.

*Next week, I’m writing about literary events and how to “show up” or “not show up.” It should be pretty funny. If you’re in Ohio, come see me at Ohioana Book Festival this Saturday. Info here.

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On AI (again) because it's a big topic

When I think about the impacts of using Artificial General Intelligence (AGI) in creative pursuits and general communication, I feel a deep sadness. Not because I think technology will completely eradicate creativity and philosophical inquiry but because I think AGI technologies that are currently being rolled out as “more efficient” will reduce many individuals’ capacities for growth and expansion.

More specifically, I think it will thwart the human ability to problem solve and cultivate the patience and focus needed to build resilience and come to new realizations. What's easy and convenient stalls the growth of an otherwise curious mind. If we become over-reliant on crowd-sourced data and logic-based algorithms to come up with all answers or do the “busy work” that cultivates patience (and offers the payoff that comes with difficulties), humans will stop contributing new ideas and being able to relate to each other. To me, reliance on AGI is like stopping time.

That said, maybe I’m paranoid. So I asked ChatGPT what it thought.

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Hey, ChatGPT, will humans lose empathy as a result of using AI?

There is currently no evidence to suggest that people will lose empathy as a direct result of AI. In fact, AI has the potential to enhance empathy in a number of ways. For example, AI-powered chatbots and virtual assistants can provide emotional support and companionship to people who may otherwise be isolated or lonely. AI can also be used to analyze large amounts of data related to social issues, such as poverty and healthcare, which can help to identify and address disparities and improve outcomes for marginalized communities.

However, it is possible that the over-reliance on AI and technology in general could lead to a decline in face-to-face social interaction, which is an important factor in the development and expression of empathy. Additionally, there are concerns that the increasing use of AI in fields such as law enforcement and healthcare could result in a lack of human empathy and bias in decision-making.

Oh, well whew! Thank you. Maybe we have nothing to worry about then. Except maybe “the over-reliance on AI and technology in general could lead to a decline in face-to-face social interaction, which is an important factor in the development and expression of empathy” and “lack of human empathy and bias in decision-making” in fields like law enforcement. NBD.

So, ChatGPT, what about creativity and resilience?

AI can be used to automate routine and repetitive tasks, freeing up more time for humans to focus on more creative endeavors. This can help to increase overall productivity and allow humans to explore new areas of creativity and innovation.

Ultimately, the impact of AI on human creativity will depend on how it is used and implemented. If AI is used as a tool to support and augment human creativity, it is likely to enhance rather than diminish our creative abilities.

Well that too is a relief, right? ChatGPT will enhance creativity if used as a “tool to support and augment human creativity.” At least it doesn’t reduce our ability to problem solve, focus and grow. So, ChatGPT, how do we do that as writers?

AI can be a valuable tool for writers, helping them to automate certain routine tasks such as proofreading and editing, and providing new avenues for creative inspiration. In this way, AI can be used to augment and enhance human creativity, rather than replace it.

Okay, okay, final question. You said it would automate certain routine tasks such as proofreading and editing. I’m curious, what are the benefits of proofreading and editing for the human brain?

Proofreading and editing can be beneficial for the human brain in several ways. Here are a few examples:

Enhancing attention to detail: Proofreading and editing require a high level of attention to detail and focus. This can help to enhance cognitive skills such as concentration and attention to detail, which can be useful in many other areas of life.

Improving language skills: Proofreading and editing involve a deep understanding of language, including grammar, punctuation, and vocabulary. This can help to improve language skills and expand one's vocabulary, which can be useful in communication and in other areas of life.

Boosting problem-solving skills: Proofreading and editing often require creative problem-solving skills to identify and correct errors in writing. This can help to develop critical thinking skills and enhance problem-solving abilities, which can be useful in many areas of life.

Reducing stress: Correcting errors in writing can be a satisfying and rewarding activity, which can help to reduce stress and improve overall mental health.

Overall, proofreading and editing can be a useful and beneficial activity for the human brain, helping to improve cognitive skills, language abilities, problem-solving skills, and overall mental well-being.

Ah, well, thanks for taking those pesky perks off our plate, ChatGPT.

Recently, in a class visit to Otterbein to read from We Arrive Uninvited, a student asked me what I’d tell my former self if I were to go back and offer some writing advice.

I thought about my broke-ass younger self in a one-bedroom apartment, trying to ignore the stomping in the unit above me as I wrote disjointed and self-indulgent sentences. Somewhat jokingly but entirely honestly, I answered, “I’d tell her to ‘Hang in there, champ’,” and then I explained why.

The difficulties of the journey are what made the completion of this work meaningful. I wouldn’t trade a lesson I learned along the way for a shortcut for anything. Meanwhile, I guarantee if you’d offered my younger self this tech and said it was a rocket ship to take me to my goals, I would’ve tried it. Just write this one chapter, maybe a few . . .

Having gone through the slow and painstaking journey, I feel true joy for having created something that will resonate on a human level with someone, and maybe with a few people. Or more than a few people. I feel that same joy for those I piss off or make uncomfortable with its contents. Because I gained the confidence over the years to broach nuanced and human questions.

The difficulties of our creative journeys contain the magic of our journeys. I hope you’ll consider that before asking AI to write a story for you to tweak and submit as your own. You’re missing the entire point. And you’re missing so, so much more.

When I asked the students at Otterbein what they thought of ChatGPT, there was some recoiling and some more shrugs and waves of hands. To be honest, this response of waving the tech away gives me more hope than anything.

The young ones know, right? Or do they? Did I?

Human or not, feel free to let me know what you think in the chat. :)

*Note: After writing this on Saturday, my friend Jim Coe posted this video to social media. My concerns seem mild.

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On color theory & expression

Primary Colors: Red, yellow, and blue

Visual harmony: In general, complementary colors that please the eye (or are “easy on the eye” as the old saying goes).

Henry Matisse on color: “The chief function of color should be to serve expression. Color helps to express light, not the physical phenomenon…”

Apartment theory on color: Complementary colors are especially pleasing to the eye because different types of photoreceptor cells contribute to color vision and perceive different types of light in the color spectrum.

Summary: Most of us seek out harmony via visual cues. This is all very basic to a visual artist, but it makes me wonder about the art of writing. How do we play with aesthetics? How do we offer what is pleasing to the reader—not from a formulaic standpoint but from an artistic standpoint? Harmony in the story could be thought of as a happy ending, a strong plot line, a character that the reader can relate to, or simply the arranging of words in an elegant manner.

But what if the topic we’d like to discuss is not harmonious? What if it has sharp edges or dwells in pain or loss? What if our topic is gun violence or the feeling of loneliness? Does this disturb the harmony? I discussed this at Thurber House the other day while offering a workshop on how to “Write What Scares You.” My favorite topic. In it, I cited a brilliant interview in The Guardian with the author of A Little Life, Hanya Yanagihara: ‘Don’t we read fiction exactly to be upset?’ is the title.

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I sometimes wonder if what we’re really trying to praise is not the subject matter

or the politics or even the aesthetics of the book, but the author’s ability, or even

just willingness, to be impolite, to be messy, to be extravagant on the page. A

novel can be perfect in its structure, in its logic, in its composure, but the most

memorable novels, the most electrifying, are the ones that understand the

necessity of imperfection, of ragged edges, of being distasteful, of making

mistakes, of being demanding of the reader.

This speaks to a deeper engagement, an idea I’ve been churning on a lot lately — that we must embrace everything to tell a good story. And perhaps to live a rich life. All the joy, magic, fear, and ugliness of the world (and the writer’s mind, ultimately) must be examined in a novel, for instance, to create the kind of experience that sticks with the reader.

A desire not to provoke, or to play it safe by doing what we think is trendy, is easy. But it will limit impact. This makes me appreciate writers like Yanagihara all the more.

To create a beautiful work of literature may mean we need to create images in the mind that are more than complementary. We don’t always need a structure that is easy on the mind, for instance, to invite the reader to dive deep into the story. We can write sentences that pop in the same way an artist uses a dash of bring yellow and a hint of gold at the edges of a deep russet-orange to grab a viewer’s eye as they recreate the beauty of a sunset.

The deeper emotional resonance and transcendence of storytelling is where what’s easy fails.

A well-depicted horizon line is sharp, jolting, causing a viewer to pause in such a way that we believe we could stare beyond the optical center of the image and into infinity. We see what is there, but we also see beyond. Similarly, in writing, perhaps we sometimes need sharp lines, the jolt of anger or fear, and the interruption from harmony, to truly tell the story we need to tell, to create contrast.

Stories that write the discord and do so in a way that jolts a reader while offering an artist’s grace and beauty are those I seek as a reader and aim to write.

Some people buy and sell only what’s easy on the eye or mind (see: multibillion-dollar self-help industry). But I sense that facing the sharp lines of life offers us more beauty than anything easy. Maybe in life as much as in art and literature.

Perhaps true harmony needs contrast. Just a thought.

Wishing you all a harmonious April. Below is a new meditation on accepting the gamut. You can also download it from Insight Timer or Aura.

xo Jen

ON TRUSTING THE JOURNEY: a meditation

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On my many mistakes

I ate way too many Hot Pockets in my twenties and, dare I admit, my thirties.

I’m paying for this one.

I currently have a bruise under my right eye from self-administered acupuncture.

It usually works out quite well for allergies, but I

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On Love, Desire & the Equinox

Old English lufu, Germanic origin; Indo-European root shared by Sanskrit lubhyati ‘desires’; Latin libet ‘it is pleasing’ —OxfordLanguages

I love reading a good book with a warm mug of tea nearby and my pup’s head resting on my feet. I love sharing dinner and a glass or two of unchilled sauvignon blanc with friends. I love anyone in the world who is trying to do good for others despite personal struggles. I love traveling to new places—any new places, from an Ohio small town to a bustling foreign city—because it awakens something. I love a simple but rich sushi roll, right down to the process of dipping the sticky rice into a small pot of soy sauce laced with wasabi. I love a good hike on a cool, cloudy day. I love the idea of possibility. I love the feeling after a good workout, or when I dance with my husband in our living room. I love Bill Withers and Betty White and Bob Ross, even though I never met them. I love the feel of a tough breeze on a warm day. I love the momentum of creative expression. I love connecting with others about philosophical questions, even though I am sure I will never find the answers.

Photo by Hush Naidoo Jade Photography

The etymology of LOVE seems to imply that desire is closely related, at least in the historical understanding of the word, but I wonder about the relationship between these words as they are defined today . . .

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On writing and publishing

We Arrive Uninvited took me ten years to write.

Okay, so that’s a dramatic writer thing to say.

We Arrive Uninvited took me ten years to write, BUT there were years, months, and days I never so much as looked at that manuscript. If I’m being entirely honest, it probably took me a year to write, but that year was spread out over ten because I was working. A lot.

Besides, I always found it much easier and more gratifying to write and share short stories than toil away at the novel because, well, the novel was hard. It required sustained focus and attention. It required something else that I’ve struggled with my entire life. Patience.

But I did it, which means anyone can (sans AI). But it’s incredibly hard work. As is understanding and navigating the world of book sales.

Before the novel was truly, truly complete, I began to send it out for consideration by THE publishing industry. I acquired an agent quickly, but she wanted me to turn the novel into a YA romance, which didn’t make any sense, so that relationship ended. I found another agent (a “bigger” agent), who loved the work but again wanted changes to the story (oddly enough in a very opposite way - “Get rid of the young narrator, and . . .”).

I stayed true to my vision and continued to tweak it. I destroyed the manuscript and rebuilt it. I did that multiple times.

Over the years, excerpts from the novel won awards and placed highly in adaptation contests, but there were many false starts. Ultimately, in 2021, the manuscript won two awards in one week. One was the Steel Toe Books Award for Prose and the other was the Winter Goose Publishing Award. The very same week, Tiny Fox Press asked for a phone conversation and another agent request was in my inbox. I declined Winter Goose and Tiny Fox because I’d heard from STB first, and I knew that they put out beautiful books (see above).

The book was finally going to be published. But the journey didn’t stop there.

Fast forward to late February 2023, and my book is slated for prerelease sale. There was a metadata error that caused a few blank copies of my book to be shipped, and I was feeling a bit raw. I received videos and pictures from friends and students with my blank book. It was kind of funny, but also not-so-funny. Soon thereafter, a F*x News style blogger that likes to critique small presses came after my publishers and tried to discredit not only them but many of the amazing authors they’ve published over the years.

I understand why others (see: me, five years ago) would lose their shit under these circumstances. To write a book, to dedicate years (or a year) means an author is emotionally attached. Such an author wants others to read their book. As many others as possible, in fact. And if anything might negatively impact that, it feels like a personal affront.

For non-writers, this might not seem logical, but writing is soul work. As such, many authors refer to their books as babies. I like to refer to mine, a little more accurately I think, as my ego baby. Because once the thing is packaged and complete, I know that my attachment no longer has anything to do with the divine process of creativity. Now it’s business. I can’t even tell you how much I want this baby to succeed, but that’s all ego. And when I step away from that, I see only a remarkable amount of gratitude for the ups and downs of this process.

From idea to publication.

From a practical perspective, I want to go on record as saying that it takes a lot of time to read manuscripts, and it costs money to publish books. It takes resources to edit. Most publishers get inundated with work, and small publishers are often the bridge between truly innovative/quality work and audiences. To find a small publisher today is to find a small team who believes in your work enough to invest in you, and invest is the keyword.

And invest, my small publisher had. They offered edits that were in alignment with my vision, they were careful not to try to change my voice to play to what I recently heard an ex-editor/agent refer to as what she said the big four publishing houses (she works for) target: “The lowest common denominator.”

Being a small publisher can be a true labor of love. This is why, when my book’s pre-release metadata was off, I never faulted my publishers. They responded to the mistake immediately and corrected it best they could. And, as my husband said when it happened, “They’re human.” So am I.

While I cannot deny that my ego baby means a lot, I’ve learned over the years to let the book go once it’s shipped or published, or shared. Yes, I will market it (see above & below), and I will spread the word. I will open its pages and read it at bookstores. Perhaps you’ll even catch me clutching my ego baby to my chest and rocking it from time to time (she is beautiful). But I know that this is not the creative process.

As of now, it is still humans who tell stories. And humans usher stories into the world. As long as we remain human, there will be emotions and a swirl of possible mistakes. But we do our best, and it’s a beautiful dance.

We Arrive Uninvited is slated to release this week. My publishers have put in tremendous work to help develop the manuscript. They have invested in the story and packaged it with care.

To this writer’s mind, true storytelling comes from a place of purity and grace and is an almost-spiritual offering to the world. We can’t forget this beauty or its magnitude, but we also can’t contain it.

I’ll end this by saying, ego baby or not, I wrote a good story, and I’m proud. I’m grateful for those who invested in me. And I invite you to buy many copies and tell me when you do, or ignore the book completely. I can’t do too much about it either way. Meanwhile, I’ll be writing.

xo

Jen

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On temporary enlightenment

My father told me about a time in his thirties when he felt what can only be described as enlightenment. His thoughts were organized and his awareness was heightened. He was working at a hospital and found himself in highly technical conversations with doctors about medical procedures he’d never studied. 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.

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, as eager to prove himself and 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 a bit neurotic. He was human.

When he told me this story, it reminded me of the first book I read that I couldn’t get out of my head. I remember finishing Flowers for Algernon at around eight years old in the basement of our home, where it was dark but quiet unless the drier was rumbling. I remember crying when Charlie returned to his original self (spoiler: Charlie was a character whose intelligence was heightened after participating in a science experiment, but his intelligent persona became callous and cold. Ultimately, the study proved to not be sustainable and Charlie returned to his original state).

I asked my father if he felt as though he’d become callous and cold when he felt his extreme intelligence and awareness, like Charlie, but he assured me he hadn’t. His state was one that sounded more like a teaser of what many self-help and spiritual leaders call enlightenment. So naturally, I wanted to know more. How could I achieve this? What’s the formula? What was he doing, wearing, consuming?

My father said that it “just happened.” But that answer wasn’t good enough for me.

The human brain is a delicate and strange thing. As is the human body. It’s a miracle of a machine, and yet so vulnerable. As I think about the potential of AI taking so much extraneous processing out of the equation of thought (or at least necessary thought), I wonder if states of clarity will be more or less accessible. Perhaps someone at the hospital had 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. Or maybe he truly got a taste of enlightenment.

Whatever it was, no matter how many questions I asked, I couldn’t get him to give me a formula, so I have none to offer you, but while my father used the words “aware” and “clear,” he never said he’d sought that state. In fact, he hadn’t mentioned any emotions during that time. There was no “gotcha!” feeling, or extreme relief.

Imagine what pure clarity, if only for a day, might mean. I like to think it would mean great relief. No “Why am I here?” questions. While I contribute to the world of personal development in all my work (arguably), I do think there’s an argument for pausing the search for enlightenment (or even just clarity), just for today. Just like there’s an argument for easing off the quest for perfection in writing or any craft.

Accepting fully our foibles and limitations as individual humans on this planet is a radical thing. But maybe pausing the search will also allow us to remember that if something like total clarity arrives in our lives, it’s highly 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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I’m writing a blog right now about the writing and publishing industry in active response to many things that have happened over the last few weeks. This blog will come out about the same time as my book, and whew do I have a lot to say.

On stillness

“In an age of speed, I began to think, nothing could be more invigorating than going slow. In an age of distraction, nothing can feel more luxurious than paying attention. And in an age of constant movement, nothing is more urgent than sitting still.” -Pico Iyer

Still. This is the best word to describe my week. After a tumultuous and busy February, my pulse dips as I sit cross-legged on a red couch and take shallow breaths.

Four days ago, my mother had surgery to remove a benign tumor that was pressing against her brainstem. After checking her in for surgery at 6 a.m., I waited in one room after another for twelve hours, only taking breaks to walk around or grab a quick bite to eat.

I’d brought a book, my computer, work, editing, writing projects, and more, but as I waited, I realized I could only truly focus on the task at hand. Sit. Shift. Wait.

Mom’s healing well. I’m watching her sleep, wondering if I should wake her up to take her pill. She has a mean headache, and the left side of her head and face are bruised, but whenever she wakes up she makes a joke about how exciting the day will be—she’s going to have beef broth and a handful of peanut butter Puffins—before falling back asleep. A few minutes later, her phone dings, and she sleepily asks who Ted Lasso is. When I shrug, she dozes off yet again.

I feel useless in a way. We’re in her house now, and she’s cozy. She’s no longer hooked up to IVs and machines, but the waiting feels the same. I can’t do much (aside from writing this blog, to be fair). There are no dry-humored nurses to trade glances with when my mom jokes and the silence is oddly confrontational. More so than meditation.

This confrontation is augmented by the two sets of green eyes perpetually fixed on me. Mom’s overweight cats might be wondering when the action is going to happen. Or, maybe like me, they’re just still. And I’m just still enough to notice them for once. We watch each other for a while.

Caretaking, even if only for a few days or weeks, can be confrontational because it forces us to remove ourselves from deadlines and, therefore, time. Without time, there’s no striving. All the doing is on pause. It demands presence and alertness, much in the way illness does, only without the distraction of pain.

So here I am. I clean. I fetch pills. I answer questions. But mostly, I just sit. And time doesn’t really matter. The to-dos don’t consume.

Sounds boring, right? It’s not.

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