On the myriad ways we are asked to disappear and an argument for getting back to our humanness

We are not here to master nature, we are nature; an easy week 6 challenge to remind us creativity is about harmony and not competition

A kind person I know has begun using AI for most of his correspondences.

It started with emails here and there, then articles he wrote. Then, quickly, any digital correspondence from him sounded nice but flat. Online, he wasn’t the person I knew. There was an odd formality. A lot of generalizing and recommendations. Less heart.

I get it.

He is trying to save time. We are all told to hurry and amass all we can. The more content, the better.

But for what?

This person, kind-hearted, has disappeared behind words that are not his own and only reflect now a muted version of his light and an even more muted version of the words of others across history.

He may be more productive in the short-term, but at what cost?

“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’re 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.

Why patience is the alchemy of the creative practice

Often, especially if you live in the world of creativity, the accomplishments are not the thing to celebrate. The intention-based action is. The activity is.

We can’t force the flower to bloom. We can’t make water boil. We can’t [insert your cliche]. We can, however, get good at the art of patience.

Let’s focus on the exhilaration of the practice itself.

The frequency of you and your creative works

I write without any background music. The taps of the keys can create their own natural rhythm, and it’s beautiful.

The sounds coming from a writing session are the heartbeat of our creative energy...

Even if you are not ready for day, it cannot always be night. —Gwendolyn Brooks

The word photograph comes from the Greek words “phos” meaning “light” and “graphe” meaning “drawing” or “writing.”

Writing with light or light writing, I find this beautiful.

We take pictures of so much of our experience in modern times, usually through the camera lens on our phones. So today, I just want to offer a bit of light writing as a prompt.

It snowed early this year in Ohio. The trees still clinging to color beneath the weight of a gentle freeze.

I’ve heard from many creative sorts that they are fascinated by weather patterns. Perhaps this is because when patterns are interrupted, there is story.

What does it mean in the moment, when natural expectation is upended? When even the trees barely seem ready?