Hi and welcome into Flight School:
There's a moment in writing when the world cracks open. Not with the thunderous drama of revelation, but with the quiet gasp of recognition. As a New York Times bestselling author and writing teacher these two decades, I've witnessed this countless times - writers pause mid-sentence, their voices catch, and tears welling up as they read work they themselves created.
"How does this happen?" they ask, bewildered. "I wrote this. I know this story. I didn't weep when I created it... so why now?"
The quiet gift of your creation
Your work holds the power to knock on the door of what lies beneath. When our words carry more weight than we expected, when they break us open in ways we didn't anticipate, it's an invitation to step closer, to explore more deeply, to enter into relationship with parts of ourselves we may have been too busy, too afraid, or too distracted to fully witness.
Writing, particularly in scene, then becomes an unexpected act of compassionate, witnessing love. Every scene I've written has broken my heart open to the person I used to be - not because that person was lacking, but because I can finally see the full dimension of my lived experience. Not just the thoughts, but the complete expression of that moment of time.
Busy, busy, too busy to feel
In a world where we maintain impossibly high standards for ourselves, where self-criticism often drowns out self-compassion, scene writing offers a profound opportunity to be fully present with ourselves, to capture the wholeness of who we are and were. this is why I've never gone back to read anything I've written, even pieces I once judged harshly by my admittedly exacting standards as a writing teacher at the time, without falling absolutely in love with the person on the page.
It's the kind of love a mother offers - unconditional, seeing beauty in every stage of growth, cherishing both the stumbles and the triumphs. Perhaps this is why I'm so deeply drawn to scene work: In a life where visibility felt scarce, writing scene became my way of truly seeing myself. It is, I've come to realize, the ultimate act of mothering - creating a space where every part of our story is witnessed, held, and loved.
Cope with the reality of what creative writing offers
When writing cracks us open, when it carries more emotion than we anticipated, it's not a flaw in our craft. It's an invitation to draw closer, to explore more deeply, to write our way into greater understanding. Every word becomes a love letter to our future self, every scene a moment of profound witness to who we were and who we are becoming.
This is the unexpected medicine of creative work - not just what it produces on the page, but how it transforms the writer in the process. When we answer that knock at the door, when we follow where the emotion leads, we often find ourselves in territory more sacred than we imagined possible.
💌 Your turn:
I'd love to hear your story of being truly seen - either by your mother or by someone who offered that mothering presence in your life. Head over to the subscriber chat (below) and share a photo of your mother or that special person who saw you, along with:
A moment when you felt completely seen and held in your truth
Or a time when someone unexpected stepped into that mothering role and gave you the gift of recognition
A turn toward our writing: What story is gently (or not so gently) asking for your attention right now? What piece of your journey feels ready to be witnessed on the page? Share a single line in the comments (or on the chat) about what you might explore if you gave yourself permission to write it.
Remember: Sometimes the stories that make us most nervous are the ones that hold the deepest gifts.
Thanks for being with me, Jennifer 🐦⬛
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