Allow the frustrating nothingness to expand and deepen and become what it wants to become. To sit and play the sad songs or sink into the silence. To consciously and decisively leave the page blank. To trust that writing does not only happen with pen to page. Rather––that is only the final step and possibly the easiest one, for all its inherent difficulty. To sit with the knowing that if you are a writer (and I assure you that you are) you are somehow always writing, even on the nights you don’t record a single word. Breathe into the truth of that.

The second option? To write anyway.

Past the noise and the silence and the emptiness and the way too full. Past the deep well of feelings that lives in a space that words can’t touch. To light the candles and pour the whiskey. To lay down an offering to the muse and to let her know that you’d love for her to come and dance, but you’re going to write either way.

And then? Well then you sit with your good pen and your blank page and you begin. Without a plan. Without the need for the words to be anything but what they are. To get out of your own way and trust those words to take the lead. Trust the loops and swirls to become something, and to waste no time attempting to judge if they have any merit. Knowing there is value in every last word, no matter where they eventually lead.

And some nights it’s quite possible you’ll sit down with nothing at all to say. With the voices in your head screaming loudly that even if you did it wouldn’t be worth saying. And in spite of that, after a while, some words will appear in your head and you’ll decide to write about how it’s okay not to write. A little letter of permission, perhaps, for someone out there in the dark who is feeling just like you.

But then somehow you’ll write your way into writing about writing. And before you know it six pages of your journal will be covered. Then seven. Then eight. Covered in the messy black scrawl that means the words are tumbling out faster than even themselves, and your fingers will be stained black from the foundation pen you just filled with fresh ink before you had decided that there were no words.

And the candles will burn and the sad songs will play and you’ll realize that the demons inside will have calmed, just a bit. Just enough. And you can finally breathe.

Writing is the release valve.

No matter if you write with your pen or with your heart or without words at all.

No matter if you fill a hundred pages tonight or you don’t even pick up the pen.

Allow yourself to write.

Both ways are right
Neither is wrong.
Both are just different ways to let a story be born.

The post Ways To Let A Story Be Born appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Not a week (rarely a day) goes by when I don’t hear from someone out there in this wild world of ours, someone just like you. Someone with a regular, ordinary, mundane life. Someone with joy and bliss and heartache and grief. Someone with trauma and fear. Someone struggling against demons. Someone determined to rise.

Every single one of these someones has a story. Every single one of these stories has value.

And every single one of these someones has one thing in common.

The someones that reach out to me, by email or message or social media comments – they want…no, want is not a strong enough word right now – they long – to tell their stories.

Somewhere deep inside there is a pulse of desire. A kernel of an idea. A sweet and lingering pull toward the blank pages of the journal, the blinking cursor in the word doc, the empty spaces waiting to be filled. Sometimes just to the very idea that somewhere inside of them lives a story worth telling, a story someone might one day want to hear. Possibly even a story that could matter, that could change things. A story that could delight or distract or make someone on their darkest nights feel just a little less alone.

Maybe even a story that could save.

I said that these someones have one thing in common. That wasn’t quite right.

It wasn’t quite right because of course there is more than one thing.

There is this universal thread that stitches these souls together. It weaves in and out through countries and across oceans, around the curves of different languages and customs, through the years of age and space and time. That thread is the call of stories. The nameless pull to bookstores where you get lost for hours in the feel of pages turning in your hands, where you press books to your nose and breath in the smell of paper and ink and the dreams of whoever strung the words together and bound them into the world you’re holding in your hands. The siren song that brings you together with others like you, where you slip-slide through stories, voices trading and growing softer and more true as the night darkens around you and the veils slip away.

It is said that a writer lives things twice.
Once in the living, like everyone else.
And once again in the telling.

You, sweet someone, live your stories again and again and again, even if you’ve never put them down onto a page. You turn them over and over in your mind. You layer them upon your heart.  A poem crosses your path and a line or maybe just a word jumps out and you feel this thrill of recognition, because it means that somewhere in this vast and lonely world, that poet (likely someone you’ll never meet, maybe even someone not on this earth) in some moment knew *exactly* the thing that you feel to be most true. You know the exact page on your favorite book where the author wrote those words that brought you to life, or maybe even saved you. You’ve scribbled words on grocery store receipts or in the notes section of your phone or just etched them onto the deepest parts of your heart. You visit old bookstores like some visit church, and inside the pages of story you find penance and community and redemption and salvation.

You’ve probably been this way since you were very little and you got lost in the pages of books or told your teacher or your parents that you would one day grow up to be a writer.  You’ve learned that there are many you can’t share this with. The people who will look at you with amusement and condescension. The ones who will tell you that art is not a sensible way to make a living, and words even less so. The people who will tell you that your story isn’t interesting enough to turn into a book, or that it’s already been told a million times over. The ones who red pen slash the most tender spillings of your heart.

Perhaps, it is also quite likely, that all of those people above – and all of their very loud voices, live inside of your own head.

If you’ve been reading this without being able to look away.

If you’ve been reading this and you’re heart has been beating in recognition.

If you’ve been reading this and your soul is screaming ‘yes. she is talking about me. she is talking TO me”

If you’ve been reading and those loud voices are telling you it couldn’t possibly be about you.

I want you to stop right now and take a breath. I want you to pretend you are sitting right here with me today in my living room. The light is bright through the old paned windows. There is a deep blue mid-century sofa and bright mustard yellow cushions. On the table are mason jars filled with sunflowers and bright red blossoms. There is a fan blowing in the corner to keep us cool and a soft voice crooning love songs playing on the speakers. A candle is lit and it smells like amber and roses. 

I want you to bring yourself here with me.  Right here. I want you to turn to face me and to look me in the eye.  I’m going to reach out and take your hands now. Both of them. I want you to breathe with me, all the way down to your toes. And I want you to listen like you’ve never listened before.

You are here today because you have a story.

You are here today because something deep inside you knows you need to write it.

You have always known.

You may have written me before to tell me this, or you may have started to several times and stopped yourself.

You may have only told your best friend or your lover.

Or maybe you’ve never told anyone at all.

But you know, love.

You know.

You know because the words have been piling up against the levees for so long now that it’s a wonder you can hold them in.

You know because the dams have been threatening to break and to spill a flood of story.

You know because there are oceans of worlds inside you that long for nothing but the chance to finally, finally, finally taste land.

You know because it has always been this way. And you know that it always will.

And I know that this matters. That it matters more than almost anything.

And I know that there are others out there like you. Others who are waiting to tell their own story, and others that need more than anything for you to tell yours.

My work in this world is to create a space for this to be real, for you and for all the someones out there like you, Wild Heart Writers, one and all.

In just a few short weeks, a wonderful, ragtag group of someones from all across the globe will gather. We will sit around the campfire and for 30 days we will tell our stories. We will open our hearts. We will open the dams and let the waters of words flow.

And we will finally, finally get to feel what the ocean feels when it crashes on the shore, moving the entire cosmos with the force of it’s being.

Join us.

Your story is waiting for you.

bit.ly/yourwildheart

The post Your Story Is Waiting For You appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Hey you.
You who writes.

You who keeps on writing.

You who pours out your hurt and your joy and your bliss and your ways of being and existing and understanding onto page and screen.

You who hits the submit button again and again. Even though you’ve papered an entire wall in rejection letters, because you know that somewhere there is a home for your words and if you keep trying you will find it.

You who writes in private, in secret, in the darkest back corner of your closet after everyone else has gone to sleep just so you can write the whole of you.

You who writes to follow the trail, to chart the course, to make your own map through the mystery.

You who writes the path to your own redemption, because you know that clawing your way back to forgiveness of self is the only way through.

You who writes in silence, in a whisper, in invisible ink.

You who writes with the risk of being dismissed, dishonored, ignored because the risks of not writing are even greater.

You who writes because nobody else is willing to tell the truth and the truth must be told.

You who writes to bring the perpetrator to justice.

You who writes to fuel the revolution, to feed the fire, to create the necessary unrest.

You who writes to bring the people into the streets.

You who writes so that your children and their children and their children will know.

You who writes until you are bleeding and then uses the words to staunch the flow.

You who writes to lift others even when you are writing through the thick haze of your own tears.

You who writes to shine a harsh and uncompromising light on what is unjust, on the wrong doing, on the abuse occuring in the shadows.

You who writes to unbreak your own heart.

To you who writes to weave the magical stories that lull the babies to sleep at night.

You who writes to make visible the ones who do the hard and lonely and dangerous work and who risk it all just to stay alive.

You who writes in gratitude and thanks that you are able to bring worlds to life on paper.

You who writes to give voice to the things nobody else is willing to say.

You who writes so that the invisible can be seen, the marginalized brought to center, the spotlight moved away from the stars and onto the ones in the background who make the show go on.

You who writes to make a thing real, to recreate the past, to return to yourself, to mark in ink the path of a new beginnings. 

You who writes the body. The heat and salt and sex of it.  The truth of blood and vein and the secrets the bones hold. The soft and wet and want. The body that winds and dances in the shadows. The body that heals trauma by naming and claiming her own pleasure.

You who writes to claim space, to name yourself, to create a new world you can stand to live in.

You who writes to own your history or accept your present or shift your future.

You who keeps writing love letters to the one long gone or the one not yet arrived or to fall in love with the miracle of your own being.

You who writes to make peace with the ghosts, to release the steam, as a substitute for the therapy you cannot afford.

You who writes because the world inside you is so magical and so real and even if nobody else believes you it must exist somehow, represented in concrete form.

You who writes because to not write would be like a form of death, and you’ve died too many times already.

You who writes to bring us all back to life.

You who writes to set the record straight, to hold the story, to alter the dominant narrative.

You who writes to bring hope to the hopeless and give voice the the voiceless, to share the stories of the ones nobody bothers to hear.

You who writes in the face of all that would silence you.

You who writes to craft beauty in the midst of devastation.

You who writes because the force of creation is what gets you out of bed each day.

You who writes to brighten hearts and lift spirits and to make the sun rise in the sky.

You who writes like the ocean, like waves crashing and crashing and crashing again against the shore of what is real.

You who writes the dance, the movement of clouds across the sky, the way the flowers blow in the breeze.

You who writes outside of the lines. Who ignores the rules. Who has no idea about grammar or punctuation or the correct way to spell things, but who writes anyway.

You who writes in an illegible scrawl on purpose to keep the stories safe from eyes unable to see the the beauty of your truth.

You who writes words that rise like smoke and fall like ashes, still alive from the fire.

You who writes to take the swirl of chaos and confusion and, waving pen like magic wand, makes the spinning stop and the truth rise to the surface, clear and true, like a fortune teller conjuring the future from her crystal ball.

You who writes only the necessary, who casts multitudes from scarcity, who takes the story of the entire universe and reduces it to the exact few words that say everything that has ever needed to be said.

You who writes even though they told you that you could not. That should should not. Who writes over the red pen marks and bad grades from teachers who thought writing had to follow the textbook.

You who writes the things that push people up against their own limitations, their prejudice, their hard edged bias, who forces us to see the things we would rather ignore. You who are willing to endure the discomfort of pushback in order to help us all grow.

You who writes the edges and pushes the boundaries and then calls the words back into the center.

You who writes the trauma. Writes the pain. Writes the ugly words that we don’t want to read but can’t turn away from, not because you want to, necessarily, but because you know we all we need to stay present with what is real.

You who writes the worst of the hurricanes and tornadoes of reality and then keeps writing all the way into the eye of the storm where everything is peaceful and beautiful and true.

You who writes the imaginary, the fantasy, the fiction, and in the writing you conjure a world that is deeply real and alive. 

To writes who writes with irrepressible joy bubbling up through your cells, giddy with the knowledge that only you could write this particular story.

You who writes in service to the cause, to the greater good.

You who writes the birth, the death, the honest everyday mundanities of our humanity. The messy and the boring and the deeply human.

You who writes to honor who has come before, to uplift the wisdom of your ancestors and the truth of those who walked the lands long before we were here.

You who writes in the stolen moments, on the grocery store receipts, who scribbles poems on the inside curve of your elbow, inking skin with novels that wash away in the shower but that mark you forever.

You who writes to create a truth that is more true than reality that you are living. 

You who writes under a name not your own in order to write the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

You who writes to understand what you already know and to learn what you need to understand and embrace the unknowing of all that exists beyond comprehension.  

You who writes to remember the details your brain will not hold.

You who writes your way into your own wide open life.

You who writes. Period.

To heal the world. To right the wrongs.  To save a life. 

Because you couldn’t stop, even if you tried.

It is a brave and beautiful thing to create stories in the face of all that would stop you.

You do that. And it is everything.

The post For the ones who write appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

No doubt, questions can hold a tremendous sort of power.

Tonight I find myself wondering – what might that question be for you? The one that you hold tucked deep inside. The one that hints at itself from time to time, appearing, and disappearing like mist, slowly revealing itself as the key to self-discovery, awakening, or transformation. The one that can’t be forced, but that must rise, organically, from the center of your very being?

If you get quiet with yourself, right now, I have a feeling you likely have at least some idea what that question is for you.

And what If I told you that you didn’t have to seek or force or find an answer to that question in order to harness its power – at least not in the way that you might think.

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
Rainer Maria Rilke

Almost two years ago I was feeling utterly lost and alone. No job. A relationship imploded. The holidays. Single Motherhood. No plan. No idea. Unsure of who I was or what I wanted or where I was going. One night that December I sat down and hastily wrote out a list of 30 questions.

It turns out those very questions would allow me to chart own map home. I just didn’t know it yet.

All I knew that night is that everything was crumbling and nothing seemed certain and that the solid ground I thought I could rest on was suddenly unstable in every direction. In that moment, I had no answers – no innate knowing. No fucking idea what I was going to do.

Without answers, I turned to the questions.

If I was empty of knowing, the only place to start was inside of the questions I longed to answer.

If I wanted to find myself, it seemed I would have to relearn (and unlearn) who I was. What I knew. What I wanted. What was waiting to be born. Who I was becoming.

And so I let the questions rise. Questions that would take me forward and backward and root me in the present. That would lead deep and high and far and wide. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I just wrote.

I knew somehow, then, even if I couldn’t have yet articulated, that the path I was seeking wouldn’t be found by getting it all figured out. Instead, all would be slowly revealed by allowing the questions to be named, to fill the space around me, to settle deep into my bones.

And then, as Rilke suggested, I could throw myself into living those questions in fullness until I one day lived my way into the answers. Whatever those answers might be and however long that might take and whatever might change along the way.

The first messily scrawled version of these questions – written by fountain pen after tears and whiskey and one of the most alone and lost sensations I had ever felt – showed no hint of what they would soon become.

After all, they were never intended to be anything other than simple journaling prompts – a guide just for myself.

It turns out that these particular questions had much bigger plans.

That night I hadn’t the slightest inkling that the unlined paper I was holding was the beginning of my new path, a new vocation, a calling, a community, a home. But I knew it held something. A whisper of possibility. A hint of what may come. All I really knew for sure is that they were the beginnings of the map that would lead me back to myself.

Back home. A place I desperately wanted to be.

It was months later before I fully realized the power of Rilke’s quote. Months of writing into the questions (and writing and writing and writing) and inviting you all to live into the questions with me (and watching with wonder what unfolded from that invitation). Only then did I fully understand that it wasn’t the just answers that hold power.

It was the living questions themselves that were the catalyst for all the rest because it was the questions that called in all the rest of you. You restless seekers, and you word witches, all you steady and true pinpricks of light against the darkest night sky.

The questions did more than trace my way back home. They cast a searchlight that allowed us to find each other.

Because beings like us, for all the depth of our knowing and wisdom and wanting, tend to get tangled sometimes. It is that brave ability to forge our own way in the world, to forgo the expected, to take the road less traveled, that sometimes leaves us – on those darkest nights of the soul – suddenly without meaning or moorings. We uproot as a matter of our nature, us seekers, and yet we crave a way to root down even in the most inhospitable soil.

Yes, It is our very ability to step into wide open discomfort that often leaves us lost. But it is also that very thing that allows us to be found.

Again and again and again.

And so we found ourselves living in the expansive space inside the questions. In the dance of unknowing. In the learning and unlearning and remembering and letting go. Allowing the questions to unfold within us and between us and around us. Individually and collectively and universally on a sacred journey.

Wild Heart Writers, one and all.

The writing mattered, of course it does. It always will. But what mattered more was the willingness to give ourselves over to the practice of inquiry. The peeling away of layers. To sit with the discomfort of the spaces without requiring the answers to flood in immediately. To expand and let the question live inside, to fill in the empty spaces until it is ready to become what it wants to become.

The questions are the crucible – they hold the alchemy of transformation.

And when the answers are ready? Holy. Holy. Holy.

That’s when the magic begins.

If you are ready to live inside of the questions within a beautiful community of Wild Hearted Writers, we open the doors in less than one week for the 2018 Wild Heart Writing Journey.

If your living questions are ready for safe space, supportive community and fierce inspiration, come and join us as we dive into the depths of inquiry, the power of story, and the safe space where the answers fly freely.

xo.
J.

Do you want to know the question that changed everything for me?  It is one of the questions included in the upcoming 30-day writing journey.  If you’d like me to send you this question, and a sneak peek into the essays that make up the daily structure of the course, send me a quick email or comment here and I’ll send it to you right away. 

The post What is the most powerful question? appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

So it wasn’t a shock to see a link like “11 LGBTQ Stories to Celebrate Pride Month” from Off The Shelf. The contents of the list though WAS a bit of a surprise, a lovely one. And an opportunity for a different sort of pride.

One of the books on this list was Dear John, I Love Jane: Women Write about Leaving Men for Women, which happens to contain my coming out essay. The hardest and most essential piece of writing I’ve ever released to the world. My first ever in print.

I remember the day I got my author copies in the mail. I tore open the package and opened the cover. I ran my finger down the table of contents and there it was. My name. In print. I’d never seen my name in a book before. Never even imagined such a thing was even possible.

Breath held, I quickly flipped to page 86 and read my own words as if I had not read them a thousand times already trying to make them perfect.

Perfection is not easy to achieve in a story that holds so many jagged edges and broken parts.

My heart was pounding. My body had chills. I felt on top of the world – and also sick to my stomach. Not just because my story was in a book (a REAL LIVE BOOK. with pages and ink and new book smell!) but because *this* story was in a book. This story that had, until then, lived only online and only anonymously.

Back then I was I was Jen, the faceless blogger behind “Awakenings: Navigating the Spaces Between In and Out”. There I poured out the rawest, most visceral and most true stories I had ever written.

Perhaps – because of the safety of anonymity, the truest stories I ever will.

Before then I was what we now call a mommy blogger. Talking childbirth and breastfeeding and gentle discipline and chronicling life in suburbia way back before blogs were even called blogs. It was all very safe and light and entertaining. I even had a little base of loyal readers – but I wasn’t a writer. Never would have dared the audacity of claiming such a thing.

And then came Awakenings.

My entire undoing was chronicled there. The breaking and the becoming. The raw and messy and real. The fear. The confusion. The loss and the ache.

And still – there are parts of the story – the ones where I walked entirely outside of my own integrity, the ones where the shatter cut too deep to bring words to the reality – that remain untold.

When this book came out I had to make the choice. To keep the sanctity of that space where I could say whatever I wanted, or to step fully into owning the story.

It was another choice I didn’t know how to make.

But I remembered how it was, in the early days of my own discovery. How I scoured the internet, searching with everything I had – desperate to find these stories somewhere. Someone who was walking this path. Someone who had survived. Anything to cling to make this feel less impossible.

I had a wonderful husband and two beautiful children. I was a small town preacher’s daughter from the Eastern Canadian Coast. Nobody in the most immediate layers of my close-knit family had ever been divorced.

I had no fucking roadmap for this.

I needed to find something that would make me feel less achingly alone. Needed it like I needed air. Someone or something to tell me that I could and would survive.

Back then – I couldn’t find it – not the story I so desperately needed. And so I did what those of us driven by story must do.

I began writing it.

And then others – other women on their own dark and desperate nights – began finding me.
More and more of them. From all over the world. They sent emails. Long emails drenched in grasping hope. Letters that left their entire lives and hearts splayed out on the screen in front of me.

Was it worth it?
Would you do it again?
I’m not as brave as you, I can’t leave.
I love her, so much – I can’t live without her.
When I touched her skin – everything changed and I couldn’t go back.
I took off my wedding ring today.
I’m afraid of losing my children.
I’m afraid of losing my family.
I am so very afraid.
I can never forgive myself.
I can’t do this.

They sent message after message. I read their words, held their tears. Knew their desperation. Read those letters again and again until I had some of the memorized.

Yes – even then the words created a circle so that we could save each other.

Some of them – as deep as I was in the dismantling of my own life and in the stickiness of my own chosen grief – I couldn’t even answer. I’m ashamed of that. But how could I provide any sort of viable wisdom when I was making such a royal clusterfuck of it all? Hurting and damaging and bringing my entire life down to the rubble – making that impossible choice that wasn’t ever a choice at all.

Choose my life – and all that I love? Or choose myself?

But you can’t un-know something once you know it. You can’t undo what has been done.

I got caught in a tailspin and when the force finally died down life as I knew it was over. And there I was – standing underneath that big ole’ rainbow flag – wondering what the fuck I was supposed to do now.

It’s true. In the end, it wasn’t a choice at all. The choice to come out and live true, and the choice to attach my name to these words of truth in that book.

I had to do it for my own integrity – an integrity I would have to scratch and claw my way back to owning over the course of many years, an integrity that came at a high cost and that left me broken before it found me whole.

And I had to do it for the others out there who needed my story more than I needed the comfort of my hiding space.

And so there it was. My name. In a real-life book.

I didn’t talk much about this book when it came out. I didn’t shout from the hills that I was a published author. I didn’t tell my family or post more than the merest whisper on social media. I didn’t blog about it or give copies to my friends. I tucked it away as if it hadn’t happened at all. I was aware that this wasn’t just my story. And that it hadn’t been long since the fallout and the breaking and the collateral damage.

I wasn’t proud of my reluctance to own this in a bigger way – I just didn’t want to cause any more hurt. I couldn’t live with myself if I caused any more hurt.

Please, don’t let me cause any more hurt.

Just like the blog – this book brought so many souls to me. Women who had been, like me, desperately searching for a story that made them feel less alone. In the years since I’ve met many of in person. To so many more I’ve been able to be a hand outstretched in the dark to say “Here I am. This is my story. Tell me yours. You are not alone in this. Not now and not ever again”.

Because here is the thing. Telling our stories matters. Not just the ones that follow the hero’s journey. Not just the stories of happiness and light, of glittering freedom or triumph – though they have their place and should not be forgotten.

It matters most that we tell the real stories. The hard stories. The stories of the dark and desperate nights. Of the demons and the devastation. Of the things done to us and the things we have done. Of our want and our desire. Of our sex and our back-door pathways to whatever or whoever we called savior at the time. Of the trauma stored in our bones, and the things we have broken on our path to saving ourselves.

We must tell stories of our own becoming. On our own terms and in our way and in our own time. With autonomy and sovereignty and yes – choice.

When we tell our stories. We save others. This is not an overstatement, or a metaphor meant to give you all the feels or to power up this essay. This is a truth. I know it not just because stories have saved me.

I know because I still get emails. Emails that say “I stumbled onto your blog on the darkest of nights and I read and read and read and your words gave me hope and because of this I am still here on this planet”.

Words like that – they are not easy for me to hold. They push against my own struggle with purpose and bigness, with the voices that tell me to not take credit for such a thing. That I’m not that special or important or powerful and neither is my story.

But here’s the thing, if stories have saved me again and again (and they have and they did and they do – more times than I could count) then who am I to push back these truths given to me by others?

Who am I to accept them with anything but the most humble and holy gratitude for the fact that somehow in this wild and miraculous world my story pushed its way out of me and then filtered and twisted and found its way to the very place it was needed the most?

Blessed be. Blessed be. Blessed be.

The messages remind me every time of what I know to be true.

The bravery it takes to tell your story has the power to save lives.

A few weeks ago I posted on Facebook to ask others if they felt the same. I asked:

Tell me – would you say that writing – telling your story – has saved you? Or that your writing has saved others?

The answer, of course, was as I expected. Yes. Again and again and again. Writing has saved. From the inside out and the outside in. Telling your story – pouring it out. Whether in a voice memo or onto a private journal or for the world to see. And then searching relentlessly to find your story out in the world – to connect your lived experience to words written by another. This saves lives. This saves hearts. This saves relationships and voices and experiences.

It is a seed for empathy, for advocacy and activism and justice. For visibility and inclusion and validation. It is the root of connection. It is a pathway to the hard truths. It is a way to make real what is unreal, to give voice to the voiceless.

There is a space and a place and a need for stories – for YOUR stories.

It is my life’s work – not just to write myself, but to swing wide open the doors and throw off the bars and remove the barriers between you and your story. To counter the messages you’ve absorbed about your life or your experience or your ability to write it. To dismantle everything built up inside of you that separates you from your own innate power. To sit you down in a room full off blazing light and ultimate permission and give you endless pages ready for the translation of your experience into the words only you can write.

The story only you can tell.

And then when it has poured out of you, and the pages are covered and your fingers are ink-stained and you have finished, I am here to say –

This here, what you have done….

It is good.
It is holy and hard and true and necessary.

Because your words have the power to save.
To heal.
To collect the scattered pieces.
To knit back to wholeness that which is broken.
To unleash the constraints that hold us to lives that are not longer meant for us.
To illuminate the dark corners and set us free.

These words and these stories can save a life.
Who knows – maybe even your own.

Hell yes, writing has the power to save.

But only if you begin.

Xo.
J.

P.S. No matter what comes my way in the length of my writing career, Dear John will always represent one of my proudest moments. Not just the first moment I saw my name in print in a real-life book, but the moment of choice of owning this story publicly, wholly and completely.

Everything began with that.

Thanks to Candace Walsh and Laura Andre for creating this anthology, for the pivotal moment of choice when I made this story public, and for all that has come to be since then.

The follow-up book ‘Greetings From Janeland’ is now available for pre-order. It includes a brand new essay from me, as well as so many other women who have done the bravest thing.

The post The bravery it takes to write your story has the power to save lives. appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

Listen to the audio reading:

Don’t think too much. As a matter of fact, don’t think too much at all. This is not one of those exercises that requires much forethought or preparation. You can’t back your way into this one, all neat and tidy buttoned up.

There’s no clean way to do this. Not this time.

This is one you’ve got to blast your way through – close your eyes and jump, light the match and burn on the way down, get pummeled by the waves, upside down and spitting water, freight train your way all your way through to the other side.

And by all those overused, layered metaphors what I really mean is this:

You’ve got to fucking write.

Not think.

Just write.

Get a sheet of blank paper.

Write the truth of yourself. As you know it. Right now. In this exact moment and only this moment.

Limit yourself to one page.

Fill that page. Pour it out. Do not edit or reduce or backtrack. Do not worry about being succinct or understood. Just write. Just writeandwriteandwriteandwriteandfuckingwrite.

Now scratch it out. Marker it up. Cut it. Burn it. Obliterate it.

Gone.

Get a new page.

Write the truth of yourself. As you know it. Right now. In this exact moment and only this moment.

Limit yourself to one paragraph.

Make this single paragraph sing with the hope of you, with the want of you, with the very blood and bones and guts of you. Select the lines that speak your heart. Your sex. Your sacred. Spill yourself into this paragraph as if lives depend on it. Because your lives – every last one? They do.

Now scratch it out. Marker it up. Cut it. Burn it. Obliterate it.

Gone.

Get a new page.

Write the truth of yourself. As you know it. Right now. In this exact moment and only this moment.

Limit yourself to one line.

Choose carefully the words that define you. Choose them with exquisite care. Just one line that is the truth of you and nothing but the truth of you in this living and breathing and beating moment.

One line. Only one line.

Do you have it?

Good.

Now scratch it out. Marker it up. Cut it. Burn it. Obliterate it.

Gone.

Get a new page.

Write the truth of yourself. As you know it. Right now. In this exact moment and only this moment.

Limit yourself to one word.

One pounding, pulsing, bleeding word. One word that flies or explodes or burns it all down. One words that is quiet whisper or the living manifestation of insistent howl of your bones. One word that glows white hot or grounds you into the dark blue-black of the deepest night.

One word.

Just one.

Does that scare you? Good – it should. This isn’t child’s play here.

Now scratch it out. Marker it up. Cut it. Burn it. Obliterate it.

Gone.

Are you shaking yet? Is your heart pounding? Do you feel what we are doing here?

We’re not done yet.

Now – now that that is done. Close your eyes. Take the deepest breath you could possibly take. Fill your lungs with all those words and all those truth and all that emptiness and all that fullness and the love-loss-ache-bliss of all that carried story.

Now empty your lungs. All the way out. As your breath goes, watch all those words go too. Watch them float away on the air around you. Watch them turn to smoke and get caught in the breeze and dissipate, just like that.

Feel how damn good empty can feel when you choose it.

Now get a new page. A blank page. Purest white and completely pristine.

This is all yours. This page. It doesn’t contain any of the shit they told you was true. It doesn’t contain any of the shit YOU told you was true. Right now, it contains the only truth there is.

This story is always yours for the telling.

This has always been yours. You can expand to fill it all or take up the smallest corner. You can write in invisible ink. You can tell your story in red wine stains and spilled ink and bite marks. You can only write in pencil so it can always be erased. You can write in layers, and turn the page and write sideways. You can spin spiral and make your words dance.

You can ink it on the surface of your skin or x-ray vision the story onto the blank canvas of your bones. You can write a novel and then let the whole thing dissolve in the waves. You can write the truth and bury it in the ground, throw it in the fire, fold it into paper airplanes and watch it fly, roll it into a note in a bottle and toss it in the ocean and let it find its own way home.

Or, you share it with the whole fucking world.

You can care and not care and care-not-care all at once.

But you get to write. And you get to choose the story you tell.

And there’s no freedom bigger or bolder or braver than that.

Download the audio, motivational poster and printable PDF

The post get writing: write the truth of yourself appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

“It’s been a year and I still don’t feel like I’m any farther ahead. I need to write more, create more, but I’m so often paralyzed by the fear and the blocks – all the voices that tell me I shouldn’t bother, I won’t make it. I know that this is my purpose, and some days I feel so clear and so brave and so on course. The problem is it never lasts. I can’t seem to feel wise or like I know anything for more than a day or so – and then the doubt returns. And the doubt, it blocks me from the creativity that feeds my soul. It keeps me still and small. How do I find the words to tell the true stories in the face of so much fear?”

I know some days it feels like you will never have your shit together. Some days it feels like life is a never ending battle between the laundry and the bills and your ability to give a damn. Some days you look at the other woman out there with her tribe and her books and her beautiful art and you can feel a heavy weight sinking down into your chest. I’m telling you – that lump? It’s your art. It is calling out to you, begging to free. Maybe you can’t pull yourself from the fog right now. Maybe you’re simply surviving and you don’t even notice the lump in your chest because you’re too focused on the water up to your neck, but soon you’re going to feel just a little bit better. And then you’ll feel a little bit more bold and maybe a little bit more brave.

No more longing. No more planning. Create now.

Art without action is art that will die inside your body, and art that dies inside the body is a living trauma.Winona Grey

Art without action is art that will die inside your body. When art dies inside the body, the body stiffens, the heart locks down, the mind becomes bitter, life turns gray. Art that dies inside the body is a living trauma that you carry with you. Your soul becomes colorless – haunted by the ghost of what you should have made. The ghost of your art is that lump – that sickening, sinking, dreadful feeling. You are grieving over your lost art even now and I’m not sure you even know it.

Please don’t wait any longer. Please begin the work.

Walk your body through the motions if you have to. Throw yourself into the art. Pick up the pen, the torch, the brush. What are you waiting for? Get out of bed. Light a candle. Pick up the nearest fucking tool you can find and start now.

Warm up first, then catch fire.

Let it burn through your body.

Burn down the dam, let the waters rush forth, let the wind pick up, and run alongside the art holding onto it like a kite.

Then, release it.

Breathe.

Watch it soar high above you. Peace will fill the body with every breath in. Joy will wrap itself around your bones.

Please, start now.

If you want to join me for a live call about Creative Resistance – where we’ll talk about all the ways we avoid our creative calling, imposter syndrome, money blocks and the audacity of creative entrepreneurship – I’ll be live on Zoom (with Winona as one of my guests) on Tuesday, April 11th, 2017 at 2pm PST.  If you’re not able to make the call – make sure you subscribe to my email list and I’ll send out a recording once the call is complete.

To join the call:
Join from:

• PC, Mac, Linux, iOS or Android: https://zoom.us/j/2862682980
• iPhone one-tap (US Toll): +14086380968,2862682980# or +16465588656,2862682980#
• Telephone: Dial: +1 408 638 0968 (US Toll) or +1 646 558 8656 (US Toll) Meeting ID: 286 268 2980
• International numbers available: https://zoom.us/zoomconference?m=m3d6sR3854QSkQKZj3ItQyrfc1ExPtq6

Winona Grey was a sad little girl haunted by traumatic memories until she found a camera and learned to tell the truth through self portraiture. Then, for ten years, she was a resolute and quiet young woman learning to survive with a mental illness until she found the words and began to write. Now she teaches the path to self love through self portraiture as sacred ritual and writes in the voice of the brave woman she has become.  Follow Winona on Instagram | Join the Sacred Self Portrait

Uncommon Sense is an ongoing series where I respond to comments and questions that stir my heart. They arrive by email, by text, by comment. They speak to something universal in me, and my response comes quick and sure. If you have something stirring in your heart and would like me to respond– please send me your message. I cannot respond publicly to all messages, but I do promise – with everything that I have –  that I will honor it and keep it safe.

The post Uncommon Sense: Create like there is no time to waste. appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

I was in a space that held both deep doubt and fierce faith. It was down to the wire, again, and I finally decided to show up for myself.  The words came pouring out of me in a wild rush, and I sent it because I had a a deep need to not feel alone in this.  I KNEW I couldn’t be alone in this.

I was right. When I woke the next morning over 20 messages were waiting in my inbox- and over the next few days the emails continued to come. Deep emails, soul-revealing emails, brave and bold messages of truth that cracked me wide open. In all my years of writing online and sending posts to my subscribers, I have never received a response like this.

When something I write elicits that much feedback, I know I’m on to something. I know that I’ve somehow touched a collective experience – something universal within the creative journey. And this is always my indicator that there is more to write, more to create, more work to do.  And so – I am sharing that email here, and I am excited to continue this discussion.

Hello Dearest,

I’m writing you this from my newly found co-working space. I’ve been a self-employed and fully self-supported single mama for a year and a quarter now, working from my dining room table and haunting local coffee shops for more hours than the baristas would likely prefer.

What a hell of a ride it has been. I made it this far – which I know is far more than many. Truth be told though, It’s been down to the wire more times than I want to admit.

Down to the wire like deadlines looming and people waiting and non-sufficient funds charges from the bank and steadily increasing credit card debt. Down to the wire like the mad rush from school to cheer practice and hockey tournaments and take out pizza for dinner.

I’ve vacillated between mad hustle, and hard core run and hide. Bounced between fierce determination and even stronger resistance. I’ve been living on and in purpose and doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing, and also lived fully inside of the ‘holy-fuck-i’m-running-out-of-money-i-need-to-make-a-new-thing-now-and-pray-they-want-to-buy-it’.

Most of the time I feel like it’s all riding on a wing and a prayer.

Yes – I’m an artist – a multi-passionate creative, a writer and a photographer and a storyteller. But I never wanted to be a walking cliche. Yet here I am, feeling like another starving artist.

It’s not that I dislike the business end of things. Truth be told (and much to my surprise) I love business and marketing. I geek out on it. Ask me to help someone else and I light up. I believe in the magic that happens when we take our passions and offer them to the world in a way that fully supports our lives and the people we love. When it is for someone else, it feels like a scared sort of service.

But when I’m doing it for me – the merging of my own art with the necessity of commerce has been fucking messy. And the more anxiety I feel about making it work – the less I actually create. The requirement that the things I make must make money often shuts down the well of words that I thought would never fail me.

I’ve surrounded myself with walls of my own making – walls that separate me from the work and the gifts which are meant to fuel and sustain me.

I’ve been making it for a year, on the power of words alone. Correction – *almost* making it.

Almost, but not quite.

Though there is always more to know, I have the knowledge and the wisdom to do this. I’ve logged enough years in small business ownership and education, digital and content marketing and automation, and had the opportunity to work with and learn from some seriously incredibly people. I know what I should be doing most of the time, and when I don’t I’ve got a tribe of experts surrounding me that I can call on.

I’ve got angels upon angels (you know who you are) who come through with both love and concrete help and support, over and over again. I’ve got a community of brave and wise and deeply intuitive souls who trust me to guide them into the world of words and story. I’ve got all of you, honoring me by granting me precious space in your inbox and in your day. For all of this I am truly and eternally grateful.

In the end, this isn’t a battle to master online marketing, or sales emails or content creation or social media platforms. In the end, this is a journey – as are all journeys, really – deep into myself.

This is about coming face to face with all of my fears and all of my resistance. All of my issues of worthiness and visibility. All of my blocks to money and my inability – thus far – to step fully into the vastness of what could be. My hesitation to not just step onto the stage but to stay there, and not run back into my safe little introvert hermitude as soon as the spotlight shines too brightly.

And so here I am once more. Wedged between the proverbial rock and that terribly uncomfortable hard space. Knowing that this is, as it always is, a dilemma of my own making.

And here I am, committed to doing things differently. To invest financially (even when that investment stretches me far out of my own comfort zone) in the support and expertise that I needed to succeed and in a dedicated space to work from. To stare down the demons and this massive to-do list, and to push through the blocks that have kept me from meaningful creation.

No mistake – this is my week of reckoning. At the end of it must lie a solid amount of work done, content and funnels created with sustainable income potential solidly in place.

Today I arrived at my new co-working ‘office’, supplies in hand, quad almond milk latte and freshly blended green smoothie at the ready, intentions clear. Ready to work. I had, as my own teenager daughter suggested – a real no bullshit talk with myself the night before.

I had laid out the work to be done and exactly what was on the line. I had made a tenuous sort of peace and a reluctant surrender to the fact that another corporate job might really be in the cards in upcoming weeks and months. And, with the peace and surrender present and fully felt – I decided I wasn’t going down without one hell of a fight. I set some fierce intentions and committed fully to the path ahead.

And yet this morning I sat there at my new office, and I did nothing meaningful, resistance gripping me so fiercely that I felt my brain begin it’s familiar path of distraction, skittering from one disjointed thread to the next – like the countless open tabs on my web browser.

For an hour and a half I allowed myself to slip into the patterns of distraction and fear that had landed me in exactly this place. And the voices in my head began speaking loudly. And I started listening.

I’m no good at this.
I can’t focus.
I’m not cut out for business.
I lack the drive and the motivation.
There has GOT to be something wrong with my brain.
What am I so damn afraid of?
I’m a fraud. Soon I’ll have to get a job and they’ll all know it.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?

And then, I took a breath. And a drink of water. And I decided that it was time – past time – to do something differently. And I put on my headphones and I found a good playlist. I closed all those open tabs and I reminded myself of why I was there and what needed to be done.

And then…well then I fucking did it.

I got almost everything on my list done, and then when the co-working space closed I drove home, picked up the dog and headed to my friend’s house for our weekly evening co-working date to began again. I didn’t stop till I was done. Done with every last thing I had set out to do that day.

I still don’t know if it will be enough, or if it will work. Maybe I’ll have to get a job. Maybe I won’t. But I’m reminding myself right now that if I’m the one who got me to this place, I’m the one who can get me out. And it all comes down to sitting down, silencing the demons and doing the work.

It comes down to believing in the art. Creating. Dancing with the muse, welcoming her home to play. Breathing into the expansiveness right in front of my face.

It comes down to making the art, dammit.

Wherever you find yourself tonight, and whatever demons are chasing you, whatever you’ve gotten yourself into and whatever resistance has you frozen, I get you. I feel you. And I’m here to remind you that you don’t have to stay there. That no, it won’t be easy – but that moment by moment and day by day, you can move yourself out of where you are, and at least one tiny step closer to where you want to be.

Hell. If I can do it, anyone can.

xo.

J.

PS: Are you in an epic stare down with demons or resistance? Are the negative voices speaking loudly and freezing you in place? Are you ready to get fierce with intention? Are you here to create? Reply and tell me all about it – after all, for all that the journey is solitary, we’re in this together. Let’s walk this one hand in hand. All of your emails mean so much to me. I welcome you to continue this conversation on resistance and the voices that try to keep us small. On struggles and blocks around money and income and art.  On the fears and the hold back.  Let’s walk this path together.

P.P. S. Within the next few weeks I am planning to create an online conversation where we can all get together via Zoom to continue this conversation in real time. Make sure you subscribe to my email list so I can send you a link to join our tribe live on the call.

The post Creative Resistance: What I’ve learned in the last year. appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

“Being tame is what we’re taught: … put the crayons back, stay in line, don’t talk too loud, keep your knees together, nice girls don’t…As you might know, nice girls DO, and they like to feel wild and alive. Being tame feels safe, being wild, unsafe. Yet safety is an illusion anyway. We are not in control. No matter how dry and tame and nice we live, we will die. And we will suffer along the way. Living wild is its own reward.” SARK.

You did. I did. We all do.

We speak our needs. Cry our hurt. Kick and scream our anger. Sing our joy.

Do you remember it?

Do you feel that tingle way down low when i remind you – does that rooted memory of your innate wild spirit whisper back – yes – i am still here?  

Do you feel the stirrings of spaces inside you that have been shoved down, made quiet, pushed back?

Do you remember a time when you were free? When your heart beat steady with pulse of sun and moon and tide and you could dive under the waves and fly higher than the trees and always come back home. When you were one with dark rich earth and the green of all that is alive and the creatures that move unseen in the dark.

When you knew the truth. In your bones.

And you knew when it came down to it you were just like those wild things, you were kin to the storm and you rose with the sun and spun circles around the earth.

That when it came right down to it, you had no owner.  No captor.  

In all the ways that really mattered, no matter what they said, you belonged only to yourself.

Somewhere deep inside of us, we are always that.

Somewhere, deep inside of you, i know that you know this is true. No matter how distant or how separate or how impossible it feels right now.

Because somehow, somewhere – you forgot.  Or you were tricked, convinced otherwise by a culture that benefits from your compliance. Or you lost that wild heart of yours accidentally, without even noticing she was gone.  

And so your wild heart, she went into hiding. Tucked away behind books, or in shoeboxes crammed with old memories and older pain. Hidden inside messages of too much and not enough. Painted behind layers of shame and doubt and loathing.

Your wild heart may be hidden inside the fractured shells of past lives.

Or deep within the echoed expectations of others.

Underneath that pile of unmet dreams.

In the silenced loud and in the stifled, not permitted and yet righteous anger.

In the child trauma, where so much was taken from you.

In the silence of all the words you have been unable speak.

Within the covers of that tattered journal, where truth was finally spilled.

In the song that finds you, again and again and haunts you sweet and true.

Tucked between the ribs of old lovers and that ragged sigh of a space where teeth met bone.

Closed in boxes shoved to the back of closets or grown dusty in attics.

Between the lines of that letter, the one you read until the page was tattered. The one that will always be your undoing.

Hot and tender and raw in the unmet need for skin against skin and the want of your holy body.

At the junction between this life and that one, where past and present and future meet and the road forks and you made an impossible choice.

Slipped inside the line that lives between goodness and wholeness and the sliver where they become one.

And she is right here. Today. As close as your breath. 

Yes, wherever your wild heart is hiding – she is still there.  And she wants to be found.

I promise you, she wants to be found

Because you see, your wild heart is the truth of you. And you are the truth of your wild heart.

And if you don’t yet know it, let me remind you:

Forget what they told you. You are love child of a passionate affair between goddess and universe. You were born of a steamy forbidden heat and you were made for the cyclone of unadulterated wholeness. You are a daughter of delight. You are the unconstrained mother of all. A fierce warrior. A wicked priestess. Your roots twist into this earth. Your spirit rises in glorious asana.  You let loose with the howl of the wilderness you’ve held tight all these years.

You are wild.

Do you hear me?

You are wild.

Your heart is wild. Your soul is wild. Your spirit is as wild as the howl that has been building in your chest, ready to open the locked door of your rib cage.

Your urge to run – fast and hard and long – to places where you are unknown and unseen – so that you can finally take up all the space you need.  

That is your wild.

Your craving for quiet. For candles and darkness and the presence of what is most holy to you.

That is your wild.

The voice that tells you to leave, that your highest good can not be served here. The knowing that tells you to run to her – because her arms are the only home you’ve ever needed. The sound of the waves and the wind you feel tangling your hair when you are nowhere near the ocean and the air is entirely still. The sound of your laughter, pure unadulterated joy. The heat and longing and need of your skin and bones and center. The spiral and spark, deep in your belly that reminds you there is more. The way your knees hit the ground and your shoulders quake and you feel the loss of everything that has gone away. Your refusal to compromise what you know to be true.

Your resonant yes.

Your holy no.

Your sweet seduction

Your siren song.

Your agency. Your autonomy. Your surety of self.

Your movement through doubt and ache and fear.

This is your wild.   

This is your home.

And no matter how many times you lose your way, your wild heart remains. Waiting, always, for you to return.

When you hear her whisper, that small rise within – she is calling to you. And if you listen, and answer her call, she will help you create a map to trace the path back.

You can dance your way or paint your way or fuck your way or yell or scream or sing or pray or run or dive or write.

There are a million true paths. All of them within your reach.

Take a deep breath now. Close your eyes. Get steady. Get real steady. Feel yourself rooted to the earth and rising to the heavens. Now go in and go out all at once. Become and disappear. Stretch out your hands, palms up and ready to receive.  

Do you feel it? Right beneath your ribs? Do you feel it pulsing, red and ready?

Call it to you now, all the way home.  Feel the heat and solidity. Feel the want and divinity. Feel the pull of the tides and the wild, wild moon. Hear your howl.

Now open your eyes.

It is time to begin again

Wild this time.

*******

Do you, like me, know you have a wild heart? And do you, like me, lose connection with it through the whirl and swirl of life?

If your answer is yes, please consider joining me on a journey back home as we step into sacred space together for 30 days of questions and prompts aimed at taking us back to that wild heart of us – which is our one true home.

The space is already filling with open minds and pounding hearts and sacred mystery.

And having you there, wild heart open and ready to write, would make it even more holy.

Please join us.

Sign Up Now
 

The post Wild This Time {begin again} appeared first on Jeanette LeBlanc.

The inhibited artists.

Those who only dance in the dark and secret corners when nobody is watching.

You’ve got canvas and paint stacked in the closet and an entire novel bursting at the seams of your soul. You burn with the need to make things, but still – somehow do not.

Your doubt speaks loud and clear,  but not loud enough to drown out the insistent call of your muse.

You’ve something to say but the power of that message makes you want to shrink and hide.

What could happen if you unleashed it all? What would change? What would you lose.

What would they say? Who would you be?

So you don’t. And you hide. And you avoid. You get caught in the loop of perpetual busyness and debilitating self-doubt and priorities that put your call to create near the bottom of the pile.

You ignore the calling. You negate the gift. You aim for perfect and fall short and you speak unkind words directed only at yourself.

You try to content yourself with everything but that terrifying thing that you are meant to do.

That thing that is your purpose. Your passion. Your art.

Enough.

Enough already.

You are here to create.   And it is time to show up.

***

Show up for yourself.

Show up as yourself.

Show up on your own time. In your own way.

Show up with your wild broken open heart.

With your tear stained face.

Show up with ink on your hands and paint on your clothes.

Show up terrified and full of doubt that this will never work.

With all your hopes and every last thing you can no longer believe in.

Show up to announce your letting go.

Show up with whatever scraps you have left.

Show up full force, guns blazing.

Show up ready to burn that shit down.

Show up heart red and pulsing, ready to rebuild.

Show up to break the chains, to smash the cage. To say once and for all, I am done with restraint.

Show up to create.

Show up with your paint and your canvas. Show up with your words of honey and wrecking ball and sunflowers and broken things.

Show up with your hips slow spin.

With your wild and crazy and impossible dreams.

Show up to map the wilderness

Show up to get eternally lost and found deep inside the empty that comes when you spill it all.

Show up naked.

Open your arms. Let your voice ring clear.

Tell them here I am. All that I am. Tell them that you won’t play small for one more day. Tell them you’re here for a reason.

Tell them the resistance is over. The walls have fallen. The people are dancing in the streets.

Show up and change their minds.

Show up and change your own damn mind.

Just show up.

Everything changes when you do.

{an invitation}

Are you ready to blast through the resistance, slide around the excuses and really get writing?

Join me for a FREE 10 Day Challenge designed to help you create a sustainable practice dedicated to the ACT and the ART of writing. 

10 days.
10 practices.
FREE YOUR STORY

FREE YOUR STORY
Completely complimentary - my gift to fuel your writing revolution. 

10 days. 10 practices. Get writing. 

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