Jen Knox's Blog

Exhausted after the first week back to school, I sit in my egg chair and listen to the sound of a fall breeze rustling the sugar maple in my yard. It’s a quiet enough afternoon that my pup’s ear bends toward a few loud bird chirps amidst the buzz of cicadas and distant sound of a lawnmower. All the things left unfinished from the workweek linger in my mind, and I try to recall the word for the process of starting new growth from a sample.

I soften my gaze, and the beauty of this moment dissolves the list of unfinished tasks and the need to remember the word that is on the tip of my tongue. All that can wait. Moments of overwhelm are often best met with surrender, but it’s not always as easy as sitting in an egg chair and welcoming a Midwestern fall.

Have you ever noticed that you can stop doing too much only to think you’re doing too little, and that your brain is equally busy either way?

Likewise, have you ever noticed that those (in life and writing alike) who chatter on endlessly and those who don’t say enough face a similar dilemma? Neither is heard.

Busyness simply is. It’s a distraction.

Photo by Ashlee Marie

I’m starting to return to my novel, and the scenes beg me for more detail. I’m not saying enough. Like in life, I do not enjoy over-explanations, so I try to spare my readers of them. I write spare when I draft (and when I revise for that matter), so this is always a tricky thing to know what to add.

I don’t want to add what might feel superfluous or imposing because that makes me close a book faster than anything. I want readers to engage, to use their imaginations and, with any luck, insert details I could never have dreamed of. This means I am doing my work to invite them to care enough to do so.

Writing a story based on something that actually happened makes this difficult. There’s so much research, so much I know, and I need to balance the historical with the imaginative.

But back to the egg chair and the slight bite in the air that summons fall. Back to the calm of letting go of the week.

The word I was searching for earlier is propagation, and it came to me as soon as I stopped searching. I think this is relevant here. This is what we do when we can pull off a good story. We take pieces of things, small observations and questions, and we nurture them on the page, but we also let go of our control over definitions.

We only want to define so much when offering the gift of story. Let the definition emerge.

Instead, the writer’s job is to create structure or pose a question, and we continue to add on, deepening the question and leading the reader along a path. We want it to be an exchange, not making the reader do too much work and, likewise, not blathering on to the point of removing the reader’s agency over the material.

Knowing what details to add and omit means a bit of self-awareness. These choice points help us to offer the reader the joy of experiencing a story, not simply reading one. And it’s funny how similar this is to the art of any conversation.

Revision prompt: Whether you’re writing a single scene or a longer work with multiple scenes, go through and identify the sensory details you’ve captured. Highlight them. Where do you repeat? (Hint: many, many writers repeat gestures or details about a character’s eyes) Where could you add something true to the story, but unexpected? Most importantly, where can you omit what you’ve added to create even more resonance? Oh, and where did you force details in? Go back through and take out anything repetitive or unnecessary.

Question: Where do you overexplain or not reveal enough? What is your pattern, and is it consistent throughout your work? What about life?

“Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.”― Vincent Van Gogh

If you feel unsure how to respond to the onslaught of injustice right now, you’re not alone. If you’re a writer/human who wonders whether your work matters or how to make it matter in an age of AI, you are not alone.

If you are simply at a loss about how to best contribute good work to the world, please take a few minutes to grab a notebook and pen. I promise, this will be worth your time.

I learned this exercise from a fellow teacher at Insight Timer, and I’ve since shared it with wayward writers, leadership students who are trying to figure out what they want to do in the world, and friends who are decent people at a loss.

Instructions: Draw a Venn diagram that’s large enough you can write in each section. Write what causes you the most heartache (it can feel difficult to pick one lately, but pick the one that really nags) on the left side and write what you consider your greatest gift on the right side (this could be empathy, cooking, writing, teaching, anything).

In the middle, where there is overlap … this is the work that is currently calling to you.

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Repeat this the next time you are outraged and do not know what to do. Repeat it for your next creative project. Repeat it to remember that you cannot do everything at once, and you do not have to. There is one thing you can offer. And the world needs you to do that right now.

If you do this exercise, I’d love to know what comes up for you in the comments below. Contrary to the illusion, there are more good people in the world than not. We just have to figure out a way to all do our part.

Wishing you all good things.

When I first started writing, it felt as though I’d just discovered a secret door that could lead anywhere. I can still taste the freedom of it. The incredible joy of exploring parts of my own mind alongside the world that confused me. Reexamining life on the page was pure privilege. And back then, the page always responded in kind.

When I first started publishing, it was different. It felt as though there were a hundred microphones and a billion writers. Now, fifteen years later, it feels like there are a billion microphones and (maybe as a result) most people have their headphones on.

This can feel discouraging, but I’m here to argue that it’s a gift. All of it.

It’s easy to forget that there is freedom in knowing that we can write when and where and if I want to. There is a knowing (sometimes forgotten) that we’re all writing for ourselves and those who resonate with our work when they happen to come across it. But we cannot control when and who we reach.

Ellen Harding Baker’s quiltDon’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer. —Barbara Kingsolver

Jane Smiley kept a reminder above her desk that said, “Nobody asked you to write that novel.” And for her, it may or may not have been accurate, but I can guarantee it’s accurate for me and my fiction.

If I never write another book …. oh well. A few people would be mildly disappointed, then they’d forget their disappointment and move on. There are billions of other stories and other voices.

No one, and I mean not one person, is going to be destroyed if I never write another story or book. But this is not depressing, my friends, this is a reminder of our freedom!

There is nothing to lose and EVERYTHING to gain from writing while knowing that our work is an authentic offering, and therein lies its beauty. No, artists are not valued enough. Especially the brave ones. But perhaps this is because we can’t control the currency exchange with something as precious as art. Those who try often limit themselves and, in the long run, are forgotten. So if your aim is expression and the power that lives within it, keep going.

Consider the myriad people who persevered despite being “ahead of their time.” And consider how their work might’ve changed had they been seeking approval above all else. Consider those who gave up wanting recognition only to raise awareness. Consider those who were brave enough to explore honestly on the page when every marketing trend said to stay safe.

Ada Lovelace, who only lived to thirty-six, was the first to write a computer program in the early 1800s (despite Charles Babbage, a colleague, claiming his own name as the first). She loved her work, and her story bobbed to the surface as most truths do.

Kafka’s laborious daily schedule never impeded his own belief in the power of storytelling and that his own stories to one day reach the masses (it didn’t happen in his lifetime, but it is his idea-driven work that is remembered, not his more marketable contemporaries).

James Baldwin’s Go Tell It on the Mountain was started in 1938 and accepted only to never be published in 1944. The book would finally be published in 1952.

Ellen Harding Baker dedicated almost a fourth of her life to the creation of a quilt that depicted our solar system; she didn’t do this for accolades but for education. She had a fascination and passion so rooted that its branches are still reaching us.

To value our own work and expression, offer stories as gifts, and carry on is to do the true and meaningful work. So carry on, enjoy the stars, and share them as you see fit. If no one cares, you have nothing to lose from being unapologetically yourself. Ironically, it is only in this way that we truly cut through.

This is the true power of the artist—to create and then drop the mic.

Prompt: Write a story or essay or poem that begins with a bound and focused energy and ends with letting go.Write well, friends!

an offering: meditation for releasing expectations

Note: I’m hosting an ongoing Adult Writers’ Studio workshop in partnership with Thurber House, which begins in September and runs through November. If you’re interested, go here, click register, then scroll to the bottom. This will take place every other Wednesday evening on Zoom. I led the summer sessions, and they were beyond amazing.

When I first started writing, it felt as though I’d just discovered a secret door that could lead anywhere. I can still taste the freedom of it. The incredible joy of exploring parts of my own mind alongside the world that confused me. Reexamining life on the page was pure privilege. And back then, the page always responded in kind.

When I first started publishing, it was different. It felt as though there were a hundred microphones and a billion writers. Now, fifteen years later, it feels like there are a billion microphones and (maybe as a result) most people have their headphones on.

This can feel discouraging, but I’m here to argue that it’s a gift. All of it.

It’s easy to forget that there is freedom in knowing that we can write when and where and if I want to. There is a knowing (sometimes forgotten) that we’re all writing for ourselves and those who resonate with our work when they happen to come across it. But we cannot control when and who we reach.

Ellen Harding Baker’s quiltDon’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer. —Barbara Kingsolver

Jane Smiley kept a reminder above her desk that said, “Nobody asked you to write that novel.” And for her, it may or may not have been accurate, but I can guarantee it’s accurate for me and my fiction.

If I never write another book …. oh well. A few people would be mildly disappointed, then they’d forget their disappointment and move on. There are billions of other stories and other voices.

No one, and I mean not one person, is going to be destroyed if I never write another story or book. But this is not depressing, my friends, this is a reminder of our freedom!

There is nothing to lose and EVERYTHING to gain from writing while knowing that our work is simply an offering, and therein lies its beauty. No, artists are not valued enough. No, we are not paid enough. But perhaps this is because we can’t control the currency exchange with something as precious as art. Those who try often limit themselves.

If this seems less-than motivating, consider the myriad people who persevered despite being “ahead of their time.” And consider how their work might’ve changed had they been seeking approval above all else.

Ada Lovelace, who only lived to thirty-six, was the first to write a computer program in the early 1800s (despite Charles Babbage, a colleague, claiming his own name as the first). She loved her work, and her story bobbed to the surface as most truths do.

Kafka’s laborious daily schedule never impeded his own belief in the power of storytelling and that his own stories to one day reach the masses (it didn’t happen in his lifetime, but it is his idea-driven work that is remembered, not his more marketable contemporaries).

Ellen Harding Baker dedicated almost a fourth of her life to the creation of a quilt that depicted our solar system; she didn’t do this for accolades but for education. She had a fascination and passion so rooted that its branches are still reaching us.

To value our own work and expression, offer stories as gifts, and carry on is to do the true and meaningful work. So carry on, enjoy the stars, and share them as you see fit. If no one cares, you have nothing to lose from being unapologetically yourself. Ironically, it is only in this way that we truly cut through.

This is the true power of the artist—to create and then drop the mic.

Prompt: Write a story or essay or poem that begins with a bound and focused energy and ends with letting go.Write well, friends! Note: I’m hosting an ongoing Adult Writers’ Studio workshop in partnership with Thurber House, which begins in September and runs through November. If you’re interested, go here, click register, then scroll to the bottom. This will take place every other Wednesday evening on Zoom. I led the summer sessions, and they were beyond amazing.

I’ll also be here on Saturday if you want to embark on a little moving meditation (free session, accessible from PC if you don’t have the app).

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 Sheedy

I 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:

If you enjoy this post, please subscribe or share.

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.

Share

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.

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 Sheedy

I 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:

If you enjoy this post, please subscribe or share.

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.

Share

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.

“I have dared to do strange things—bold things.” —Emily Dickinson

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 Bilyk

Because 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.

“I have dared to do strange things—bold things.” —Emily Dickinson

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 Bilyk

Because 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.

Hello, friends! I changed the name here after taking stock of what I truly write about and what motivates me to connect with you. I think The Resilient Creative better encapsulates the writing explorations, creativity prompts, philosophy, and meditations. We must be resilient to live a creative life, after all, yeah? And to be authentic at a time when authenticity can feel downright dangerous or pointless takes courage. So thank you for being here. And I hope that this blog will support and reinforce your ability to create as honestly and relentlessly as possible. All that said … 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 Stillness

When 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 Lamott

If 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.

Hello, friends! I changed the name here after taking stock of what I truly write about and what motivates me to connect with you. I think The Resilient Creative better encapsulates the writing explorations, creativity prompts, philosophy, and meditations. We must be resilient to live a creative life, after all, yeah? And to be authentic at a time when authenticity can feel downright dangerous or pointless takes courage. So thank you for being here. And I hope that this blog will support and reinforce your ability to create as honestly and relentlessly as possible. All that said … 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 Stillness

When 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 Lamott

If 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.