Jen Knox's Blog, page 3
August 15, 2025
Don't Ghost Your Own Writing: How to Finish Your Creative Project No Matter What
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.
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.
Photo by Sarah SheedyI want to be clear: it’s okay to take breaks. I’m on one now, but I’m using that time to explore older work, scene scraps that I’ve tucked away, and it’s reminding me that all our individual stories are part of something larger.
It makes sense to walk away from art.
After all, the divine moments of inspiration pass. Life happens. Bills need to be paid, the world is on fire, AI takes your job, martial law is in place, 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 the right time. 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 now. 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.
Folks, my birthday is tomorrow. 46! I’m celebrating by teaching a workshop in Canada at the When Worlds Collide conference and having dinner with good friends, so I hope to bring back some motivating gems next week. Thank you for being here.
Check out similar posts:
I’ve wrote many articles during my time in my masters, and other pieces, however I couldn’t find a teacher to mentor me and to then be able to publish so I had a lot of things “in storage”. I want now to share my work, some of my perspectives and things I’ve wrote/built along time. I’m trying to do something with all the study and production years. I write about psychology (my work) and things I’ve researched during my masters. It might be an attempt to feel useful (?).
Because writing, when I get that perfect line, that perfect verse is as close as I’ll ever get to touching another plane. Another existence. Something beyond me. And reading is the same way. We are human. Until we write.
Stories connect us. In a world that seeks to separate us, I write stories about universal emotions and life experiences so that we can see how alike we are. Love more/hate less.
Why do you write ? Let me know.
August 8, 2025
How working at a factory taught me to be a better storyteller
I have done boring things.
Technology is designed, according to the tech evangelists, to replace manual tasks and support the human race to evolve (how, I’ve never heard a solid answer to, but most promise more free time). It seems specifically designed to eliminate jobs such as the one I had when I was a young adult at a uniform factory.
It was tedious work, and it caused my arms to ache. But it did give me well-defined biceps.
My biceps are no longer so well-defined; that result was temporary. But the experience had lasting effects. I can’t argue that I accomplished any semblance of greatness in my position on the line, rerouting heavy uniforms that came down the line on sturdy hangers. But that job gave me just enough structure and just enough mental freedom to begin to dream.
I feel like we’re never bored now, and I wonder if this inhibits our ability to drift off into a dreamy state. Not a meditative state but one that is truly indulgent of mind wandering and imagination.
Photo by Oleg BilykBecause I was so bored so often in my factory work, I found myself indulging in a bit of magical thinking. The sort that can be quite productive if well-routed itself. I began to think of the stories of my co-workers, and I learned how incredibly rewarding a sandwich break could be.
I also learned how to measure and make games/challenges of my situation. In other words, I learned how to both creatively problem solve and develop creative resilience. I entertained myself, and in so doing, I rekindled a passion for story that had been dormant.
Had I not had that insanely boring job, I might not be writing here. Is the world better or worse for it? Who knows. But writing has helped me to grow, connect, and keep going. So when tedium sneaks into my life now (lines, waiting on hold, trying to get an AI support system to understand me as I pay a bill online, sitting in long meetings about mission statements, etc.), I take it as an opportunity. A challenge.
Where are the stories here?
And they’re always there. It’s when we’re constantly entertained that they seem most elusive. At least for me.
Note: to read the essay, which was a finalist for the Gordon Square Review contest judged by Hanif Abdurraqib, go here.
By the way, friends, I’m hosting an ongoing Adult Writers Studio workshop in partnership with Thurber House, which begins in September. If you’re interested, go here, click register, then scroll to the bottom. This will be on Wednesday evenings on Zoom. I led the summer sessions, and the group synergy and output was beyond inspiring.
How working at a factory taught me to be a better storyteller.
I have done boring things.
Technology is designed, according to the tech evangelists, to replace manual tasks and support the human race to evolve (how, I’ve never heard a solid answer to, but most promise more free time). It seems specifically designed to eliminate jobs such as the one I had when I was a young adult at a uniform factory.
It was tedious work, and it caused my arms to ache. But it did give me well-defined biceps.
My biceps are no longer so well-defined; that result was temporary. But the experience had lasting effects. I can’t argue that I accomplished any semblance of greatness in my position on the line, rerouting heavy uniforms that came down the line on sturdy hangers. But that job gave me just enough structure and just enough mental freedom to begin to dream.
I feel like we’re never bored now, and I wonder if this inhibits our ability to drift off into a dreamy state. Not a meditative state but one that is truly indulgent of mind wandering and imagination.
Photo by Oleg BilykBecause I was so bored so often in my factory work, I found myself indulging in a bit of magical thinking. The sort that can be quite productive if well-routed itself. I began to think of the stories of my co-workers, and I learned how incredibly rewarding a sandwich break could be.
I also learned how to measure and make games/challenges of my situation. In other words, I learned how to both creatively problem solve and develop creative resilience. I entertained myself, and in so doing, I rekindled a passion for story that had been dormant.
Had I not had that insanely boring job, I might not be writing here. Is the world better or worse for it? Who knows. But writing has helped me to grow, connect, and keep going. So when tedium sneaks into my life now (lines, waiting on hold, trying to get an AI support system to understand me as I pay a bill online, sitting in long meetings about mission statements, etc.), I take it as an opportunity. A challenge.
Where are the stories here?
And they’re always there. It’s when we’re constantly entertained that they seem most elusive. At least for me.
Note: to read the essay, which was a finalist for the Gordon Square Review contest judged by Hanif Abdurraqib, go here.
By the way, friends, I’m hosting an ongoing Adult Writers Studio workshop in partnership with Thurber House, which begins in September. If you’re interested, go here, click register, then scroll to the bottom. This will be on Wednesday evenings on Zoom. I led the summer sessions, and the group synergy and output was beyond inspiring.
August 5, 2025
Stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are
I love to tell people to share their creative gifts with the world because I truly believe creative offerings are gifts. But the creative cycle can be exhausting. It takes devotion.
Devote some time, folks. It’s worth it. You are worth it.
Creative devotion can feel out of reach due to deficits in our discipline or self-belief. It can also seem constrained by time and access. I am feeling rather spoiled at the moment. I just got back from not one but two residencies, which gave me a lot of time and access. But even before I learned about the residency circuit, I learned that I could create in any situation.
True devotion is about understanding what you need to say—be that at a residency (I’ll post about Brier Island next week) or simply by slowing down your routine so that you are better able to listen.
“Every action you take, you can indeed take in love.” —Jericho Brown from his recent offering at the Townhall.
Many writers I know are discouraged. It’s understandable.
This era of violence, coupled with overstimulation and unreliable news, makes it easy to feel full and overwhelmed. When we create, we release what we take in. All of it contributes to feelings about what we write and its relative value.
Some of us feel we should be creating more, others wonder if writing even matters in a time of automation, plagiarism, and censorship. Then there’s time. Those with little time, or who try to do things quickly, often produce works that contain a sort of fever pitch. We think we can only produce in fits and spurts.
But all of this can work to the benefit of the outcome of our writing and our ability to connect on a human level. The seeming lack of IP forces us to adopt the “write for myself” mindset. Lack of time might add momentum if it is not forced.
We need to come back to this reminder. Creative effort is worth it. We must believe in ourselves and our unique messages. You, my friend, cannot sing my song. And I cannot sing yours.
“As any classically trained singer or actor can tell you, trying to make your voice sound like someone else’s can do all manner of damage to it.” —Lauren Elkin
To my mind, we don’t have the luxury to wait to share our messages. Easy to say, I know, but fostering creative confidence is the order of the day.
I’ll be honest that what follows hints at a sort of creative destiny that I buy into. You don’t have to, of course, but I find more grace in reminding myself of the call to authenticity over the pressure to strive.
Sure, we are in an environment that tells us otherwise, that tells us our worth is defined by the few with funds. We are in a time that pressurizes artists and tries to diminish contributions by replicating them en masse. Got it, got it! but! Here’s my message.
Stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.
You are where you need to be. You are creating what you are supposed to be creating. There is no ideal timeline. The ideal audience is those who find your work, whether that’s a few friends or many strangers. Despite what you sometimes think, you are on the right track, and it matters, and it matters in the way it should. Share your messages in the way you are sharing them, not from a place of pressure or guilt or fear or competition or even urgency. Share what you are called to share and nothing more.
Again, stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.
Yes, our voices matter, but perhaps the more important message is that we will say exactly what we need to say and release what we observe in our own time. All we have to remember is not to get in our own way or psyche ourselves out.
The dystopic narrative is just that, after all—another story. And we’re the writers.
Monthly offering for subscribers: Check the “Here We Are” tab to access new meditations.
: Stories connect us. In a world that seeks to separate us, I write stories about universal emotions and life experiences so that we can see how alike we are. Love more/hate less.
Halona Black: In the age of AI, I write because it helps me learn more about what I’m thinking about. Writing organizes my thoughts. It tells me where I’ve grown in my life. I get to see where I’m still struggling AI can only reflect where I am in life, it cannot fully write from my perspective. Yes, it can spit out writing, but it isn’t fully me.
Why do you write?
Prompt: Search your archives for something you’ve created and abandoned. See what can grow from it if you offer it a loving touch and a new possibility.
August 1, 2025
Why I'm on a novel-writing fast
This woman would be my friend. Photo by JOYMA.I am on a break from my novel.
I call it a fast here because it feels like it. Once, a long time ago, I tried to give up sugar. The resulting inner (and external) drama was unprecedented in my life. I remember pacing, wondering if my body could take it, Googling articles about how women need more glucose to maintain proper brain chemistry, and I thought I’d surely die.
After amassing enough (incredible) rationalization, I broke down and bought a caramel macchiato. How long did I last? About 36 hours. Oddly, I’m quite disciplined in other aspects of my life. I am not a drug user. I drink a glass of wine and am content to leave it at that (and have been since my twenties). But sugar has a certain grip on me. So does this particular novel.
Even though taking a break from my WIP feels about the same as that drama-filled mistake of trying to give up sugar, there is no denying that taking a break from both sugar and our WIPs offer great benefits to our health, wellness, and creative output.
Today, I won’t waver. I will not so much as look at this novel because I know the value of this break. The human mind needs breaks, and without them, our creative energy begins to hiss and sputter. Our output suffers, and sometimes we can even destroy an otherwise promising work.
"It's precisely those who are busiest who most need to give themselves a break.” — Pico Iyer, The Art of StillnessWhen we hit mild obsession or complete a draft, creative resets are invaluable. It has been proven that focusing for extended periods can lead to burnout and decreased effectiveness, including creative work, which means breaks are part of a healthy creative process.
Along with basic self-care, creative distance can help us to see our project clearly and find sustained momentum.
But how do we put the manuscript in the drawer (so to speak) when all we want to do is finish it? To think, that is, about how to make it more compelling or precise, to wonder how our main character might not yet have fully developed, to explore the vividness of tense scenes, to analyze our ability to render clear, clean sentences, to double-check our research, and so much more.
The novel is all-consuming. So what do we do with the time off? I’m sure you can find better lists than what’s below, but here’s what I’m doing.
Substacking. I’m here. This newsletter/blog is not the same as writing my novel. It’s a completely different headspace because I can do this with you in mind, even though I only know who a few of you are. Whether you comment or not, I consider this a conversation with friends, and my genuine hope is you receive my words in this way. My novel, meanwhile, is an ongoing project that will take months or years before I can realistically think about who is reading it. It is a conversation with myself (and, perhaps, a few ghosts).
Bob Ross painting class. I just signed up for another Bob Ross painting class, and I can honestly say that it’s tough to focus on anything but painting while you take these classes. (Yes, if you’re not in the know, people can get Bob Ross Certified to teach his techniques, and it’s amazing.)
Walking. Despite the oppressive heat around here lately, I walk at least 4-5 miles a day, which helps clear my head and make up for the insane number of hours I’ve spent on my computer these last months.
Reading. I am reading a few books right now, including Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, and it’s total bliss. When the novel creeps to mind, or I think, “Wow, this makes me realize how lazy I was with scenic detail in Chapter 2,” I jot a note to my future self, and I get back to the book.
Meditating. Meditation always makes me feel cleansed in a way. The novel comes up here, too, but returning to the breath is a neat trick.
Celebrating. Okay, so I’m not good at this one, but I’m trying.
Redesigning my website. Boring, but I did it.
Reminding myself why I’m doing this. I will have a better view of my work with this distance, and the reacquaintance with my novel will be a joy. It will be worth it. Besides, these breaks are a part of nourishing a creative’s ability to flow when writing.
"Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you." —Anne LamottIf you have found what works for you when in this liminal space between drafts, or when you need a break from a project, I’d love to know what you do, especially if you’re good at celebrating these moments.
In the meantime, maybe I’ll go on another walk.
By the way, friends, I’m hosting an ongoing Adult Writers Studio workshop in partnership with Thurber House, which begins in September. If you’re interested, go here, click “register,” then scroll to the bottom. Lessons to be delivered live on Zoom.Why I'm on a novel-writing fast: the benefits of a little creative deprivation.
This woman would be my friend. Photo by JOYMA.I am on a break from my novel.
I call it a fast here because it feels like it. Once, a long time ago, I tried to give up sugar. The resulting inner (and external) drama was unprecedented in my life. I remember pacing, wondering if my body could take it, Googling articles about how women need more glucose to maintain proper brain chemistry, and I thought I’d surely die.
After amassing enough (incredible) rationalization, I broke down and bought a caramel macchiato. How long did I last? About 36 hours. Oddly, I’m quite disciplined in other aspects of my life. I am not a drug user. I drink a glass of wine and am content to leave it at that (and have been since my twenties). But sugar has a certain grip on me. So does this particular novel.
Even though taking a break from my WIP feels about the same as that drama-filled mistake of trying to give up sugar, there is no denying that taking a break from both sugar and our WIPs offer great benefits to our health, wellness, and creative output.
Today, I won’t waver. I will not so much as look at this novel because I know the value of this break. The human mind needs breaks, and without them, our creative energy begins to hiss and sputter. Our output suffers, and sometimes we can even destroy an otherwise promising work.
"It's precisely those who are busiest who most need to give themselves a break.” — Pico Iyer, The Art of StillnessWhen we hit mild obsession or complete a draft, creative resets are invaluable. It has been proven that focusing for extended periods can lead to burnout and decreased effectiveness, including creative work, which means breaks are part of a healthy creative process.
Along with basic self-care, creative distance can help us to see our project clearly and find sustained momentum.
But how do we put the manuscript in the drawer (so to speak) when all we want to do is finish it? To think, that is, about how to make it more compelling or precise, to wonder how our main character might not yet have fully developed, to explore the vividness of tense scenes, to analyze our ability to render clear, clean sentences, to double-check our research, and so much more.
The novel is all-consuming. So what do we do with the time off? I’m sure you can find better lists than what’s below, but here’s what I’m doing.
Substacking. I’m here. This newsletter/blog is not the same as writing my novel. It’s a completely different headspace because I can do this with you in mind, even though I only know who a few of you are. Whether you comment or not, I consider this a conversation with friends, and my genuine hope is you receive my words in this way. My novel, meanwhile, is an ongoing project that will take months or years before I can realistically think about who is reading it. It is a conversation with myself (and, perhaps, a few ghosts).
Bob Ross painting class. I just signed up for another Bob Ross painting class, and I can honestly say that it’s tough to focus on anything but painting while you take these classes. (Yes, if you’re not in the know, people can get Bob Ross Certified to teach his techniques, and it’s amazing.)
Walking. Despite the oppressive heat around here lately, I walk at least 4-5 miles a day, which helps clear my head and make up for the insane number of hours I’ve spent on my computer these last months.
Reading. I am reading a few books right now, including Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, and it’s total bliss. When the novel creeps to mind, or I think, “Wow, this makes me realize how lazy I was with scenic detail in Chapter 2,” I jot a note to my future self, and I get back to the book.
Meditating. Meditation always makes me feel cleansed in a way. The novel comes up here, too, but returning to the breath is a neat trick.
Celebrating. Okay, so I’m not good at this one, but I’m trying.
Redesigning my website. Boring, but I did it.
Reminding myself why I’m doing this. I will have a better view of my work with this distance, and the reacquaintance with my novel will be a joy. It will be worth it. Besides, these breaks are a part of nourishing a creative’s ability to flow when writing.
"Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you." —Anne LamottIf you have found what works for you when in this liminal space between drafts, or when you need a break from a project, I’d love to know what you do, especially if you’re good at celebrating these moments.
In the meantime, maybe I’ll go on another walk.
By the way, friends, I’m hosting an ongoing Adult Writers Studio workshop in partnership with Thurber House, which begins in September. If you’re interested, go here, click “register,” then scroll to the bottom. Lessons to be delivered live on Zoom.July 24, 2025
When Clarity Finds Us, Not the Other Way Around
What is enlightenment? And what does it have to do with writing?
On morning walks this month, I’ve been listening to Joseph Goldstein’s talks on the Buddha and enlightenment, which are lovely. He speaks clearly and succinctly about the eightfold path and the value of meditation to see ourselves and our world with less attachment and more awareness.
On evening walks this month, I’ve been listening to The Body by Bill Bryson, which discusses the brilliance of the human body from a purely scientific perspective.
“The great paradox of the brain is that everything you know about the world is provided to you by an organ that has itself never seen that world … To your brain, the world is just a stream of electrical pulses, like taps of Morse code. And out of this bare and neutral information, it creates for you—quite literally creates—a vibrant, three-dimensional, sensually engaging universe. Your brain is you. Everything else is just plumbing and scaffolding.” ― Bill BrysonThe agreements between these texts are stunning. Where they differ, in large part, is language. There is a language for science and a language for spirituality, and if you go deep enough into either, they meet.
They both seem to suggest that when we remember what we are (and are not), we realize that who we are matters less. And it seems paradoxical but often true that when we release striving and grasping for comfort or hoarding for selfish means, we find ourselves expanding. Perhaps this is “enlightenment.” A one with, rather than a one apart.
Photo by Mehrab Chi My father said that once, in his thirties, he felt this expansion. His enlightenment lasted for a short time, but he described it this way.
His thoughts were suddenly clear, and his awareness was heightened. He didn’t have the emotional attachment to outcomes, but rather immersed himself in whatever he was doing, fully understanding it, even embodying it.
He was working at a hospital and found himself in highly technical conversations with doctors about medical procedures he’d never studied, but he understood. He said he no longer felt anxiety or worry and could grasp any concept presented immediately. He understood how everything fell into place, and he said it—life itself, for all its seeming vastness and riddles—made sense.
He trusted it all and felt a part of it all. There was no fear.
This state of heightened awareness lasted for an entire week, then came the day that he woke up to find himself feeling exactly as he had before.
A smart man still, sure, but as hazy and baffled by world events as ever and as eager to prove himself. Meanwhile, he was no longer able to discuss highly technical medical procedures in-depth, even if he had studied them. He was an orderly at the time and hoped to take art classes. He had no great ambitions. He was neurotic and dreamy. He was human.
When I asked him what he was wearing and what he was doing to find this state of enlightenment in the first place, he shrugged.
“Was it drugs? Was it meditation?”
No. He said, “It just happened.”
The human brain is a strange thing. As is the human body. It’s a miracle of a machine, and yet so vulnerable. The cynic in me can’t help but think sometimes that someone at the hospital spiked my father’s hashish with a mild hallucinogen that week (sorry, Dad), or perhaps he has an allergen that he only managed to avoid that one week of his life.
But maybe he truly got a taste of enlightenment, and maybe that was just a sort of surrender.
Imagine what pure clarity, if only for a day, might mean. Imagine the kind of creative flow that allows you to channel, as a brilliant artist says she does with her paintings.
I like to think it would mean great relief. No “Why am I here?” questions. No trying to figure it out or rationalize. No arguing! Simple awareness and surrender to the miraculous nature of what is.
Accepting our foibles and limitations as individual humans on this planet is a radical thing. But maybe pausing the search also allows us to remember that if something like total clarity arrives in our lives, it’s unlikely it will have happened because we sought it out. It’s the search, after all, that may keep us from seeing and feeling our potential as humans.
Creative prompt: Explore what enlightenment means to you in your art/writing, or if you even think it’s possible, even for a moment. What might it look like on the canvas or page?
Paid subscribers: Join our creative resilience and accountability circle by signing up here, and we’ll see you on Aug 1 on Zoom.
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July 17, 2025
A candid glimpse of the early stages of writing a novel, and how to balance productivity with sanity.
In general, I’m a writer who prefers to work behind the scenes, secretly, and I don’t share anything about my current project. Not even with close friends.
It’s not that I’m worried about ideas being stolen. What worries me more is superstition. I do not want to release the story from the trap of my mind for fear it will wander off, and I’ll lose momentum.
For some strange reason, this time I can’t seem to shut up about my novel-in-progress. It feels urgent.
This is my first historical novel, and it’s occupying at least 90% of my brain space. In true form, I figured I’d write a dual perspective because I love that idea, and it feels like a delightful cheat for me. This novel will take place in both 2025 and the mid-1800s.
As I’ve spent a few weeks at residencies in Nova Scotia and Tennessee, I’ve watched with a meditative eye how the novel takes up my attention, sometimes blinding me to the beauty in my daily life.
The novelist destroys the house of his life and uses its stones to build the house of his novel. —Milan KunderaArtists and writers must balance living and creating. What fulfills us, likewise, is what we can best share with the world to have the most impact.
My novel is about a woman who refused to stay small, despite being thought of as “too much,” then and even now. Hers is a story that offers me inspiration that I hope to share. And it is a story with quite a bit of mystery and disappointment as to what was and is true, and what was sensationalized.
After two “warm-up” novels, I’ve learned to seek out the bones of the story to best write scenes. This doesn’t mean outlining everything, but it does mean asking how each scene lends itself to the overarching change—or plot—that is occurring.
With writing coaching clients, I recommend creating a sort of proposal, as though you are ready to query what you’ve already begun. Something along the lines of a synopsis, a title, and a clear sentence or two about what has changed in the character from the opening to the ending.
To me, this is enough of an outline because it leaves just enough room to move and grow and adapt, but also reminds me to stay on track.
While I may still keep some of my cards close, I’m feeling less compelled by superstition and more compelled by a realization that this novel is a living and pulsing thing, always changing. And it’s not just my story, even though it’s fiction.
I have met with researchers and historians to gather information, which means (as I always tell my leadership students), I now have people who were consulted. And a person consulted is a stakeholder.
This novel is a group effort and is catalyzed by a brilliant woman’s life. I’d say she was before her time, but I am sure she’d struggle with the same message today. She is beyond our time, and her story will, I hope, bring some hope.
I will nurture it and help it to grow by returning to the heartbeat of the story, being generous and curious about my subject, and balancing my productivity with appreciation for all that occurs in my daily life.
If you are embarking on a writing or artistic journey, especially one that is longer form, I applaud you. I’d love to know how it’s going and how you begin.
: “Impulse” makes me interrupt or speak out of turn. Ideas bubble up and itch to be formed into words spoken. Sometimes the ideas are different and beg to be written. I don’t formulate into a medium the phonographical lines daily, but I think and reflect and what looks like a whim becomes a story. But really that story has been simmering like lava and to write is to control the flow.
Prompt: Write a short letter to your ideal audience explaining what your work is about. What question is it exploring? Then tuck it away. Retrieve it in a month. Is the question the same?
Paid subscribers: Join our creative resilience and accountability circle by signing up here, and we’ll see you on Aug 1.
July 11, 2025
On the edge of the ocean: the wisdom of two visual artists and a pheasant
I thought I was there to be alone with my novel. I thought nourishment would come from solitude.
At an artist residency in Nova Scotia recently, I watched a pheasant strut by my window, often stopping to pose. When he allowed me these moments of reprieve from my work, I couldn't help but laugh. Chest out, he allowed me to appreciate him.
We entertained each other for a moment. Then, for seemingly no reason, he turned his tall, skinny legs and ran off, disappearing behind the tall grass and into the blurry space beyond my view.
Brier Island Pheasant, name unknownMy morning routine at residency involved walking to a small studio to write for a few hours before meeting my writing partner and friend for breakfast or a chat. I wasn’t on my cellphone much, so I balanced solitary time with the privilege of meeting those who lived on the island and learning more about other artists’ work and what inspires them.
We met an artist who lived on the island. He said the ocean was medicinal and had called to him. The wonder of nature seemed to bring him peace and perspective. “But I’m alone a lot,” he said.
I wondered if he meant lonely or just alone, but I didn’t ask.
Another artist, who was part of the residency, told me she found inspiration in being at the westernmost or easternmost places. I couldn’t relate to this as much, but I was in awe of her work.
I often find inspiration in transit. On the bus, in the car, on a plane … even while getting dressed. Always when I have somewhere else to be or something else to do.
The residency went by quickly, and as proof of my claim, the muse tackled me to the ground just before I returned home. I wrote at the airport and on the plane. I might have even written more during my travels than I did those mornings in solitude at the residency.
Before I left, numerous islanders had told me how beloved the artist who felt alone was. I wondered if he knew. I didn’t see him again.
After two weeks away, I was eager to see my husband and pups. I felt my heart lift when the plane landed, and I placed a piece of chocolate on my tongue. A kid next to me watched, envious but polite.
I shifted on my feet at the baggage claim, breathing slowly. A steady onslaught of texts arrived.
As I unpacked and settled back into the Midwest, I wondered about the artist who feels connected to edges. There was nothing quite like our fire on the edge of the ocean, at the westernmost tip of Nova Scotia; there’s nothing quite like knowing you are at a precipice.
We can’t all be in residency often, or at all, but I think we can all explore the aspects of what inspires us in new ways, simply by paying attention to others’ words.
I realized that in my quest to be alone, I found instead reconnection and perspective.
This might be the most valuable thing we have in our lives, and it seems an offering that is always there, just waiting for us to remember.
It’s how we find creative resilience.
Subscribers: Join me here today. We’ll discuss how to carve out a similar experience by shifting our attention to the words of one poet seeking advice from another.
Creative prompt: Reconnect with the world for a short time by spending an entire day asking others what inspires them.
: Writing is how I synthesize life. It’s how I learned to process my thoughts, my feelings, my interactions with the world around me, and everything I’ve known and will ever know. I could never let an artificial intelligence do that for me. I also tend to bring some… unorthodox ideas to the table, and AI could never articulate those ideas the way I know I can — not egotistical, just factual.
: I write to create a new reality. One where my self-doubt has been replaced by confidence and where my promise to myself that “one day, I’ll be writer” is finally true. I write to prove to myself that I can 😊
Why do you create ?
July 5, 2025
Stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.
I love to tell people to share their creative gifts with the world because I truly believe creative offerings are gifts. But the creative cycle can be exhausting. It takes devotion.
Devote some time, folks. It’s worth it. You are worth it.
Creative devotion can feel out of reach due to deficits in our discipline or self-belief. It can also seem constrained by time and access. I am feeling rather spoiled at the moment. I just got back from not one but two residencies, which gave me a lot of time and access. But even before I learned about the residency circuit, I learned that I could create in any situation.
True devotion is about understanding what you need to say—be that at a residency (I’ll post about Brier Island next week) or simply by slowing down your routine so that you are better able to listen.
“Every action you take, you can indeed take in love.” —Jericho Brown from his recent offering at the Townhall.
Many writers I know are discouraged. It’s understandable.
This era of violence, coupled with overstimulation and unreliable news, makes it easy to feel full and overwhelmed. When we create, we release what we take in. All of it contributes to feelings about what we create and its relative value.
Some of us feel we should be creating more, others wonder if writing even matters in a time of automation, plagiarism, and censorship. Then there’s time. Those with little time, or who try to do things quickly, often produce works that contain a sort of fever pitch. We think we can only produce in fits and spurts.
But all of this can work to the benefit of the outcome of our writing and our ability to connect on a human level. The seeming lack of IP forces us to adopt the “write for myself” mindset. Lack of time might add momentum if it is not forced.
We need to come back to this reminder. Creative effort is worth it. We must believe in ourselves and our unique messages. You, my friend, cannot sing my song. And I cannot sing yours.
“As any classically trained singer or actor can tell you, trying to make your voice sound like someone else’s can do all manner of damage to it.” —Lauren Elkin
To my mind, we don’t have the luxury to wait to share our messages. Easy to say, I know, but fostering creative confidence is the order of the day.
I’ll be honest that what follows hints at a sort of creative destiny that I buy into. You don’t have to, of course, but I find more grace in reminding myself of the call to authenticity over the pressure to strive.
Sure, we are in an environment that tells us otherwise, that tells us our worth is defined by the few with funds. We are in a time that pressurizes artists and tries to diminish contributions by replicating them en masse. Got it, got it! but! Here’s my message.
Stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.
You are where you need to be. You are creating what you are supposed to be creating. There is no ideal timeline. The ideal audience is those who find your work, whether that’s a few friends or many strangers. Despite what you sometimes think, you are on the right track, and it matters, and it matters in the way it should. Share your messages in the way you are sharing them, not from a place of pressure or guilt or fear or competition or even urgency. Share what you are called to share and nothing more.
Again, stop wasting time trying to become what and who you already are.
Yes, our voices matter, but perhaps the more important message is that we will say exactly what we need to say and release what we observe in our own time. All we have to remember is not to get in our own way or psyche ourselves out.
The dystopic narrative is just that, after all—another story. And we’re the writers.
Monthly offering for subscribers: Check the “Here We Are” tab to access new meditations. Also, let’s meet and discuss the writing life.
: Stories connect us. In a world that seeks to separate us, I write stories about universal emotions and life experiences so that we can see how alike we are. Love more/hate less.
Halona Black: In the age of AI, I write because it helps me learn more about what I’m thinking about. Writing organizes my thoughts. It tells me where I’ve grown in my life. I get to see where I’m still struggling AI can only reflect where I am in life, it cannot fully write from my perspective. Yes, it can spit out writing, but it isn’t fully me.
Why do you write?
Prompt: Search your archives for something you’ve created and abandoned. See what can grow from it if you offer it a loving touch and a new possibility.
