“I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.” – Anaïs Nin

One Day Flash Sale in celebration of my essay, "The Cost," being selected as a finalist for Best of the Net. Also, TWO unconventional exercises for writing the hardest things (& other things, too).

Good morning, WITDers!

I’m celebrating something hard and complicated, yet, celebrating I am. And the thing I am celebrating is only made stranger and sadder and more meaningful in the wake of the Andrea Skinner/Alice Munro tragedy:

I just learned this morning that my essay, “The Cost,” about what happened (punishment. estrangement) when I disclosed my experience of early childhood sexual abuse (published last year in the Money issue of Ilanot Review), won a finalist spot in the 2024 Best of the Net competition at Sundress Academy for the Arts.

In honor of this recognition—as is our tradition here at WITD—we’re offering a one-day flash sale on annual subscriptions, good through the end of the day tomorrow, July 18. I do this kind of one-day flash sale every time I have any little writing win—it’s just a way to share the joy. If you’ve been thinking of joining the WITD community as a paid member, maybe now is your moment.

As for the essay that was nominated: “The Cost” is the scariest thing I have ever written. It explores not only the cost of telling in the first place, but in the long haul, including what happened when, in 2022, I wrote and published another essay called “What My Father Knew” in the Los Angeles Review of Books. That LARB essay was (as the name implies) about the experience of learning that my father (along with other adults) knew, back when I was a child, that my stepfather was molesting me—or at the very least, my father and others were aware that my stepfather was suspected to be molesting me.

When “What My Father Knew…” (which was simultaneously accepted for publication by two high-tier journals—one online and one print—and which was ultimately published online) came out, a person I have never met reached out to the journal to complain. “The Cost” tells the story of what happened next, but also the backstory of what was unleashed inside of me, and why.

It is important to note here that Ilanot Review knew the full backstory behind “The Cost” before agreeing to publish it, including that there had been a complaint about the “What My Father” knew essay that proceeded it. They knew, because I told them. I don’t like surprises! I wanted everyone on the same page regarding whatever risks we were taking. At the same time, I knew I was writing true things.

My editor at Ilanot Review, the extraordinary Marcela Sulak, said this:

The threat of a lawsuit is so empty I could fill it with water and make music on it by rubbing my finger over its lip. If he did sue, then folks absolutely would look into your father's guilt and he'd then open himself up to those felony charges (assuming the statute of limitations hadn't run out—but anyway, even if it had, his name would get smeared, not yours. The only thing I'm afraid of is that I'd get all mama-bear on your behalf, so if we do get a letter, we'll simply turn it over to one of our lawyer alumni who'll answer him for us in a nice, professional way. Or else ignore it—she'll counsel us.

I cried the first time I read those words from Marcela. It was one of the first times I felt truly and publicly and officially protected in all of this.

To clear, though, I am not looking for my father to be opened up to any charges, felony or otherwise. My stepfather was charged and convicted on felony counts of sexual misconduct when his next stepdaughter told—a fact I explain in “The Cost.” Some of you might remember how I finally obtained that decades old, non-digitized felony record from St. Louis County last winter. But as for my father—he is an old man, and not well. I wish him no harm or punishment. In fact, it hurts that he does not speak to me. More so, it aches that he didn’t protect me, or look out for me, or step in when I was afraid and alone and had nowhere to go as a teenager when my mom kicked me out of her apartment. That he didn’t step in when I finally had to go live in foster care. And later, it hurt that he never chose to know my children, who are now adults, or their beautiful children, like Z.

But I don’t wish my father harm. I just want to be able to write about my life without being threatened or harassed for it.

Spoiler alert: “What My Father Knew” was eventually republished by the absolutely amazing journal, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes.

The reason this essay was so scary to write is the same reason it was so scary more than forty years ago when I first and very tentatively told anyone about my stepfather. In the end, this essay is about what we do to children (and the adults they will eventually become) when we ignore the cost of telling.

So, in celebration of the honor of having “The Cost” selected as a finalist for this year’s Best of the Net, I would like to share with you—in addition to the flash sale on annual subscriptions!—two unconventional exercises you can use to write a hard story. And by the way, if you have a hard story to write, WITD is a good place to learn to do it.

Another important “by the way”: You can ALSO use these strategies to write stories that aren’t “hard” or “dark.” Like, say, if you don’t feel like writing a hard story, or if you are lucky enough not to have a hard story to tell. It’s an exercise that helps make a hard story safer and more inventive to write, helps us unlock doors and open windows in the story, helps us breathe through the writing and keep our footing.

For less hard stories, this exercise can change the light around the words, open up new interstices between one thing and another, and lead us to entirely different places in the writing than we’d have been able to reach any other way.

And friends, isn’t that part of the point, in the end? To allow—and indeed, push—ourselves to experience, over and over again, the uncontrolled surprise of language, the roundabouts and the trapdoors out of our various prisons, spiral staircases to the widow’s walk on the roof, from where we can finally see things we’ve never, ever seen before?

Taking those routes also means we can end up behind the couch, sweeping dog fur, and starting all over.

But either way, we’ve begun to find ways out of confinement, ways into discovery and newness.

And isn’t that better than saying the same old things we’ve said before, with a few new commas? I think so. I hope you do, too.

With love,

Jeannine

Two Unusual Exercises for Writing Harder Stories

This first exercise is one I personally love and have used (in various versions) during in-person writing retreats and workshops for years. It’s a lot of fun and can lead to funny stories, heartbreaking stories, and truly surprising stories. You can use it for fiction or nonfiction. If you try it, please share in the comments.

The second one is actually the exercise that, for me, made it finally possible to write about my childhood, and, eventually, to complete my lyric memoir, The Part That Burns. I’ve seen it unlock so many stories over the years for other writers in much the same way—they do the exercise, look up when the timer goes off, and say, “:Where did THAT come from?”

Both of the exercises I offer you this week engage System II of the brain, which allows us to (more safely, too) say something newer and truer. It’s brain science. It’s also magic.This comes from Thinking Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman, which explores the dichotomy between our two modes of thought:

“System 1” and “System 2.” System 1 is fast, instinctive and emotional. It’s the system we use the vast majority of the time. System 2 is slower, more deliberative, and logical, the system required for solving calculus problems and working out difficult code. System 2 is taxing, and we avoid it; it raises our heartrate and makes us sweat, so we default to System 1. But there’s a hack for getting past System 1’s hold on us. All we have to do is intentionally engage System 2, which effectively disables System 1 and thereby allows us to see beyond our pre-existing beliefs.

Constraints are like puzzles. We use System 2 to solve them, which quiets System 1, and suddenly, as if by magic, we write something newer and truer.

This is exactly how writing constraints work. Constraints are like puzzles. We use System 2 to solve them, which quiets System 1, and suddenly, as if by magic, we write something newer and truer.

To note: Some people cannot stand the second exercise, and cannot even get through one short paragraph of it. Often, those people, I have found, are rigid about what they will and won’t write, do and do not wish to discover. And that is fine! I respect that. Because I know the power of this exercise, and how far into the unknown it can take us (that’s not for everyone). But does that mean the exercise will surely do so? No. Art offers no guarantees. But it works much of the time, and is worth a try.