Jen Knox's Blog, page 22
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.
May 29, 2023
On (in)authenticity
Oxford Learner’s Dictionary
Inauthentic, adjective: not what somebody claims it is; that you cannot believe or rely on
The idea of inauthenticity often brings to mind politeness at any cost. It brings to mind the myriad “anti-aging” potions and pills. It feeds on comparison and competition. It reminds me of myself as a pre-teen, going through great pains to style my hair like Kelly on 90210 (my hair is thick, curly, and red; hers was thin, straight, and blonde - it didn’t work so well).
In writing, I believe that a lack of authenticity arises in the writer who cuts corners or perpetually struggles to sound like someone else at the cost of their own voice and story. I think of work that is safe.
Inauthenticity in action = hiding.
But what about authenticity in action? How do we stop hiding? How do we own our own stories and find our own voices on the page and in life?
In both my leadership and writing research, I’ve found that we can find ways to show up in ways that may not be what’s expected or easy and still do so with resolve. The ability to be authentic, in my experience (and readings), can be supported with two (2) practices.
Understand that showing up authentically just means trusting ourselves, and remembering why we should trust ourselves.
Trust of self can be summoned by remembering times we’ve done it before. Call to mind a time you showed up and felt completely yourself and in alignment. Maybe those were times you were writing and the pen felt like it was just moving without effort. Or times you just felt comfortable enough to be fully yourself in person.
Take a few moments here and there to remember how it felt to show up like this, and tap those feelings . . . memorizing (imprinting) and revisiting them. And while you’re at it, study those times. Where were you? What do you think led to the ease, the flow?
For me, these times show up when I feel truly invested.
For instance, if I’ve been churning on a story for a few weeks, then I finally sit down to write it, the thing flows. If I sit down with the thought “I’m going to write a story because I should,” it doesn’t work so well.
Another example is when I sit with a prompt and just begin to play, remaining open to what comes. If I do, something authentic comes. If I try to force, not so much.
If I’m writing an essay, and I’m truly invested in the topic, or open to the receptive creative process, the essay writes itself. If I’m writing about something just to be trendy (well, I don’t, obv.), then it’s stilted.
And in person, well, if you know me at all, I’m incapable of being inauthentic. My face is expressive, and I simply start daydreaming if I feel I’m in an environment that’s not productive.
Again, the point is trust … trusting yourself means remembering times when you have shown up authentically. Think about it. Capture a few moments. Recount them. Write them down.
Reconnect (and reevaluate) what you value in any given project or situation.
Education, creativity, free expression, inclusivity, joy, humor, friendship, honesty, equity, health … whatever your top values are right now, they’re helpful when thinking about any given project or situation.
How does this project speak to your values? Does it need to?
How are you living in accordance or out of sync with these values? (Your true values, not what you think you should value.)
I made a little meditation about examining authenticity that follows the above rationale. But my best advice, in a nutshell, goes like this:
You don’t have to write every day. You don’t have to be productive every day.
You don’t have to write what anyone else writes.
You don’t have to write what’s politically correct or socially trendy.
You have to write when and what you are called to.
Show up consistently.
Be kind, be exploratory, and the rest will work itself out.
If we stay open, we stay in this state of self-trust and exploration, we sure can find the beauty in this crazy life.
xoxo Jen
Meditation for paid subscribers here: Showing up with Authenticity
