The places that feed us: inaugural post, inaugural questions.

Before the world speaks, out-of-season seasons, and 3 fundamental questions for our creative toolkit (creating distinction between the work & me)

A place to live out our writing

I remember a word from Pastor Stephanie Ike that said “God will call you to there—to the places that will feed you; you must listen” to where he is calling you to go. “There is a call on your life, a version of you God wants you to meet.”

I have been longing for a place to share a truer truth. A place where I can write, in glorious longform or uninhibited diary entry style, and not worry about whether or not my prose are truly sick or simply experiencing growing pains. A public place where I can lay my words on the table with intuitive intent, unaccompanied by strategy or authority or cognitive direction.

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In the space before the world speaks

Every morning, for the past few weeks—in the space before any consumption of the outside world has crept in—I have been hearing the whisper to come to Substack. The message is distinct, though, that this space is not one to strategically engineer as a pathway for community growth, but (at least for right now) it gets to be a place for deeper writerly connection, a gathering center to delight in the works of others, and a hub to begin sharing my more intimate work. A place to be a facet of my truer truth.

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To the places that feed us

New York City had been not-so-quietly nestling its way into my heart for the last several years. Last October, during a customary, yet always animated, WhatsApp video call with my bestie across the sea (my youngest brother, who is currently living in Australia), I opened up about my yearning, sharing how my ‘inner journalist’ was aching to be on assignment for a writing job in NY.

“You will be soon.”

And that was that. There was no more conversation to be had; there was nothing left to wring out.

By January, I found myself in The City that Never Sleeps, working on three lifegiving projects. While certainly a divergent train of thinking, I cannot help but compare Substack to NY. Both, in their sage way, beckoning me.

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Making the whole trip that way

Even before I opened Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, E. L. Doctorow’s quote on writing had etched itself into my psyche, establishing a somewhat calming grounds for my daily practice.

“Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

You can make the whole trip that way.

Of course, I have hopes for the connection that may emerge in this space…but my primary intention is to allow the writing to unfold in the most *enriching* (and natural) way possible.

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Playful seasons, rhythmic seasons, and out-of-season seasons

As writers, we come to intimately know the variety of creative experiences there are—the vital seasons where the wellspring flows so abundantly we could not clog the stream if we tried; the rhythmic seasons where we lay one stone each day, comfortably partnering with the soul of the project before us; the excruciating phases where we unwittingly attempt to forge and produce when our bodies are beckoning us to rest, step back, transform, or fill (much like striving to harvest in the dead of winter, these are, often times, our out-of-season seasons); and the playful ones where we lovingly receive what life has to offer, enjoying every facet of the process, relating to it with a gentle touch.

This is to say, sometimes the writing flows, and sometimes it is hard. Evidently, there are many preceding choices that can sway the creative development process in one direction or the other, but, as writers, we do not have the final say.

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Pulling roots, planting roots, internal roots

It is easy to suggest we must simply listen—to the prayers of our bodies or to the prayers of consistency—but it is more difficult, I think, to keep our relationship to the process of listening clear. Such a process is not fixed nor linear in nature. Some (me often being one of them) say listening to our body is a cyclical dance, a familial assembly reacquainting head, heart, belly, and womb…but recently I have found myself desiring, perhaps truly needing, to revisit past questions and teachings I once thought I had securely embraced.

As I circle through my past work, reorienting myself in my current chapter of expression and life, I have found the ‘creative medicine’ I require: a segment buried deep within a masterclass I wrote for our publication, Casey Jacque, in May of last year. I have pulled this segment (a somewhat in-depth note on the importance of levity), positioning it in its new home, in the next section right below.

I tend to believe we are rarely alone in our experience; if I have found myself unintentionally ‘pedestaling the creative process’ recently, perhaps others may be dancing with this too.

A fundamental asset in the creative toolkit

(the following excerpts have been transplanted from last year’s masterclass published on Casey Jacque)

Light-heartedness is a fundamental asset in the Creative Toolkit. It creates breathing room for projects to find their legs, so to speak.

An unwillingness to loosen the reigns of creative direction can be a symptom of a deeper matter (quite often, an attempt to evade experiencing unfamiliar sensations or avoid exploring unknown territory). With space to evolve, however, a creative venture can take on a life of its own; bringing this lighter touch to the Creative Table creates new opportunities for expression—ones that could not have been planned or predicted otherwise.

This is not to say the full arc of creative development must always be an ecstatic, blissful experience filled to the brim with shots of awe. (Contrast can be incredibly useful, allowing us to infuse depth, texture, and potency into our work.) However, the ingredient of light-heartedness helps to prevent suffocation and ends up fostering a fertile environment for enchantment, delight, surprise.

This also means we must become somewhat comfortable with letting the work be mediocre, or even “bad”…because, sometimes, it is going to be bad.

Levity creates space between who we are as the creative and what we see in the work. When wielded correctly, it can allow us to explore—with a curious eye—what it was that may have affected the caliber (or trajectory) of a project and what it was that diverged from our expectations.

Our inaugural questions

3 Questions to create distinction between the creative work and me:

1. When is the last time I’ve let myself create without any expectation of the end result, caliber, purpose, or quantity of the work?

2. If I were to take a step back to create distinctive space between my current project and me, what would I be able to see?

3. If the quality of my creative work wasn’t indicative of my value as a human, where would I be able to give my current project more of what it needs? (What would a mediocre product or outcome actually be showing me? What could this be inviting me to explore or refine? Would this allow me to soften any tendency to avoid or, conversely, mull over areas of improvement?)

**I’m going to keep diving into different sets of journal prompts and contemplations from this class deeper. If you would also like to work through various sections of the full masterclass, you can find it linked here: How to Take Your Creative Practice Off The Pedestal While Still Protecting It.

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Thank you so much for being here—your presence (and support) on this venture means the world to me! I can’t wait to connect with you more.

—Casey