Fear vs. Wonder + Summer's Abundance... 🍒

Over the solstice weekend I drove through Summerland, a town in the interior of British Columbia where most of the province’s fruit and wine grapes grow. While the peaches and apricots were fuzzy green miniatures of themselves, the cherry trees were laden with crimson jewels.

Summerland runs alongside Lake Okanagan and lies next to Peachland. Don’t those two names conjure a sense of abundance? Across the lake sits Naramata and the Naramata Bench, a south facing ledge that produces some of the best wine in the region.

Surrounded by vineyards and orchards, especially those cherry trees full of ripe fruit, I marveled at the fact that every single tree provides hundreds if not thousands of pieces of fruit, and each piece of fruit carries the seed (or pit) of a potential tree. Every single tree carries the possibility of so many more trees, of so much more fruit. The idea made me happy, calm, and hopeful. Those feelings are harder to come by in a world going through so much chaos and change that fears are amplified, to say the least.

This got me thinking: staying in tune with the natural reality of abundance might be the antidote to the kind of scarcity mentality that underlies so many of our existential fears. Fears of loss, loneliness, pain, deprivation, conflict, danger. These are valid fears depending on circumstances, but have you ever noticed how so much of what we fear is “man made”? Most of our suffering comes from terrorizing and depriving each other. 

Nature’s tune is abundance. Look at leaves on trees, blades of grade in meadows, mushrooms in forests—have you ever seen the many poppy seeds that come from a single flower’s seed head?! Though, at times, Nature weathers droughts, fires, floods, and blight, and such events impact abundance, it's not usually for too long. Eventually Nature recovers.

The myriad fears we humans suffer from, natural and manufactured, impact our minds to the degree that we seem to remain in a perpetual fear loop, creating more and worse fears for ourselves and each other. How do we recover?

We frequently say that love is the opposite of fear, its antidote, but where is the love? How do we access it? Why doesn’t it flow more freely and hold back the tides of too much fear? Fears breed desires for control and domination, for convoluted excuses to justify strategies we say are for safety but which often lead to violence and create even more fear. We might even say it’s a justification for love, that this end is worth justifying any means. But I’m not convinced.

I believe the true antidote to fear is wonder. It’s the missing link on the way to love. A kind of bridge. Without a restored state of wonder, love does not bloom.

In a state of wonder, we let go of our preoccupation with fear. For a moment, or longer, we align with the miraculousness of the world as it is. Vital, varied, and abundant.

After recognizing this in our surroundings, it’s not not much of a leap to tune into that miraculousness in ourselves—and each other. A single breath sends oxygenated blood through our veins; a single smile lights up thousands of neurons in the brain of the smiler as well as the receiver of the smile; a single hug stimulates nerve endings and the release of hormones that trigger good and healing feelings.

We, too, are abundant aspects of Nature. Like the cherry tree, we bear the potential of much more than we at first appear to be. To quell fear—to not let it rot the fruit and wither the leaves of your life—nurture wonder. From there, it’s an easier leap to love.

"Abundance is not something we acquire. It is something we tune into.”

~ Wayne Dyer ~

My Promise: Always April, Never AI 🌟

I promise I won’t use AI to communicate with you. To be clear, I’m not anti-AI. Though I am pro-human (will we need a term like that going forward?…).

Artificial Intelligence is the genie that’s never going back in the bottle. It’s here and evolving alongside us now, but it isn’t us, and never will be. Unless we let it.

Some of us are full of amazement and enthusiasm for AI’s capabilities and potential. Others are dismissive and fearful. A friend of a friend said, “You either love it or you hate it.” I disagree. I might say that about black licorice or durian, or about fascist detentions or exploitative corruption, but I’d never say that about technology in its raw forms. There are always pros and cons, and a very wide middle ground, when it comes to new technologies (so beware false binaries).

If AI can help us diagnose and possibly discover cures for degenerative diseases, I’m interested. If AI systems can build models to help us mitigate or even reverse climate change, I want that help. (When it comes to populating Mars, I don’t care a whit; I love Earth—can we please save it, or at least save it from ourselves?)

I’m old enough to remember the advent of the ATM machine. We were all a little suspicious at first but soon got used to it. Same with home computers, smart phones, and social media (that hasn’t aged well, just sayin’). I don’t think there’s anything wrong with feeling initially excited or frightened by new technology, but once the emotional wave has passed, thoughtful consideration has to kick in.

I’ve thoughtfully considered my boundaries for AI, especially around creativity and relationships. This short article from the Guardian (from Mar 29th) explains some of my rationale, and I’ve pulled this quote from writer, Joseph Earp:

“What I am not happy to outsource is most of the things that AI is desperate for me to outsource. I do not want a computer to summarise texts sent by my friends into shorter sentences, as though the work of being updated on the lives of those I love is somehow strenuous or not what being alive is all about. I do not want Google’s AI feature to summarise my search into a pithy (often incorrect) paragraph, rather than reading the investigative work of my fellow humans. I don’t want AI to clean up the pictures that I take on my phone that are rich and strange in their messiness.

And I certainly do not want AI to write my books for me, or paint my pictures. Not only would the work be terrible: it wouldn’t even be work. As all creatives know, there is limited joy in having written a book – as soon as it is done, most of us are on to the next thing. The thrill, the joy, the beauty, is in the writing of a book. If you outsource your creative work to a computer, you are not a creative. Someone who merely churns out product is not an artist – they are a salesperson. The artist is the person who makes, not who has made.”

I appreciate technology that helps me create—a computer with a word processor, internet access to research, and the printing press and film technology that gave me the books and movies that stimulated my imagination enough to want to create for myself. But technology that creates with me or for me feels… wrong. To me.

To me, the pervasive presence of AI calls me to double down on being human. It’s human to want to create. It’s also human to want those creations to be the best they can be and certain technologies often help with that, but creative work meant for human appreciation, I think, needs to be made by other humans. Great works of art speak to the heart about the human condition and hint at its mystery, its messiness, its humanity.

For years, especially since the industrial revolution, we’ve been trying to work smarter and faster, boosting efficiency, productivity, and profitability. We’ve modeled ourselves after machines, but now machines are modeling themselves after us. It’s time to get clear on what it really means to be human, and we’re still figuring that out! Art has always helped us reckon with this brief, mysterious encounter that lies between birth and death. Let’s not be so willing to sacrifice it.

Many people are turning to AI to enhance their creativity, while others are using it to replace therapists, counsellors, and coaches. (Some are even using it to create ideal virtual mates.) Yet humans do two things in distinctly human ways: making art and relating to each other. Neither are meant to be easy, but the efforts invested in both are experientially rewarding. Why would we outsource either to machines, as sophisticated as they might become?

Can these smarter machines help us improve ourselves? Maybe. If we use them properly. AI can summarize any number of self help books for you, or spiritual texts, or relationship guides, and you might absorb that guidance and apply it wonderfully in your life. But such a crash course in information doesn't take the place trial-and-error experience.

Keep in mind that algorithms are designed for behaviour modification and profit. New technologies are never made widely available until they’re known to be profitable. Profit lies in the gap between the actual costs of something and the tolerable costs of that thing. What will people pay, trade, or sacrifice for it?

Relationships aren’t meant to be profitable but rather reciprocal, which involves a give and take of value. And while one party might benefit more than another at any given time, that’s not the point of the bond. Art is reciprocal too. The give and take of what is made and shown, the inspiration and insight taken in, furthers the creation of more art. You fell in love with painting or writing because it gave you something first and you wanted to give back. Art produced solely for profit, or with tools made for profit, loses some of its soulful mystery, that strange human element that gives itself freely to art and relationships and yields priceless benefits. (Yes, we still have to eat and keep a roof over our heads, but most of us know how different it feels to take what you love and try to squeeze as much profit from it as possible.)

Don’t get me wrong, I think AI will help us in amazing ways. It better. But a lot of the people behind its spread of use are in it for the profit. I choose not to be. I won’t trade my humanity for something that isn’t meant to reciprocate, even as it tries to make me believe it will.

And so I promise you: though I type on a keyboard, use software to send you this email, and pay for Zoom so we can meet face to face wherever we each might be on the planet, it will always be me behind the tools. I will direct them rather than let them direct me.

Ideally, technology helps us solve problems but does not override the distinctly human experience of life. In the words of Soren Kierkegaard: “Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.”

“Where I create, there I am true.”

~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~

The Luck of the Irish ☘️

Leprechauns, rainbows, and lucky shamrocks. Ireland possess a kind of mysterious magic in spite of its sometimes troubled and tragic past.

My paternal grandmother was Irish. She emigrated from the Galway region of Ireland to the United States in 1922 at the tender age of seventeen. When I first saw the 2015 film, Brooklyn, (based on Colm Tóibín’s novel of the same name) I thought of my grandmother’s story, which, of course, took place more than a generation before that of fictional character, Eilis Lacey.

Ireland in the late teens and twenties was rife with conflict and change. It was a revolutionary period, with the Easter Rising, the War of Independence, the Irish Civil War, and the establishment of the Irish Free State all taking place between 1916 and 1923.

My great-grandfather was a farmer with too many mouths to feed, so poverty, along with national conflict, influenced my grandmother’s departure. The “new world” provided new hope and opportunity for her as it did for so many others.

Most of us have ancestors who hailed from somewhere else, whether it’s one generation back or five. And some of us are the immigrants. (In fact, I immigrated to Canada from the U.S. as a one-year-old baby.)

Issues related to travel, immigration, choosing where to live, or being forced out of zones known as home are as active now as they were a hundred years ago. We humans have been moving around this planet through choice and choicelessness for ages. Especially as it’s become logistically, technologically, and politically easier to do so.

A friend said recently: “Isn’t it amazing that within a matter of hours on a plane we can land in a completely different part of the world?” From desert to mountains, from one ocean to another, from the tropics to the arctics, we can move around more easily and affordably than ever before (carbon footprint and colonization arguments aside for the moment, it’s pretty mind blowing, isn’t it?). We don’t have to spend a week on a ship crossing the Atlantic to go from Europe to the U.S., unless we want to. And unlike our ancestors, we don’t have to be gone months, years, or a lifetime.

My grandmother only went home once after her first son was born (my father’s oldest brother). She made her home in a new country with others who had emigrated one or two generations earlier. She naturalized, put down roots, left progeny, lived and died in her chosen country. Her chosen home.

Her commitment to her new country meant we lost touch with any family remaining in Ireland, but when I visited there for the first time in 2015, I felt a vibration of home in my heart. I felt the magic of the place, too, which is available to anyone open to feeling it.

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”

~ WB Yeats ~

"Remember, remember always, that all of us, you and I especially, are descended from immigrants and revolutionists.”

~ President Franklin D. Roosevelt ~

Uncertainty Springs Eternal 🌸

Even in uncertain times spring shows up. Cherry blossoms open to the sun, green shoots rise up from the dark earth, birdsong fills the air. Nature reminds us that life is change. Even in uncertain times.

And we are living them, aren’t we? We all feel it, globally and personally. And we’re all trained to do something about our feelings, even if we don’t know what that doing should be. But we also know that acting impulsively often has unwelcome consequences—an angry email sent too soon is regretted later, a piece of writing we don’t like is shredded or burned before its potential is revealed. A hot emotion craves release yet often leaves destruction its wake. That old advice to take a deep breath and count to ten? It’s good. Especially in uncertain times.

With all the chaos streaming around us, let’s make a conscious decision to not add to it. That takes some work. We need to be extra vigilante about recognizing our triggers and have constructive ways to deal with them; we need to be more aware that others feel just like us, maybe worse, and we must tolerate that and, on our good days, do something positive to uplift others; we also need to make extra room for what nourishes and sustains us personally. It’s not a time to go without good thoughts, words, and deeds. The extra effort will pay off in the moment and later.

So don’t give in to fear; expand courage. Don’t succumb to hate; rise to love and tolerance. Don’t surrender to despair; stand with possibility and vision.

As a writer you have the tools to do this at your fingertips— you can take the coldness of your despair and the heat of your rage to the page. Your hands can be channels of insight rather than fists of might. Don’t they say the pen is mightier than the sword? Ideas last longer than bruises.

I don’t mean to sound Pollyannaish here. Though I do believe writing is powerful action—words galvanize people to do both good and ill—other actions are no doubt required now too—voting, marching, engaging in difficult conversations with people who think differently (and consider reviewing Timothy Snyder's Twenty Lessons from On Tyranny).

Remember that you, as a writer, are trained to deal with uncertainty and chaos thanks to your practice of repeatedly facing the blank page. What does the blank page teach us? That the story isn’t fully written yet. In its blankness lies possibility, if we have the vision for it. Don’t sacrifice that vision to the storms of chaos. Preserve it, like the stillness in the eye of a storm. Purge your inner chaos onto the page—burn or shred that one if you want—and let the uncertainty of the times trigger not only fear, anger, and despair but also wisdom, love, vision, and tolerance.

The story’s still being written. Which part are you writing?

"The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next." 

~ Ursula K. LeGuin ~

“For the times they are a-changin'.”

~ Bob Dylan ~

P.S. The writings and creations of others can uplift, soothe, and strengthen in these times. Two Buddhist-themed books I turn to: Pema Chodron’s, Comfortable with Uncertainty and The Wisdom of Insecurity, by Alan Watts. I also like to reread Paul Coelho’s, The Alchemist, and Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse now and again.

And just last week I watched the Oscar-winning animated feature, Flow, by Latvian director, Gints Zilbalodis. See this film! The literal wordlessness of it was wonderfully calming. Another, older favourite Oscar-winning animated feature is Hayao Miyazaki’s, Spirited Away—surreal, mystical, and heartfelt. Not wordless but wonderfully weird. (Japanese with English dubbing.)

SMWC + The Politics of Writing 🧑‍🤝‍🧑

I just got home from Mexico, where I attended the San Miguel Writers Conference. This was the conference’s 20th anniversary, and the team put on a great event, with powerful keynote addresses from the likes of John Irving, Margaret Atwood, and Ruth Riechl, to name a few. I had the privilege of presenting three sold out workshops, and I met so many brilliant writers, of whom many, I’m sure, will become friends.

What struck me most about the conference was the potency of community. At SMWC, there are communities within communities—the Mexican youth, the keynote luminaries, the generous faculty members, the creative and enthusiastic attendees, the different people from different countries writing in different genres. Yet, everyone is bound by a love of words, and stories, and truth—the kind of truth that makes the world a better place for everyone.

In this divided, unpredictable time we’re living in, contentious popular politics were left outside the venue, and a politics of humanity prevailed inside, especially the part that supports everyone to speak and write according to heart-based truth.

Gathering as a creative community, whether in a town in the middle of Mexico or your own living room, requires a significant amount of trust and a belief that creative, heart-based, truth-telling matters. We must agree on some fundamental principles. We can disagree on how we might solve a problem (pantsters and plotters have been debating for decades), and we might even discuss how to define a problem, or if there even is one, but at minimum we must agree to make room for everyone—every member of the body politic—to have a say, if they want to.

Writers make room for each other in much the same way they make room for the words in their lives. This room-making is a fundamental principle of creativity—and for living with one’s humanity intact. Reading and writing has always helped keep humanity intact (even if/when it fosters disagreements). When we stop telling stories, when we stop sharing stories, when we stop listening to humanity’s variety of stories, we lose trust; we lose heart.

Mexican keynote author, Jorgé Hernandez cautioned us to beware of those who don’t read. Margaret Atwood, resisting any label of prophet, reminded us that in any oppressive regime, there’s always a resistance, and poet, Kaveh Akbar, connected our struggles with grief and isolation now to poetry written thousands of years ago, pointing out that this isn’t the first time we’ve been in a place like this, and it likely won’t be the last.

Most writers don’t claim to be political per se. Percival Everett, author of the book Erasure that was adapted to the screen as the film American Fiction, says his books “just come to him,” and yet, his newly released novel, James powerfully yet subtly addresses America’s slave history through story.

The core of politics is rooted in the debates and discourses about how we decide to live together as individuals and members of societies. Stories, in their specificity of time, place, characters, and situations, contribute to this discourse. Writers grapple with questions pertaining to how we, as individuals, can live and thrive together in groups, as societies. Writers don’t necessarily provide answers to the questions, but they keep the conversation going. They play with the possibilities that arise from asking: How do we strike a balance between “me” and “we”? How do we avoid veering too far into the darkness of “us” versus “them”?

So, the act of writing is political whether you think of it that way or not, because it’s part of how you, as an individual, wonder about and grapple with the questions of the time you live in, your personal experiences, and your place—and our human place—in the larger world.

Own your choices as the political acts that they are: to be a creator, a writer, a truth teller who aims to contribute something meaningful that makes the world a brighter rather than a darker place. Then go do it.

"No book is genuinely free from political bias. The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude" 

~ George Orwell ~

“War is what happens when language fails.”

~ Margaret Atwood ~

The Stories You Choose to Live, Read, and Write 📚

We are all living stories. Stories are all around us and working through us. We make stories. Our lives are stories. 

Paying attention to the stories we’re choosing to live can offer insights into the choices we’re making now or could make later.

When I say we’re living stories, I’m not referring to a solipsistic perspective that we’re always making up our own realities. Rather, I’m calling attention to the way we use stories to understand ourselves and the world.

We make up stories individually and collectively about our identities and beliefs. These stories drive our choices and actions. Consequences ensue. This is in large part what gives our lives a sense of meaning. Stories shape, inform, guide, and determine who we are.

And while all these stories matter, it can be helpful to remember that they are stories.

Thinking about our lives as stories is a useful practice (and one I’m exploring more and more). When you think of your life as a story, you might ask yourself: am I satisfied with the starring role in my own life as well as the bit parts I play in other peoples’ lives? Do I need or want to change anything? If so, why? To what purpose? Stepping back further, you might see patterns in your life that reveal deeper aspects of yourself you’ve forgotten or are just waking up to.

Yet, as interesting as it is to edit and improve the individual stories we’re currently living, there comes a time to step outside of the stories all together and have a good long look at what we’re doing with our powers of creation. We are capable of creating stories of love and peace yet the world continues to be full of pain and suffering. 

This year our individual and collective stories seem fraught with intensity, tension, and conflict. Outcomes are uncertain. I don't think we should give up on the potential for positive breakthroughs, but our future depends on the stories we’re living, listening to, and writing about right now.

What kinds of stories are you living? Reading? Writing? Are they contributing to your own growth and healing? How does the story you’re living impact the world? Are your stories calling you to grow and change?

Let’s write—and live—the kinds of individual and collective stories that can carry us through and beyond 2025. Let’s accept the call to venture out into the mystery of the stories and lives yet to be written and lived. Let’s use our powers of creation to pave the way for new, nourishing stories to be told.

In the words of my brilliant writer-friend, Paul Belserene: “Write as if you’re reading it; read as if you’re writing it. Write as if you’re living it; live as if you’re writing it.”

Write. Read. Live.

"After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world." 

~ Philip Pullman~

“You write your life story by the choices you make.”

~ Helen Mirren ~

Dancing into the Light in 2025 💃⭐🕺

I said goodbye to a very dear elder of mine over the holidays. My Great Aunt Elaine passed away peacefully on Christmas Day. She was 96 years old and, up until ten days prior, when she had a stroke, she'd still been living independently and hosting parties, including cooking a Thanksgiving turkey for her friends last month. One of the last meals we cooked together, when I visited in November, was lobster tails sautéed in butter and lemon and paired with blanched asparagus. 

Elaine was an amazing woman right up to the end, an inspiration to me and countless others.

She was a dancer most of her life, as well as a nationally recognized choreographer and teacher. She opened a ballet school, created three dance companies, and designed the dance program for the University of Toledo. She was creative through and through. 

Vivacious, fierce, funny, persistent, wild, and curious, her take on modern dance drew on spirituality, anthropology, pop culture, and the human potential movement. She loved and encouraged everyone she met, though she didn't suffer fools gladly.

She moved through life with grace and determination. She died that way too.

I will be unravelling her legacy over the coming year(s). I am determined to honor her memory by living her lessons. Her life was movement, and she moved through the world moving others with her wisdom and passion for all life had to offer. She believed in the human being in all its fullness. And I intend to dance into the new year carrying her light.

This past week I've had to call many people to tell them she's gone, and several have responded to my news with spontaneous sobbing. She had that kind of impact on others. They felt her love. The light of her body may have gone out, but each of us touched by her carries it within and can choose to let her spirit burn brightly through our own hearts.

My great aunt lived a full, creative life. And though this note to you on this last day of the year isn't so much about writing, it is about celebrating how a life devoted to creativity is a life of love of your chosen practice and of loving everyone and everything you come into contact with.

If you have en elder in your life who inspires you, spend time with them. If they're gone already, call on their spirit to be an ancestor. And become such a person if you can. Pass on the light of your love and creativity to as many people as you can. Share your gifts as often and as freely as you can.

As we enter this new year, more light and love will be called for. Each of you holds a bright, creative spark in your hearts. Let it burn with a passion. Let it guide your way.

Love your coffee (or tea) AND your life! ☕

Do you love your morning coffee or tea? Do you anticipate it, revel in, feel nourished and sustained by it as you begin your day?

I think our attachments to our small rituals in the morning are symbolic of our attachment to our deep love of life. It’s hard to contain such a big love, so we hold onto it and express it in smaller ways. Ultimately, it’s this love of life that must be our anchor as we live though our strange modern times.

Most people feel overwhelmed by—even afraid of— the 21st century’s “unprecedented” changes in technology, politics, and climate. With recent profound and disturbing leaps in AI technology and extreme climate disasters, not to mention rising racism and misogyny, it’s more than understandable. Some of us are asking, “Where is the love?”

Every generation makes the mistake of thinking their existential challenges are somehow new and different—unprecedented. But go back and read articles or listen to talks from the 60s (I’ve been listening to Alan Watts’ talks lately) or the early 80s (ie, Joseph Campbell interviews), or the 20s or 30s, or writings from the mid to late 1800s (Henry David Thoreau, anyone?), and you’ll find thoughtful speakers and writers saying the same sorts of things we’re saying: We are living in unprecedented times; Technology is changing so fast and making us so anxious; We’re longing for something calmer, softer, or more peaceful.

It’s sobering to realize every generation feels this. “But this is different!” we all say. “Never has XYZ happened!”

While the specific challenges of each generation are indeed different, the fact that each generation faces challenges is not. The specifics matter, of course. Our generation must take up our responsibilities to address extreme climate changes and leaps in emerging AI technology, and we must do our part to rein in racism and sexism. Future generations will have to take up their responsibilities, which will be impacted by what we do—or don’t do—now. Because we all inherit the actions—or non-actions—of the past, and that results in the specific content we have to deal with.

We can torture ourselves with the what ifs about the past: What if we’d done more to protect the environment in the 70s and 80s? Where might we be now? What if Oppenheimer hadn’t invent the atomic bomb in the 40s? What if XYZ?… 

Or we can rise to the challenges of the what ifs about the future: What if we don’t stop using fossil fuels? What if we do? What if we don’t regulate and humanize AI tech? What if we do?  What if we don’t impose limits on cruelty based on sex and skin color? What if we do?

The fact is: If the specifics of the past had been different, then the specifics of the present would be too. So, the details do matter, because what we choose to do now results in the specifics others will have to deal with later. And we should all care about that and align our actions to our values as best we can to manifest better visions of the future. Existential challenges will persist, but we can do our small parts right now to affect the scope and content of those challenges.

Starting with your morning coffee or tea…

Use this doorway of small pleasures in your life to reconnect with the great unfathomable love you have for life in all its wonder and complexity. When you find yourself asking: Where is the love? Recognize it’s in each one of us. Right here. Right now. Stay connected to that love when you ask your “what if” questions.

See yourself as part of a greater whole making your difference in some small way. Align with love from your first sip in the morning until your head hits your pillow each night. Trust you have a role to play in the the much larger scheme of existential reality.

And remember: as a specific element in your time and place you matter. So make something—of your life and your art—that you believe will make the world a slightly better place for others now and in the future (including yourself).

“You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

~ Mary Oliver ~

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has." 

~ Margaret Mead~

Flexibility & Fortitude 👊✌️

Persistence and perseverance come up a lot when it comes to writing and creativity, but lately I'm considering the word “fortitude,” which means having courage in the face of adversity. It points to a state of mental and emotional strength that enables a person to encounter danger or bear pain or adversity with courage--the root of which is coeur, meaning “heart” in French.

Strength of heart. Strength of mind. We need these right now.

Every generation faces some form of social, political, and existential turmoil. And we’re deep in our own present-day version of that. A phase for the history books for sure, but, meanwhile, we’re living the reality of it day-to-day. And that takes fortitude.

The word is rooted in the Latin, fortitudo, from fortis, which gives us the French word for strong (fort), which the English and others borrowed for physical structures like fortresses and forts, also known as strongholds.

But we also need flexibility, which is from the Latin, flexibilis, from flexus, meaning “to cause to go in a different direction, bend, curve.” We need to be willing to adapt, to bend or curve in response to changing conditions. The tree that bends in the wind can do so because of strong roots.

In times of chaos, confusion, or strife, the impulse might be to build a protective wall around us and pull up the drawbridge to keep danger out. But this doesn’t work in the long run.

As turmoil spreads, where can we turn? What can we rely on? Firstly, ourselves—we need to clean up our own acts to be of use to anyone else. Secondly, each other—because we don’t live in a vacuum, and we can’t survive as if we’re islands unto ourselves.

We must build capacities within ourselves so that we can respectfully share rather than spill our fears, anger, and sadness on others. Such capacities can help us help others bear up, and in doing so, they might be there for us when we falter.

This being human isn’t a fixed state. It’s a constant flow of emotions and ever changing situations to react and respond to. Reaction can be knee-jerk, rooted in old, unhelpful patterns, but with some degree of fortitude, and flexibility, we can respond more thoughtfully, calmly, and with an awareness of a “bigger picture.” As events in the world appear to be unraveling, we are naturally triggered. So many people are behaving badly. Many others are suffering, often needlessly, and this is both painful to experience and also to witness. (Research has shown that observing others being bullied or abused creates stress and trauma in the observers, not just the victims.)

How do we respond to this? How do we first stand our own ground, and then, if we have some extra resources, how do we also stand up for others? We can’t run into action from an emotionally triggered reactive place. We’ll only add to the mess. Fortitude means responding to adversity with courage, which means heart is involved too. How can the heart lead us through our challenges?

A writer friend shared a Finnish word, sisu, which is like fortitude, but it adds extra, useful layers denoting strength of will, determination, perseverance, and acting rationally in the face of adversity. It also implies an ability to sustain one’s courage over time, a lifetime even.

Others have gone before us. Others artists had to contend with social and political turmoil in their times and relied on flexibility and fortitude to navigate their life and career challenges.

Frida Kahlo experienced a lot of physical pain as a young woman, but she painted nonetheless, moving fluidly between folk art and surrealism. James Baldwin faced racial and sexual discrimination and met these challenges with a sense of flexibility in genre choice and writing styles, using essays, novels, and plays to share his ideas. Toni Morrison turned experiences of racism and sexism into important stories about deep issues with heavy themes using a range of narrative styles. Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath suffered from mental health issues, and while they had untimely ends, they were expressive and experimental in the creative work they left behind, and this paved new paths for artists who came after them.

Each of those artists lived through some degree of social and political strife. And now here we are too, facing our own challenges. As we cultivate our own capacities for flexibility and fortitude, let’s ask ourselves: Will we use our creativity to build walls around ourselves or bridges between each other?

“Hardship, in forcing us to exercise greater patience and forbearance in daily life, actually makes us stronger and more robust. From the daily experience of hardship comes a greater capacity to accept difficulties without losing our sense of inner calm. Of course, I do not advocate seeking out hardship as a way of life, but merely wish to suggest that, if you relate to it constructively, it can bring greater inner strength and fortitude.” 

~ Dalai Lama ~

“Patience and fortitude conquer all things.”

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson ~

An Appreciation for Lulls 🐛

September has been so full and rich with ideas and activities that I'm re-learning an appreciation for the "lull." 

But before I get to that, let me share with you that the retreat was a huge highlight of my year. Stowel Lake Farm was a wonderful location, and OMG--the food!! The participants were stellar, the conversations deep and rich, and the daily creative work poured forth steadily and productively. Everyone got a lot done, and there was still time for massages, yoga, and glasses of wine at the end of the day! I've included a few pictures below. (I had so much fun I think I want to do it again, so I'll keep you posted as those ideas unfold...)

My good friend Sabrina, from Hamburg, Germany, attended the retreat and stayed on to visit a while. This allowed us to take a side trip to visit a writer-friend, Kathryn, in Portland as well as offer a live webinar on a new and interesting topic that blended both our areas of expertise and gave us each a chance to explore new territory and expand our interests. We called the talk, "Stories to Live and Die For" (a recording is on youtube now) and it went so well we're going to delve into a second conversation on Sunday, November 3rd.

But first, a lull please. This strange yet soothing word dates back to Middle English and relates to the Latin, lallare, which means to sing to sleep, and the Swedish lulla, as in lullaby. Today we take it to mean a period of rest or soothing, or a period of reduced activity, or, nautically speaking, a period without waves or wind. I'm ready for a period like this. Time to read, think, write, reflect. I came across this quote by an 18th Century writer named Ann Radcliffe that captures my feeling: “When her life was discomposed…a book was the opiate that lulled it to repose.” (Interestingly, Radcliffe was a money making female writer in her time.)

In the writing world a "writing lull" is similar to a "writing block," and seen as negative, but I see the value in lulls, whether in the process of writing or within actual stories. Little lulls are needed to break up tension, integrate plot consequences, and give space for characters to grow believably. We may need to have more tension-relieving moments in life than in stories. Elmore Leonard cautioned us to, "Try to leave out all the parts readers skip." From a story perspective, I agree. But from a living perspective, lulls are needed.

I had been feeling inspired to focus this newsletter on the topic of writing and friendship, but I think I'll let Maria Popova's article on Henry Miller on Friendship and the Relationship Between Creativity and Community speak for me this time. Dig into this lovely meditation full of fun rabbit hole-links to wander through, or simply appreciate a personal "lull" by closing your eyes, taking a deep breath, and just letting things be.

“I must rest here a moment, even if all the orcs ever spawned are after us.”

~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~

“That’s what you’re looking for as a writer when you’re working. You’re looking for your own freedom.” 

~ Philip Roth ~

Gushing Fountain or Steady Stream? ⛲🖋️💦

We all create differently. At times, the muse inflames us and we rush to our laptops or notebooks and let the inspiration pour forth. Other times, we show up regularly, routinely, and work methodically. 

I know one writer who only writes while traveling, and since she knows this about herself, when she she has a project in mind she plans several trips and works intensely in spurts of several days of long hours. Her work gushes forth like a fountain turned on for a few days and then she returns to the business of her life. Meanwhile, the project keeps percolating in the background until her energy builds for her next trip dedicated to focusing on the writing project.

Another writer I know writes a little every day. He’s up early and tends to his writing projects first, before getting into his other business. His steady routine allows him to complete several writing projects every year.

What’s your proclivity? Do you like to work intensely for shorter stretches of time? Or do you prefer to have a regular daily routine? Are you a gushing fountain or a steady stream?

Our individual characters and ways of living makes us lean one way or the other, but particular projects may demand a certain way of working too. Some ideas gush out almost fully formed and demand an intensity of attention, while others need longer to gestate and steadily take shape; they may require less time daily but more time annually for the process of drafting, rewriting, and revising. Your personal character plus the particular project will affect your approach to getting the writing done.

Even so, I’ve found that most writers struggle in some way with the nature of the project and/or themselves. That old saying, “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence,” plagues everyone sometimes and writers quite often. A gushing fountain writer longs to experience the steady stream’s regular, disciplined routine. A steady stream writer wants a taste of the fountain’s intensity and wild productivity.

It seems to be in writers’ natures to feel unsatisfied to some degree while working (and only somewhat satisfied after having worked--full satisfaction seems elusive and probably shouldn’t be sought).

While most of us can achieve a degree of satisfaction working as either fountains or streams, we are all capable of both ways of writing. So experiment with your flow sometimes. Mix things up. Give yourself opportunities to get away to write intensely a couple of times each year. Practice a regular writing habit for a few weeks or months at a time.

Figure out which way of working feels more energizing and satisfying for you. Sometimes it just takes changing things up temporarily to revitalize creative flow.

“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the tap is turned on.”

~ Louis L'Amour ~

“No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”

~ Martha Graham~

🦶Every Writer Walks a Unique Path: Success, Envy, and Being Yourself

Most of us have a nasty habit of comparing ourselves to other writers and authors. Let’s stop. We each walk a unique path of creativity and fulfillment.

President Theodore Roosevelt said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” That’s reason enough to curtail comparing, but another good reason is to avoid the risk of being drawn down the dark road of envy.

Envy is defined as: a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by another’s possessions, qualities, or luck.

When you’ve been writing for a long time and still haven’t experienced the kind of success you’d hoped for, envy finds its way in.

Writers want to experience success in their vocations just like anyone else. In many fields, a desire for personal success is often connected to a belief that social recognition and increased status will make us more lovable and worthy of attention. But even deeper than this, perhaps unconscious, is a fundamental longing to be a part of something that matters.

For writers, this longing is usually activated by having read something that mattered to us when we were young. Something that changed us, that woke us up to the possibility that we could be creative too.

A desire to be successful at something that is personally meaningful seems reasonable enough to me. But the journey between realizing one’s desire to create and becoming a person— like a writer—who makes things to share with the world (and maybe even gets paid for it), can be a long one. On that long and winding road one feels many things, including admiration for those writers one strives to emulate. But over time admiration can twist into envy. When it does, try to learn from it.

If you envy an author’s success it usually means you also want such success, but it feels out of reach. Envy arises when what we long for feels too far away from our own reality. We tend to admire what we believe is still within reach.

The antidote to envy and comparison is to first lean into your individuality, to go back to your initial hopes and dreams and take stock.

What dreams do you have for your writer-self? What is the reality you perceive around you right now? How big is the gap between? And within that gap, how many steps would it take to get from reality to dream? How many of those are within your control?

Every single writer has their own row to hoe in the great garden of the creative writing world. No two lives are the same and no two voices are the same.

Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Douglas Adams, Maya Angelou, Stephen King, and James Joyce have little in common with each other—divided by time and taste and so much more—but they all share(d) a common commitment to the written word. They dreamed, drafted, revised, and submitted their work. And each possessed the kind of talent, tenacity, and luck that supported getting their work published and having it last.

Though I typed that list of writers randomly, on reflection I’ve learned something big or small from each of them at some point. I bet you have too.

We all need role models, but we cannot be them. We can only be ourselves—unabashedly, authentically, and unapologetically.

As we write, no doubt we’ll fall short of our envied and admired ideals, but we will allow something new to enter the world, something that can only come through our unique ways of seeing the world.

It makes no sense to compare ourselves to writers of the past, or even those in the present, except to acknowledge the common element that truly matters: a love for and commitment to the written word.

The writers of the past didn’t know if they would become known, successful, stand the test of time, or remain unknown forever, but they wrote anyway. Those of us writing now will be, in the future, the writers of the past. Known and unknown. That last bit is a gamble, and mostly out of our control, except for the foundational part: doing the actual writing in our inevitably unique ways.

“No one can build you the bridge on which you, and only you, must cross the river of life. There may be countless trails and bridges and demigods who would gladly carry you across; but only at the price of pawning and forgoing yourself. There is one path in the world that none can walk but you. Where does it lead? Don’t ask, walk.”

~ Friedrich Nietzsche ~

“Writing is a path to meet ourselves and become intimate.”

~ Natalie Goldberg ~

What Stories Are & Why We Need to Write Them ✍️

For the past five years I’ve been working on a book about writing stories that will be published later this year. In it, I’ve included what I think writers need to know to tell powerful, deep, resonant stories. I’ve organized the material around the five aspects of writing that story-makers need to master: Structure, Character, Theme, Plot, and Scenes.

Here’s why:

Structure contains and organizes the story, and its limits ("freedom within limits") contribute to all the other elements.

Character is the enlivening heart of any story, its main focus, and this main character is the guide, avatar, and/or projected pseudo-self through whom the reader gets to live and learn vicariously.

Theme infuses the story with meaning—a resonant message—that’s conveyed through the character’s interactions with plot situations (including other characters).

Plot is what the character does and doesn’t do in the face of inner and outer conflict generated by an inciting incident that sets up a story problem and a story question.

Scenes express all of the above through “showing” the character in action: dealing with conflict, expressing/repressing feelings, making choices under pressure, trying/failing/getting to achieve a story-worthy goal.

What is a story-worthy goal?

I once heard this clear-eyed yet unusual definition of happiness: Happiness consists of the overcoming of obstacles on the way to a goal of one’s own choosing. Swap out happiness for story and you’ve a pretty good definition for a story arc. In stories, characters are faced with situations and must choose a way to respond. Their ultimate, unconscious desire always relates to happiness—their version of it—so how they choose to respond to the story problems will include a specific, concrete goal that represents their version of happiness. As they head toward that goal, obstacles ensue. That’s storytelling in a nutshell (easier said than done, I know).

I’ve spent a lifetime figuring this stuff out through trial and error an study and it’s still hard. But so worth it. Because stories carry us away, in the best sense. They reveal, inform, inspire, and delight. They help make life bearable, manageable, acceptable, and, when their alchemy is right, they can contribute to change and evolution on a personal level and even a societal scale.

Stories can: heal, guide, expose, educate, enlighten, encourage, aid, direct, repel, activate, support, comfort, motivate, and so much more. They help us overcome the obstacles on the way to the goals of our own choosing.

Stories help us navigate our life situations. They help us grow and evolve in a life, and world, full of change. A human lifetime is finite, and the world goes on without us after we’ve gone; we’re all too aware of this. Many stories deal directly and indirectly with the ramifications of this existential awareness.

At some point, most of us encounter an internal question: is such a life, with its accompanying awareness, a gift or a curse? Your thoughts and beliefs about this will affect how you behave and the choices you make in your life. Writers usually take their worries and questions to the page, and this is how stories are conceived.

The book I've written isn’t a story itself, rather it’s about how to write stories. It’s the guidebook I wish I’d had thirty years ago. Toni Morrison said, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” I wrote my book because I believe stories—especially in the forms of novels, screenplays, and memoirs—are the biggest magic we have as humans.

When my book comes out, I hope it will be a useful companion to help you write the stories you care about. But in the meantime, keep doing just that. Write what you want to read. Teach what you want to learn. Tell the stories you wish someone had once told you.

“Story is a yearning meeting an obstacle.”

~Robert Olen Butler ~

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”

~ Joan Didion ~

Darkness, death, light, and life. 🌓 And writing.

At this time of year in the northern hemisphere, many of us who are welcoming spring and summer feel a sense of relief and expansion accompanying the extra light. I’ve been thinking about this response to the light and what we think of as its opposite: the dark.

In Nature, we observe birth, growth, decay, and death all around us, including in each other and ourselves. Nature reminds us we are each part of a great natural cycle that balances life with death and light with darkness. This cycle seems neutral, yet we humans have come to associate the light with life and the dark with death.

Darkness seems to be associated with death, at least emotionally, because it also represents mystery and the unknown, and we’re biologically wired to fear the unknown at first. But, if you think about it, life begins in darkness. Whether in the cocoon of the womb, the mycelium-laced soil below the earth’s surface, or the nether depths of the sea, darkness is home to life force.

Nonetheless, we favor the light. We associate it with positive things, while darkness carries the negative.

Yet Nature keeps offering another perspective: in the vastness of the Milky Way hangs the jewel of Earth; in the vastness of space our galaxy spirals, and in the vastness of the universe (let alone a multiverse) countless galaxies spin as beacons across the light years. All that energy (light) surrounded by immense darkness, the darkness giving it all room to grow.

I think it's time for a new and deeper understanding of darkness and death. Because we stash all that we don’t know or understand, all that we fear, feel confused about, or anticipate will generate pain into darkness, we have misunderstood our relationship with a huge portion of the source of life force.

What does any of this have to do with writing? Well…

The polarizing of light and dark, in terms of emotion and morality, has always been a powerful source of story conflict. Pit good against evil, and vice versa, and you’ll get a story. Stories are told using imagery and symbols—things stand in for other things. Ergo, light translates as good, darkness as evil (the unknown is feared and then demonized). Yet something gets lost in this polarizing interpretation. Let's shine a little light...

The power of light can be penetrative and expansive. It can puncture and push back the darkness so it can be understood for what it is, including understanding that some parts are not understandable at all and must remain mysterious. 

Light needs to travel through darkness to navigate it, understand itself in relationship to it, and shine itself into the crevasses of fear we project into it (to quote Frank Herbert, author of Dune: “Fear is the mind killer.”). And then we learn to live with it, to fully comprehend that life does not exist without its counterpart, death. And light doesn’t exist without darkness. Nature shows us this.

I think it’s our job right now, as writers and storytellers, to begin to untangle the symbolic associations of good and evil from life/death and light/darkness. In so doing we can use the light of knowing to penetrate confusion and expand awareness. We need stories to lead us out from the darkness of mistaken perceptions (especially about each other, different beliefs, other countries and ways of living).

We don’t need to fully disentangle the symbols and meanings (I don’t think we can), only enough to understand that that’s what they are.

Stories are metaphors that express the human condition and help us figure out how to live. They are not direct prescriptions. Their symbolism must be interpreted, and their mysteries are only revealed through the light of thoughtful understanding and respectful discourse.

As writers we wrestle with the mysterious process of creation to craft symbols and messages that help us and others understand the relationship between light and darkness, life and death. We show their necessary coexistence, the conditions that ensue, and the choices left to us within those conditions, as well as the consequences of those choices. When the metaphor is interpreted adequately, we absorb new insights and inspiration for how to live our lives.

One compelling character in one compelling story in one pervasive religion died and was resurrected this weekend, or so the story goes. His story showed us the symbols, the mystery, the light, dark, good, evil, and living and dying. People have been wrestling with these paradoxes for thousands of years. Many world stories explore these paradox of being human, of being alive, knowing death awaits us all, and that’s why writers need to pay attention. We work at the crossroads of the dark cave and the light-filled peak every time we create. We interpret the symbols so we can carry the messages humans need to hear.

"We all fear death and question our place in the universe. The artist's job is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence."
~ Gertrude Stein ~

"An age is called Dark not because the light fails to shine, but because people refuse to see it."

~ James Michener ~

Are You a Lonely Writer? 🐈

Do you ever get lonely? How can you tell?

Writers like being alone, undisturbed, so they can focus. They're protective of their solitude and rarely identify with being lonely, in part because their imaginations are wildly populated with intriguing thoughts, characters, and dramatic situations with the potential to become stories.

But when does creative solitude cross over into loneliness? 

It's not as clear or straight as the yellow line down the center of a road. We're often on the other side before we've realized we've been drifting. There's no honking or swerving of oncoming traffic to alert us to the danger we're in. We just... feel different. A bit out of sorts, maybe a bit sad or irritable, possibly extra self-conscious, worried, fearful, or even paranoid. These shifts in mood and self perception can creep up on us so quietly that we're often convinced they're byproducts of what's going on in the outer world rather than our inner worlds.

Psychologists identify loneliness as "painful isolation.” Feeling lonely is a subjective awareness of feeling some distress and dissatisfaction around interpersonal relationships. To be lonely is to have certain social needs unmet.

Every person has different social needs and, therefore, a personal loneliness threshold. We each have to figure out what that is. Personally, I love traveling on my own, and I once spent a summer in Brittany, mostly alone, sometimes working on a novel. One day I looked up from my computer and realized I felt odd. A bit loose at the seams. A bit down in the dumps. I wondered why until it occurred to me that I hadn't interacted with another soul in three days, not a phone call or a grocery purchase or a nod on the street. (Actually, I don’t think I’d even left the house.)

Writers do tend to tolerate greater amounts of alone-time than others, and we know that being alone is not the same as being lonely, but we may over value solitude and the creative possibilities we think it might bring at the expense of fulfilling fundamental needs for social connection. I wouldn’t have been aware of that three day threshold if I hadn’t felt it physically. (Honestly, I can go longer than a few days on my own, but zero contact with other humans, even to observe them across a restaurant from the privacy of your own dinner table, will take a toll eventually.)

Humans are wired to be together, though not all the time. To be human is to embody a living paradox--we need connection and belonging and we need autonomy and freedom. More importantly, we need to be aware of the experiences of these things. It's not always enough to be free; we want to feel free. It's not enough to know we're connected to family and friends; we need to feel these connections.

Which also means we can feel lonely even if we're not really alone in an objective sense. We all want to feel seen, understood, safe, welcome, and of some value within our social tribe. When we're deprived of such feelings, we can end up feeling lonely, depressed, or anxious.

In fact, loneliness is a predictor of depression and anxiety, yet it stands apart from it too; you can feel lonely without feeling depressed or anxious. But if your personality is prone to depression and anxiety, and that's true of many writers, you can end up drifting toward loneliness without being aware of it.

Apparently loneliness is on the rise in our digitally connected yet more physically isolated societies. The Covid pandemic forced us all to adapt to "social distancing,” and, thankfully, advances in technology were able to meet most us where we were in our locked down locations. But in the years since, most everyone is more digitally connected than ever, whether through live interactions on Zoom or other platforms, on social media, through watching YouTube or various streaming services, yet we're also more lonely. We may have plenty of visual and aural input, but how often are we in each other’s physical presence anymore? How many of our in-person encounters have been replaced with virtual ones?

Now, I’m not knocking the live online thing. I love the freedom and flexibility it allows me, but I do miss the quality of connection that comes from being in the presence of others (it’s one of the reasons I’m hosting an in-person writing retreat this year).

We certainly aren’t going to stuff the genie of technology back in the bottle. The digital and virtual are here to stay. But we can choose to include more social interaction in our lives, which means investing time and energy in the relationships that keep us on the right side of our personal loneliness threshold.

It’s been proven that good relationships keep us healthier and happier. You’ve probably heard of that long running Harvard study? This Ted Talk from 2015 summarizes it, with two of its points being: social connections are good for us and loneliness kills (they’re now equating its impact on longevity with smoking fifteen cigarettes a day!).

I’ve always been one of those writers in search of more solitude, so I made a decision early on in life to invest in friendships with people who love writing. Writers do need other people, especially for commiserating and celebrating the strange ups and downs of the writing life, and they always understand when their fellows need to pull away to create. I have other friends and family, too--as writers we must be willing to engage fully with real life if we want to have anything to write about!--but my writer peers are essential. As a matter of fact, maybe I'll reach out and set up a coffee date right now... 

"Writing, at its best, is a lonely life."

~Ernest Hemingway ~

"There isn't time, so brief is life, for bickering, apologies, heartburning, calling to account. There is only time for loving, and but an instant, so to speak, for that."
~ Mark Twain ~

Your Vein of Gold ⚡

You can probably relate to a feeling that the process writing exacts some quantity of your own blood, sweat, and tears. But do you realize you can also draw on your vein of gold?

Your vein of gold refers to your personal zone of authentic excellence. When you're feeling "in flow," it's this inner treasure that's flowing. Think of those times when you feel in your "element" (as coined by Sir Ken Robinson), connected to your essential self, and able to express certain innate, unique talents.

Julia Cameron wrote a book with the title, The Vein of Gold (a recommended follow up to The Artist's Way as it's more valuable to the committed creator). In the book she refers to a conversation she had with the director, Martin Ritt (pp.98-99). As a director, he was always trying to draw out the best in his actors, something he called their vein of gold, by which he meant "a certain territory, a certain range, they were born to play." Ritt believed if you cast the actor in roles representing that vein, the actor would always shine. Which didn't mean actors couldn't also give very good performances outside their vein of gold, but there would be a difference. 

Julia Cameron then reflects on the differences between Robert De Niro's memorable roles in films with themes related to "male bonding, loyalties and betrayals" compared to his good but less resonant roles involving relationships with women. She mentions Kevin Kline, a skilled dramatic actor who is most known for his comedic wit and timing (remember A Fish Called Wanda?). Then there's Meryl Streep, who takes our breath away in high dramas. Some will argue she gives a noteworthy performance in every role, and she herself loves comedy, but the Devil Wears Prada, Mama Mia, and It's Complicated don't expose the same vein of gold as Sophie's Choice, Out of Africa, or The Deer Hunter. 

All creators can do excellent work outside their vein of gold, but the possibility for brilliant work, the kind with memorable, remarkable resonance, flows from one's vein of gold. 

So how does one tap into this? It takes a degree of self knowledge and awareness. You may have to dig deep into your heart and psyche to access your personal ore. And you may need to consult some others who know you well. Because it's often what others can see shining through you when you forget they're watching. Its natural, deep, and not always obvious to your conscious mind.

Yes, your vein of gold is often connected to what you like, love, admire, and aspire to, but it's also connected to what frightens, angers, or drives you to despair. Essentially, it's connected to what moves you. It's part of what moves under the surface of your being that inspires the words and deeds that flow most naturally through you.

One way to start your personal mining is to pay attention to stories that have lasting resonance for you. Without thinking too hard, list five to eight of your favorite films. Then spend some time thinking about what they all have in common (even if at first it appears they have nothing in common, persevere, because I assure you they do--to you). Do the same with five to eight of your favorite books from when you were young--the ones you've reread, the ones that linger, the ones that trigger something in your heart, no matter what the trigger is. 

It's very important that your mining expedition carries no judgement. A fascination with serial killer stories may reveal how much you care about order restoring chaos, about justice and mercy. Flights into fantasy may expose your faith in the higher powers and integrity that underlie good magic. Sad love stories may point to the importance of profound human connection that is often elusive. You're simply looking for clues about what matters deeply to you. Your vein of gold flows from these deepest zones. 

More clues are lurking in the news stories that grip you, the delights that lead to spontaneous smiles or laughter, the tears that arise in witness to another's plight. All these ways you can be moved will point to certain values at play--freedom, truth, justice, creation, love--and at stake when in opposition--freedom/oppression, truth/deception, justice/corruption, creation/destruction, love/hatred. 

By locating some of those values in the resonant stories you've chosen, as films or books, and noticing how they flow through those particular characters and situations, you'll begin to see the connections that allow you to strike your personal, creative mother lode.

"A creative writer can do his best only with what lies within the range and character of his deepest sympathies."
~ Willa Cather ~

"If a story is in you, it has got to come out."

~ William Faulkner

Your ARE a talented Writer!

I would bet that someone, at some point in the past, maybe when you were quite young, once pronounced you “talented.” This was probably after you’d created something spontaneously in a spirit of enthusiasm, inspiration, or joy.This declaration of talent likely felt good at the time but also would have introduced a feeling of self-consciousness—plus an awareness that such declarations were bestowed by others rather than oneself.A declaration of talent can be the initial encouragement that gets us to commit to a creative path, but it can also keep us hungry for outer acknowledgement. Some writers spend much of their time chasing opportunities to experience that other-bestowed good feeling again and again, seeming to need reassurance that they are still talented.I've been wondering if the idea of "talent" is problematic. When the word is interpreted as natural aptitude or skill, it can be relatively neutral. But when it’s used to separate creators into categories of high and low status, it can create unnecessary trouble.Interestingly, the word originally referred to an ancient unit of weight and currency, so it’s long been associated with “value.” A talente or talentan was a physical thing, and it has retained its meaning as something one “possesses.” The word eventually became commonly associated with natural endowments connected to athletics, creativity, and intelligence. This added notion of naturalness implied something new: not only was talent something to have and to be, it also pointed to an inherent or innate value that could be developed.Whoever suggested you had some talent for writing, and whenever that happened, you were the one who made the choice to develop it. This is all any of us can do.“Am I talented? or “Do I have talent?” are the wrong questions to ask. If you’re reading this newsletter, you have it, because you already have a natural inclination to create. If you need to hear from others that you’re talented, that could be more about needing approval and permission. The only question you need to ask is: How do I develop what I do have?Belief in your own talent is sometimes a good thing, because it’s hard to stick to writing unless you believe in yourself and your work. But believing in the work is much more important than believing in yourself. (I'm embarrassed to admit how many rabbit holes I ran down in search of ways to “believe in myself”—whole industries are devoted to this!)The more you believe in the work itself, and the more you show up and actually do it, the more you will develop into the person who can deliver the work, and this is the best way to reach the state of believing in yourself. And it’s the only way you can express your talent.Talent emerges as you write, as you practice, and as you make things, and then more things.Many of us start out writing with joy and enthusiasm when we’re young, perhaps encouraged by someone who recognizes some innate talent. Most of us take long detours through adolescence and beyond. Then later, as adults— and after we’ve picked up the underlying social message that “anyone can write”— we might find our way back to writing and be surprised by how hard it really is (to finish things, revise, publish, etc.).So we start questioning ourselves and our talent. We go in search of other people and other experiences to reassure ourselves that our natural impulses aren’t in vain (and there are whole industries set up for this, too). This searching journey isn’t all in vain—we meet kindred spirits, set up networks, and hone the craft. In the process we develop a writer’s life, and in the midst of that life, we think less about having talent or being talented, because we are focused developing it and expressing it.Your talent is innate, and it’s rooted in your own joy, inspiration, and enthusiasm. Outside influences may trigger these states, but ultimately only you can sustain them.To be talented and to have talent is dependent on the choice to develop talent.Go forth and develop your talent!

I would bet that someone, at some point in the past, maybe when you were quite young, once pronounced you “talented.” This was probably after you’d created something spontaneously in a spirit of enthusiasm, inspiration, or joy.

This declaration of talent likely felt good at the time but also would have introduced a feeling of self-consciousness—plus an awareness that such declarations were bestowed by others rather than oneself.

A declaration of talent can be the initial encouragement that gets us to commit to a creative path, but it can also keep us hungry for outer acknowledgement. Some writers spend much of their time chasing opportunities to experience that other-bestowed good feeling again and again, seeming to need reassurance that they are still talented.

I’ve been wondering if the idea of “talent” is problematic. When the word is interpreted as natural aptitude or skill, it can be relatively neutral. But when it’s used to separate creators into categories of high and low status, it can create unnecessary trouble.

Interestingly, the word originally referred to an ancient unit of weight and currency, so it’s long been associated with “value.” A talente or talentan was a physical thing, and it has retained its meaning as something one “possesses.” The word eventually became commonly associated with natural endowments connected to athletics, creativity, and intelligence. This added notion of naturalness implied something new: not only was talent something to have and to be, it also pointed to an inherent or innate value that could be developed.

Whoever suggested you had some talent for writing, and whenever that happened, you were the one who made the choice to develop it. This is all any of us can do.

“Am I talented? or “Do I have talent?” are the wrong questions to ask. If you’re reading this newsletter, you have it, because you already have a natural inclination to create. If you need to hear from others that you’re talented, that could be more about needing approval and permission. The only question you need to ask is: How do I develop what I do have?

Belief in your own talent is sometimes a good thing, because it’s hard to stick to writing unless you believe in yourself and your work. But believing in the work is much more important than believing in yourself. (I’m embarrassed to admit how many rabbit holes I ran down in search of ways to “believe in myself”—whole industries are devoted to this!)

The more you believe in the work itself, and the more you show up and actually do it, the more you will develop into the person who can deliver the work, and this is the best way to reach the state of believing in yourself. And it’s the only way you can express your talent.

Talent emerges as you write, as you practice, and as you make things, and then more things.

Many of us start out writing with joy and enthusiasm when we’re young, perhaps encouraged by someone who recognizes some innate talent. Most of us take long detours through adolescence and beyond. Then later, as adults— and after we’ve picked up the underlying social message that “anyone can write”— we might find our way back to writing and be surprised by how hard it really is (to finish things, revise, publish, etc.).

So we start questioning ourselves and our talent. We go in search of other people and other experiences to reassure ourselves that our natural impulses aren’t in vain (and there are whole industries set up for this, too). This searching journey isn’t all in vain—we meet kindred spirits, set up networks, and hone the craft. In the process we develop a writer’s life, and in the midst of that life, we think less about having talent or being talented, because we are focused developing it and expressing it.

Your talent is innate, and it’s rooted in your own joy, inspiration, and enthusiasm. Outside influences may trigger these states, but ultimately only you can sustain them.

To be talented and to have talent is dependent on the choice to develop talent.

Go forth and develop your talent!

Story and the Pursuit of Transcendence

Why do we write? Why do we read? I ask these two questions often—in my courses, retreats, and even the book I’m working on right now.

With reading, answers come down to understanding ourselves and the world, as well as knowing more and feeling more, including feeling less alone. With writing, we seek to communicate, connect, and make meaning out of the seemingly random events that make up life experience.

This leads me to wonder if, through reading and writing, we are in some way attempting to transcend the problems of life and the angst of existence. If so, why? Maybe the better question is why not? It seems that to not try would be to curtail our own growth, as individuals and as a collective.

The pursuit of transcendence does not mean it’s ever achieved, mind you. In fact, every effort reveals it’s quite impossible, at least in a sustained way while we’re living and breathing. But reading and writing stories seem to be part of this pursuit.

Story recognizes the problems that living in the world brings and it deals with the human desire to transcend our inner and outer conflicts. But it knows, because the psyche knows, that such transcendence is only possible through immersion–through deep absorption of all that is, and a reconciliation with and acceptance of that “all.” This is what we use story for, to greater and lesser degrees, and it’s how story uses us.

The psyche is story. Life is story. The world is story. It’s the way we perceive, understand, and integrate the meaning that allows us to change. To evolve. When we engage with story, we are subconsciously opening ourselves up to this evolutionary possibility, again to greater or lesser degrees. And art, all great art, reveals a glimpse of this potential. We are more–and the world is more–than we perceive in any given moment. Story helps us expand our perception. Stories of ourselves and each other, and of the world around us—through an immersive experience—render us more expanded. It is psychic evolution and it impacts the world in powerful ways.

Did you realize, when you took up writing, that you had joined a revolution of psychic evolution? I’m pretty sure you sensed it, even if you wouldn’t necessarily put it into these words. Because at some level you believed that writing, as a process, vocation, or career, would improve your own life and your Self in some way. Regardless of upheavals, set backs, and complications, your urge to write is like a flower turning toward the sun. It rests on a belief that you are moving toward a greater life force rather than away from it. That’s what humans do. With the life we’re given we reach for that which is life-giving.

Unless something has gone awry—and plenty has, does, and will. But stories can help us find our way back to the original urge to live in the name of life. Not one story but zillions. Because there are as many ways to live as there are people living. Of course, stories themselves can become corrupt and dangerous too. They reflect who we are and how we’re evolving. But most stories, and most writers, turn their words toward the light. And that sustains us.

Time, the Moon, and Mary Oliver

As I watch the first month of the new year end, I am considering my relationship to time. Most days, it isn’t a good one. To my mind, each day begins so full of potential and then, by day’s end, that potential seems to have frittered away. So this morning, I meditated on time, the moon, and Mary Oliver.

When I lead writing workshops I always begin with an exercise called Here and Now, a present moment-focused, grounding warm up that lasts for 10 minutes and functions like a writing meditation. I turn to this practice personally as well, and this is part of what I wrote this morning:

The rising grey light of morning. Earlier, while it was still mostly dark, a sliver of moon in an indigo sky. That clear, pure, white light, symbolic of cycles, of time, but more accurately of nature. Our relationship to time rises out of nature, but on the way gets separated from it. Poetry can bring the connection back. Poets like Mary Oliver capture these moments of nature caught in time and reflect them back to us. (“This grasshopper, I mean–the one who has flung herself out of the grass…” ~ Mary Oliver). We lost this precious poet this year, but we will continue to be nourished by the words she took the TIME to create and write down. (“I’m going to die one day. I know it’s coming for me, too. I’ll be a mountain, I’ll be a stone on the beach. I’ll be nourishment.” ~ Mary Oliver)

We are all in relationship to time everyday. It is a precious resource—only 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week, 52 weeks in a year. These human-made measurements of time, and how we interpret them, can sometimes wreak havoc in the mind.

Yet nature gives us cycles and rhythms, bound by repetition and movement. Unless you’re at the equator, each day the sun rises and sets a little bit differently throughout the year. Time is never exactly the same on any given day, and neither is our experience of it.

Many writers struggle with finding time to write, or making the best use of their writing time, or they chase deadlines, or craft ideal yet difficult-to-stick-to schedules. Yet I think many of us are drawn to writing because of the timeless nature of it, because of the way we can lose ourselves in the process and forget about time. Writers are also arbiters of time—we compress and expand it through words designed to create experiences in the minds of readers. We help others transcend and travel through time, at least in the imagination.

What is your relationship to time? When do you feel you have too much of it? Not enough? When do you forget about time? When are you preoccupied with it?

My mind tells me there is never enough of it, and this same mind encourages me to cram too much into it. We all have access to the same 24 hours in a day, but how often are we attending to the quality of that experience, to the nature of that relationship? It is up to us whether we relate to time as friend or foe.

Creators tend to focus on the fleeting nature of time, because we understand, conceptually and physically, that creation occurs within a crucible of time, and life is only so long. So time anxiety is understandable, perhaps even warranted, but we cannot let it cripple us. We must become friendly with the limitations time imposes on us.

We can choose instead to relate with joy and wonder at this opportunity to live and create with time, to cultivate a healthy relationship with it, to be inspired by the many insightful words that poets of the present and the past have left for us, including the one-of-a-kind Mary Oliver, who said:

“I decided very early that I wanted to write. But I didn’t think of it as a career. I didn’t even think of it as a profession… It was the most exciting thing, the most powerful thing, the most wonderful thing to do with my life.”

Is it time to make writing the most wonderful thing in your life?

Writing and Creative Depression

Depression may seem like a dark topic during the summer, but I’ve noticed it can arise anytime of year, regardless of the circumstances. Sometimes it’s good to take a peek at the dark stuff when we have a lot of access to the light.

At times, dark moods seem to have a magnetic attraction for writers. We hang out in our own minds a lot and our imaginations can run wild and wreak havoc. When the wildness serves us well, for example, by fueling a compulsion to get a whole story down in one fell swoop, the energy can be exhilarating, but when creative energy gets misused, say, by internally hurling harsh judgments at ourselves for not accomplishing a particular goal, or just generally unleashing a slew of “not good enough” arrows our way, the wild energy can be debilitating or even paralyzing. This can lead to feelings of depression.

A lot has been said and written about depression, and I’m by no means throwing my hat in that ring. Rather, I’m speaking about a kind of recurring or persistent, self-defeating depression that tends to afflict many writers and other creative people. (It’s also different from moods brought on by situational grief, loss, or stress.) It’s the kind of depression that your mind says you have no legitimate right to feel, not really, and yet, there it is. You feel it. You can’t really explain it. (In fact, trying to often makes it worse.)

Such creative depression sneaks up on many writers and, in some cases, leads to weeks, months, or years of writer’s block. My friend and mentor, Eric Maisel tracks this type of depression back to a crisis of meaning, and he writes about it elegantly and insightfully in his book The Van Gogh Blues, which I highly recommend to all creative people.

When we care about something deeply, depression has a tendency to link to it. If we care about love and partnership but haven’t yet met someone to share life with, depression can link to all things related to love and partners. If we care about creative success but haven’t yet achieved it in the ways we’ve been aiming for, depression can cling to everything related to creativity. If we care about health and vitality but find ourselves struggling with physical limitations or pain, whether chronic or temporary, depression can drive us to despair, which augments the initial suffering.

The very word “depression” tells us something is being held down. It’s often our well being and resilience, as well as the deep connection to what we care about. We’re at the mercy of a shadow blocking out the light. But shadows don’t exist without light, and so if we can rediscover the ray of hopeful light that emanated from our first innocent care—and we might find some heartbreak there, the crack that let’s the dark in—we can begin to tap into a healing power. That deep care, what we love, is the source of our light.

Reconnecting to the healing power of what we love and care about may take some hunting in the dark. It might not be pretty. Disappointment, dissatisfaction, regret, and bottomless longing can all be part of a writer’s life, and these states lay fertile soil for depression to take root. (Plus there’s plenty going on in the world to add compost to that soil.)

But under it all lies something compelling that once called us forward: the sweet joy of connecting authentically with another person; the wild abandon experienced in the act of making art; the sense of empowerment felt while dancing, running, or cart-wheeling through life. We may not be able to recreate the exact circumstances as that first innocent care, but we must try to tap into the source of whatever inspired us in the first place and reclaim it as part of who we are now. Because we contain all the selves we have already been and they feed the outer edges of the self we are still in the process of becoming, and that should never be held down.

When creative depression hits, dig deep into the roots of what you care about until you find the light. Summer is a time of blooming, warmth, and light; it leads to autumn’s harvest, which then provides nourishment through winter until spring returns. If depression has snuck its way into the margins of your summer, be kind to yourself, reach out and talk to a friend, or write into the places that feel dark or scary, but if depression persists, don’t hesitate to talk to a doctor or therapist.

Enjoy the rest of your summer!