Joy’s Writing
How I learned love
I call myself lucky a lot. And it’s true, I am. I’ve been spared and saved and buoyed more than any flawed human deserves. But I don’t know that it’s random luck so much as it is love.
A story I don’t want to tell anymore
Some stories need to be written simply because they’re a pain in the ass to keep telling out loud.
Tea with the critic
The inner critic is arguably the number one obstacle in any creative life. In any spiritual life. In any life lived fully. How to transform our relationship with it?
Letting it through
In terms of being human, I’ve always thought of a conduit as a bridge between the unseen and the seen. Bringing into form what waits, unformed, in the mystery. It feels like the point of being alive, and it’s what we do in Soul Writing all the time.
Inside this simple flesh / Watching things grow
The surreal and stunning red of the sweet gum leaves on our block … how can that be decay? Be death? And if it’s true, if it is, how does that inevitable transformation bring only sadness?
The quiet that comes when we are seen
Finding words that represent who we are at our core is a need as central as food, as shelter, as touch. Surely, when that need is met, something in us quiets. Gradually, we start to feel and act from the need, and live more from its fulfillment.
The color of today
Everything is in technicolor when we are anticipating something. When the thing begins, already there’s a wash over it. It’s a touch more muted than it is during the time of buildup.
What happens for people?
The other day I got a very reasonable question: What happens for people who engage with the process of Soul Writing? How has their writing developed, how have their lives changed? My response was less reasonable.
Done with improvement
How many of us are wearing ourselves out in the name of improvement because we actually feel we’re somehow in need of repair?
Your story is yours
This week I surfaced an email I wrote 17 years ago to the author James Frey. His memoir, A Million Little Pieces, had recently been torn to a billion tiny shreds by Oprah Winfrey and her pack of razor-toothed worshipers.
Keep shaking
Writing and sharing the truth—trusting what is coming through us—is a massive act. Even if we’re in a circle of kind people who we know won’t judge us, the sheer size of what we’re doing might overwhelm us a little bit, or a lot. Can we let that be?
Just say what happened (like it’s that easy)
All that my readers (and my soul!) are asking of me is to say what happened, and yet I find myself gripped by my lifelong habit of doing anything but.
Making it safe to come home
That day, my stories didn’t have to float in the space above me any longer, they could live in me. My body and essence were united through my words. For a few hours, I was whole.
Take a minute
This past week has been a swirling dust devil of transition as I step more fully into the work of my soul. Even though I knew it was coming, the disruption startled me like a spooked horse. I didn’t take a minute. I made a damn mess.
Magnificent garbage
Write this junk out of your organs before it begins to rot them. Toss the magnificent garbage outside to rot on its own. You know what they say about one person’s trash…