Embracing Your Worst to Find Your Best

by Rachel Kobin

As children, many of us loved hating Cruella de Vil, the villain in 101 Dalmatians (the book or movie). As adults seeking a good book, movie, or TV show, we may prefer characters who are more like people we know, with a full range of positive and negative qualities. We all have flaws, or as I like to say, we are “multifaceted,” which is what makes gemstones shine. 

As much as we accept that people are complex, when we meet someone who makes us recoil, we usually do one of two things: immediately reject them, or get curious and ask, “What is it about this person that irks me?” Very often, we discover that traits we find annoying about someone else are traits we share. 

Confronted by the darker parts of ourselves, it’s easier to plow forward with our lives and tell ourselves, “At least I’m not a puppy-killer like Cruella de Vil." However, ignoring these parts of ourselves is a lot like leaving dirty dishes in the sink: soon, insects infest the sink, so now we have dishes with caked-on food and bugs. Whether we avoid these sides of ourselves using a myriad of self-sabotaging behaviors or hate ourselves for staying stuck in life, it takes a considerable toll on our lives. 

Usually, these shadows, antagonists, or parts have something to teach us. When we dare to engage with them by gently asking what purpose they serve in our lives and how we might work with them to move forward, we are more likely to embrace setbacks as stepping stones that lead us forward on our paths.  

For writers, this process can occur as an author follows the characters they're writing through to the end of the story. The author’s shadows become part of the characters, and the change the main character achieves by the end of the book parallels the kind of transformation all creatives and all people can gain important insights by examining their shadows. When a writer neglects the edgier, unpleasant sides of their characters, readers have a hard time relating to them and often remark that they found them “flat” or “unbelievable.” 

In novels, the writer knows what’s going to happen, and even the reader can skip to the end. In our lives, we don’t know what’s coming next. Our shadow parts, formed by our past, can become guides to a future that beats not being as evil as Cruella de Vil. In “Shadow Work,” a method initially developed by Carl Jung, Internal Family Systems, from Richard C. Schwartz, and many other therapeutic modalities employ a variety of gentle approaches to help us explore these shadow sides of ourselves and make them our allies. Dimensions of ourselves we once feared become portals to a life of increasing contentment, punctuated by moments of joy.

Rachel Kobin is the Founder and Director of the Philadelphia Writers Workshop [Insert link to to: https://phillywriters.com/]. Rachel began writing in the third grade when she adapted the novel Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh into a play. She went on to write poetry, a screenplay, synopses, critiques of screenplays, copy for advertising, a novel, internal and marketing communications for corporations, market research reports, and a TV pilot. Her poetry has been published in anthologies, but as a creative writing workshops facilitator, editor, and writing coach, she finds seeing other writers succeed—however they define success—even more thrilling than seeing her own writing in print. She is proud to be part of Philadelphia’s robust writers’ community. 

Writing—not just for writers!

by Rachel Kobin 

You don’t have to wake up at ungodly hours, hunch over your keyboard, tap out hundreds of words, and then go to your day job to reap the psychological benefits of writing. Even if you think you’re not good at it, writing can enhance your life. As a human, you have the right to express yourself and tell your story. Your voice is unique, and that voice can be used privately as part of your self-care practice or shared to the extent you find rewarding. 

You already have everything you need to start

Most people use writing to do things like write to-do lists, shopping lists, texts, and memos for work. This kind of writing does not help our mental health, but it is an entry point to keeping a journal. By looking at those lists or even your calendar on a regular basis and asking, “What stands out? What was upsetting or enjoyable about any of those things?” you will find something resonates with you. It may even generate a physical feeling like raising your pulse rate. Once you’ve locked into one of these items, start writing. Don’t worry about the quality of your sentences or your vocabulary, just move what’s in your head and body onto the page without worrying about the result. 

This kind of journal entry gives your future self a picture of your what your life was life, which you’ll be grateful to have later. It also helps you think through the emotional aspects of your life. As writer Joan Didion said: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see, and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” Moving your thoughts and feelings from your head to the page helps you gain clarity on what tends to upset you, and perhaps learn how to prevent or manage events like this more effectively in the future. Identifying people or events that make you feel good help you welcome more of these experiences into your life. 

Be kind to the writer within

Above all, make every effort to avoid judging what you write. Many people have had teachers or peers that shamed them about their writing. In my first year of college, a group of students told me I didn’t know how to write an introductory paragraph. I called my mother, a published author, I needed a writing tutor. The professor returned my paper with this message: “A– Never listen to your peers.” So, when you sit down to write, thank your peers, those internal voices screaming mean things at you for trying to protect you from taking risks and ask them to go play outside. This is a risk worth taking. 

In fact, expressive writing—writing about your thoughts and feelings—has been scientifically shown to increase our ability to regulate our emotions, improve mood, memory, self-esteem, and decrease stress levels. With all of those benefits, why not try a journaling prompt right now? I invite you to try one of the most popular journaling exercises (from a professor at the University of Iowa) we do in The Philadelphia Writers’ Workshop: Use the alphabet (A-Z) to loosen topics from your mind. Simply start listing them. For instance, A is for Anaconda, B is for the blue ink stain on my floor, C is for Chocolate, D, the delights of spring, E-clipse… As soon as you find a topic you want to write about, start writing. On another occasion, start at the next letter. In my case, if I chose the eclipse, I would start the next time at the letter F. 

That F is for fun and flights of fancy, flying in the face of rules, and flinging those fresh words around to fabulously to face fears, facilitate fulfillment, and fire up your fabulous self. 

Rachel Kobin is the Founder and Director of Philadelphia Writers’ Workshop [Insert link to to: https://phillywriters.com/]. Rachel began writing in the third grade when she adapted the novel Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh into a play. She went on to write poetry, a screenplay, synopses, critiques of screenplays, copy for advertising, a novel, internal and marketing communications for corporations, market research reports, a TV pilot, and more. Since she began facilitating creative writing workshops and provided editing and coaching services in 2011, she has found that seeing other writers succeed—however they define success—even more thrilling than seeing her own name in print. She is proud to be part of Philadelphia’s robust writers’ community. 

Conceptual Journey

by Michael Shapiro 

What is taken for granted?

What goes quicker than we thought?

What can be wasted the most?

What is something that is sought?

When younger can seem quite slow 

When older moves way too fast

Never have enough of it

For time isn't made to last

Perhaps taking a time out

Noticing the stars and moon

All the beauty in nature

Lovely scents of spring's first bloom

Spend more time with family

Tell your spouse how much you care

Be present with your children

Enjoy all the love you share

Why put off 'til tomorrow?

As there are no guarantees

Live each day to the fullest

Much joy in each day to seize

Michael Shapiro has been writing for two and a half years following the passing of his wife on December 14, 2020. He writes mainly poetry and has been part of the Philadelphia Writers Workshop for the past two-plus years. He has also self-published a book of poems (One Pen Two Hands One Heart One Soul) on Amazon. His biggest joy is writing as he feels his wife writes with him and they become one through the words.

Time

by Lisa Ben-Shoshan

A warm sweater coat, wrapped around me like my grandmother's arms, flapping in the wind as I walk the streets to work. It's thick and long, and gathers leaves behind me, sweeping them under my booted feet as I hurry. The sleeves are overly long, dangling past my cold fingertips even though they are rolled up twice, for style. There are pockets hanging way down low, too low to be of any real use, for style again. It's all about style, isn't it? How we dress, what we choose to represent ourselves. Why put on a boring article of clothing, why buy it, even, if it isn't going to make you feel that you are in your element? So the long sweater coat, which is really something I would love to curl up with on the sofa at the end of the day, is more than my protection against the elements. It is a reminder of love, of grandma's sweaters she used to knit for me when I was young when she was still here, of the Afghans she knit which I still keep and pull out when I want to feel that sense of remembering, that sense of sorrow. How lucky am I to have these small reminders of what family is, almost like it has been captured in a poem or story. And how lucky am I that I can pass these things on to my children, like letting them read the story, and hopefully have them appreciate it as I do.  

 

Like my grandmother's arms, my time is a circle, I think, of time and family and love and remembering. Time, moving around the inside of my head marking the passing days and weeks and years, spinning now, spinning even faster as I get older. I hold onto the memories, I hoard the old sweaters and Afghan quilts, I hoard the letters and stories and photos and faces. I keep them in my mind, and I make the dead come to life again, or live still, in my mind. I delve into the memories of family, of my ancestors, searching for links through genealogy, connecting me to my past and theirs. I'm searching for a sense of continuity, of connection, a glimmer in an old photograph, faded and torn, which shows me that I have my great-great grandfather's eyes, that my son looks like my father, that the bits and pieces that make up all of us, our hair, our coloring, our skin and blood and bones, are more than pieces of DNA and dust. The things we remember, the pictures, the pieces of jewelry handed down, hearing my mother say I am just like my father—it is all part of who I am, and who I am is forever connected to the living pieces of everyone who has ever come before me. They live in me, in my mind, and so they never die.

Lisa Mellen Ben-Shoshan wrote and illustrated her first book, entitled “Valentine Wish” when she was in the first grade; the single edition was treasured by her parents. An avid journal keeper for many years, she parlayed her skills into a career in marketing communications. A positive outcome of her encounter with breast cancer set her on a path of investigating her family genealogy where she keeps the memories of everyone who came before her alive.

What is Fifteen Minutes?

by Rachel Kobin

Albert Einstein said, “Time only exists so that everything doesn’t happen at once.” Until recently, I took this time-is-just-a-construct attitude so seriously that I thought fifteen minutes was not enough time to do anything “worthwhile.” Fifteen minutes at a time, I started finding it harder and harder to accomplish anything. I’d venture a guess that you may have had similar experiences. I hope, by the time you’ve finished reading this short article—less than fifteen minutes, I promise—you will feel inspired the next time you have fifteen minutes to spare. 

 

What do you do if you have fifteen minutes before the kids must be picked up, the laundry is dry, or before a meeting? I normally play Words with Friends or Solitaire or stare at the wall. That staring at the wall time serves as a meditation of sorts. As far as Words with Friends and Solitaire go, as Bertrand Russell said, “The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.” But most of us have teetered on the tightrope between the lofty enjoyment of our free time and the descent down to the punishing pavement of procrastination. 

 

I cannot claim I haven’t lost my balance and gone splat! into the pavement of procrastination recently. Hell, because I procrastinated months ago, I was late getting to work on marketing The Philadelphia Writing Workshop’s summer offerings and writing this piece for the newsletter. However, I am getting better slowly, bit by bit and step by step. 

 

In fact, it all started with steps. I read about a reputable medical study that found walking for fifteen minutes after meals steadies blood sugar more effectively than one long walk. So, I started walking for fifteen minutes after meals, which means walking around my house in bad weather. Boring? Yes, but fifteen goes by quickly, and music, podcasts, audiobooks, and calls with friends help a lot. 

 

Since last August, after ten years of no regular exercise, I’ve taken hundreds of fifteen-minute walks. I’ve added bodyweight workouts, more vegetables, and more water. I’ve lost weight and inches, and parts of my body now sit higher than they were. 

 

Most importantly, my attitude toward fifteen minutes has changed. Now I look at that construct—that chunk of time—as substantial. In fact, I started a new workshop called Daily Writing Prompts, where participants write to a prompt for fifteen minutes every day and then send what they’ve written to a partner who gives them only positive feedback. It’s amazing how much you write when you’re consistently at it for even fifteen minutes a day. 

 

What is fifteen minutes? It’s the beginning of the present time. A present to you. The gift is wrapped beautifully with bows and ribbons. Unwrap it and choose your next move. What will you do with it? Take a bath because you’ve been rushing through life without giving yourself a break? Fantastic. Buy yourself a Ukulele and start lessons on YouTube. Splendid. The possibilities are as unlimited as your imagination. Enjoy.

Rachel Kobin is the Founder and Director of the Philadelphia Writers’ Workshop. She has facilitated creative writing workshops and provided editing and coaching services since 2011. Read her most recently published poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction in the anthology, Through the Looking Glass: Reflections on Madness and Chaos Within. 

The Name Thief

by Caitlin McGinley

 

Maybe Jenkins was a very vain seventh-grade girl. She loved her beautiful face, her perfect smile, and her gorgeous hair. She filled her cell phone’s camera roll with selfies daily. But there was one thing Maybe did not love. Her name. Maybe complained about her name almost as often as she took selfies.

One chilly Autumn morning, while carving pumpkins with her mother, Maybe dug in, “Mother, why did you give me such a ridiculous name?”

Maybe’s mother glopped a handful of pumpkin innards onto the table and sighed, “Maybe, if you hate it so much just change it! Go to the cemetery across the street and pick one from there. When you find one you like, stop, make a wish, and chant the name three times.”

Maybe decided her mother was nuts.

#

First thing Monday morning, Maybe told her friend Tina about her mom’s crazy idea. Quiet, humble, and shy, Tina didn’t understand why Maybe cared so much about a name. But she stayed supportive, “Just try your mother’s idea. When it doesn’t work, you can throw it in her face.”

At dismissal time, Maybe headed to the cemetery. She wove through the maze of graves until a unique headstone caught her eye.

Set in the stone was a glass oval containing a black and white photo of a beautiful girl. Beneath the picture was the name Daisy Crane.

Enchanted, Maybe chanted, “Daisy Crane. I wish my name was Daisy Crane. Daisy Crane. Daisy Crane!”

Maybe waited. Nothing happened. Cold, but vindicated, she trudged home.

#

The next day, Maybe got ready for school. She glanced up. Mounted to the wall above her headboard the big squishy block letters once spelling out M-A-Y-B-E now spelled D-a-i-s-y. Maybe crashed into the kitchen, “Mother! I think I’m hallucinating!”

Mother set down her mug of pumpkin-spice coffee, “Tell me what you saw, Daisy Dear.”

Maybe-Daisy’s jaw dropped.

“Close your mouth, Daisy. You don’t want to trap any flies. You’re fine. Now get to school!”

 

At school, Maybe-Daisy’s teachers and classmates called her by the stolen name.

A distraught Maybe-Daisy told Tina everything at lunch time.

Tina sighed, “Isn’t this what you wanted, Daisy?”

Maybe-Daisy knew Tina had a point. And by the end of the day, was back to taking selfies.

#

By Halloween, Maybe-Daisy had fully adopted her new name. She got into her cat costume, picked up her phone, held it at just the right angle, and snapped a selfie. Yuck! The image was all blurry!! Maybe-Daisy clomped down to the parlor, where her mother waited.

Maybe-Daisy’s Mother screamed, “Daisy! You have two faces!!”

Maybe-Daisy scurried to the nearest mirror. She shrieked in terror, streaked out of the house, and across the street to the cemetery.

She flung herself at Daisy Crane’s headstone. Her toe snagged on something, and she plummeted down to the ground. Dizzy, she tried to get up. Thunk! And hit her forehead against something hard.

She blinked. A layer of glass stood between her and the old cemetery.

The real Daisy Crane’s face floated into view.

Maybe pounded the window, “Let me out!!”

The girl snickered, “Hope you enjoy my name. Be careful what you wish for, Maybe!”

Daisy left the cemetery, leaving Maybe in her grave, where she can still be found to this

day.

           

Caitlin McGinley is a writer and mother. She has participated in the Philadelphia Writers Workshop since 2019. She lives in Chalfont with her family.

 

Layers of Fall

by Michael Shapiro

 

Summer has ended and fall is now here

Holidays and joy coming ever so near

The layers of autumn charming with hues

Inviting to all who relish her views

 

Orange sunsets of a sleepy fall sky

Cool Crisp days prior to winter’s cry

The trees magnificent colors abound

Bringing beauty to everything around

 

Halloween magic of costumes and fun

Parading through town as all creatures come

Collecting their candy with all of their friends

Eating their treasures once festivities end

 

Thanksgiving soon follows family joy for all

Relatives at the table, how fantastic is fall

Turkey and trimmings such fabulous treats

Stories galore of their tales and their feats

 

While the days might get shorter a little each day

The colors of fall in our memories stay

A season so grand, so majestic is she

Wishing this is the way it always will be

 

Michael Shapiro, a writer in the Tuesday Night Writers Workshop, lives with his three dogs Bailey, Bell, and Karma. He began writing again after his wife died last December. He loves writing because, in his words, "I feel close to her when I write. I know we write together. (One Pen Two Hands One Mind One Heart). If my poems can bring a smile to someone or touch them in some positive way, I know I am honoring her and making a difference, which she would approve of. She is my inspiration. My goal is to share some joy."

By Invitation Only

This story is a “round-robin story,” meaning it was created collaboratively by writers in the Tuesday Night Writing Workshop. Each person wrote a few sentences and then emailed it to the next person who added their part until the story reached the last person who wrote the ending.

 

Matilda had always hated Halloween. She couldn't understand why anyone liked wearing silly costumes, eating gobs of candy, and trying to scare each other. She tolerated neither trick nor treat.

But all of that was about to change.

One crisp Saturday morning in October, Matilda was in her room watching an old episode of Girl Meets World when her mom appeared in the doorway.

“This came in the mail for you,” she said, thrusting a black envelope toward her.

Matilda had been waiting for this particular piece of mail for months. She thanked her mom and quickly closed the door. She hopped up on her bed with the letter, closed her eyes, and whispered three times, “Oranum…Cabtabum…Jasanum…” before ripping open the envelope.

“Drat!” she whispered when she realized this wasn’t the letter she’d been waiting for. Instead, it was another invitation to a Halloween party that was being thrown by a girl named Duende, who lived across the street.

Matilda did not tolerate Duende particularly well and could not understand why she had invited Matilda. After all, Duende didn’t even take the bus.

Matilda had hoped the letter was the one she had been waiting for. The letter that would help her escape, perhaps into another realm, or at the very least let her forget about all this Halloween nonsense she so dreaded.

But then she read the small print at the bottom of the invitation —"wizards only" — Could it be? The girl across the street? Did she also know about the magical school that Matilda had so wanted an invitation from? Was she also the decedent of Merlin and Maleficent and all the other greats? She turned to the back and used her magic marker to see if the true wizard emblem was there — that would prove the party was for real wizards, not just kids in costumes.

Lo and behold, the emblem burned with electric purple flame upon the paper! Matilda squealed with delight as she watched the flame reach its height before it fizzled out. Finally, the confirmation that she, too, was of powerful and ancient wizard stock and not just the ordinary and average. She rushed over to her bedroom window and peeked through her blinds, spying on the house across the street where the gathering would be held, where she hoped her life would change.

She looked down and saw that she was hovering three feet off the ground. She could levitate! So, with her newfound power, she floated to the window. Still floating, she willed it open, and out it flung, so she sailed into the night.

Across the street rose a cyclone around Duende’s house and lawn. As Matilda approached, the cyclone pulled her. She watched in wonder as other children in full wizard regalia flew around the cyclone catching candy in their mouths. Now, this she could tolerate. So, so she joined in and soon found she had captured a multi-colored candy that took her on a flavor escapade—first blackberry, then chocolate, then lemon, and just as the next flavor teased her tastebuds, she felt a gentle push on her shoulder and heard a playful cackle. She found herself spinning in the air. She could see Duende laughing, her pinwheel curls spinning out from beneath her wizard’s hat. On her next twirl, Matilda caught the hem of Duende’s robe, and down they whirled, rolling and laughing through the cyclone and onto the lawn.

The great bacchanalia ensued into the night. Most of the ways in which Matilda’s life changed forever cannot be divulged to the ordinary and average, but no one ever saw her take the bus to school again.

 

The following writers in the Tuesday Night Writing Workshop each contributed a few lines to this story: Jonathan Bell, Paula Behrens, Courtney DuChene, Rachel Kobin, Jonathan Leeds, Caitlin McGinley, Grue Shackelford, Michael Shapiro, and Katrina Starr.

First Frost

by Conrad Person

 

In the spring of 1961, Dad bought a postage stamp farm in Western Pennsylvania’s hill country. We were the only Black family in the area, and my parents worried that we wouldn’t be welcome. In truth, the reaction was mixed, but our closest neighbors were farmers and happy to see the long fallow land back under the plow. Their children didn’t comprehend the intricacies of prejudice, so we were accepted and, in turn, accepting. There were six of us, four boys and two girls, and more kids meant that every game was suddenly more fun to play.

By Hallowe’en the bulk of the harvesting was done, and Mrs. Samson, who lived a quarter mile down the road, invited all the neighborhood kids to celebrate at her house. Tall and round with her hair worn in curlers every day but Sunday, she knew a thousand games, and all of them seemed to require an apple. We bobbed for apples. We carved faces into apples to dry into heads for rag dolls. We put on blindfolds to bite at apples hanging from a string. The winners of the games were rewarded with first choice from a tray of apples on sticks coated with jaw-breaking, bright red candy.

As a special treat, she boiled cane sugar and corn syrup to make hard tack candy. As the mixture reached “hard crack” stage, Mrs. Samson poured in a spoonful of peppermint oil, creating a cloud of mint so strong that we children poured screaming from the house into the cold night air as if we were escaping tear gas.

“Come on, kids, and grab your spoons!” Mrs. Samson called. She drizzled the hot candy onto sheet pans then showed us how to butter two spoons and use their backs to work the puddles into snakes as the candy cooled and hardened. She sent us all home with pillowcases of homemade candy, oatmeal cookies, popcorn balls, and fudge. What a feeling of excitement to be laden with treats, then turned out of a bright house into the autumn darkness. It was a deliciously spooky walk home down the narrow dirt road by the light of a nearly full moon.

Along the way, my oldest brother Greg scared us with talk of ghosts and maniacs, but as our shepherd, he also hurried us off the road when he saw the approaching headlights of a car traveling too fast for dirt and gravel. We waited in the roadside weeds and endured the slurs and beer cans the passengers hurled at us as they passed.

 

Currently a member of the Manuscript Workshop, Conrad Person lives in Mt. Airy, Philadelphia and draws from his personal experiences to craft fiction and memoir. Hailing from a family tradition of farming and steelworking, his perspective on American life comes through the lens of African-Americans who are children of the great migration from the rural South to the industrial North.

 

Autumn Days

by Nick Pipitone

 

red & gold leaves, crisp air tell me

autumn is here – they crunch under my feet

smoky smell of a firepit wafts through

the neighborhood, pumpkins on porches,

hot coffee in cold hands — walking in

golden sunlight, slight shiver when

the north wind blows, a football is thrown

high in the air — jump! snatch it!

snatch onto autumn days

they don’t last long

 

Nick Pipitone is an alumnus of the Philadelphia Writers Workshop, and he’s lived in the Philly area for most of his life. His favorite season is autumn because there’s football, beautiful foliage, and cooler weather. He originally posted “Autumn Days,” on his blog, Fiction and Ideas [https://fictionandideas.blog] where you can enjoy more of his writing.

Restarting

by Rachel Kobin

 

In a yoga class I took twenty years ago, the teacher told us our bodies are different every day. So, each day, I restarted. I tried not to expect to stand on one leg for the same amount of time as the day before. I brought that same advice with me to writers in my workshops: Each time we sit down to write, we start over, and because our minds are different every day, we don’t necessarily start from the same place. One day the words flow from our imaginations to the page, and the next day words jump into the same black hole where all the missing socks and Tupperware lids live.

 

When the Covid-19 restrictions lifted, I forgot about restarting. I expected to experience the return to more freedom as energizing and exciting. Instead, I feel sluggish and anxious in a whole new way. According to my doctor, I’m not alone. The guidelines are confusing, and the Delta variant hides in plain sight. The introverted among us enjoyed avoiding large gatherings. The more extroverted missed seeing friends and live concerts. Though the time in quarantine took its toll on our mental and physical health, we all adjusted our lives to fit the virus’ needs.

 

Many months have passed since March 2020. In a conversation with a friend who lives in San Francisco, we commiserated about feeling socially awkward now that we can see people in person. We laughed and went over the steps involved in reconnecting with close friends: 1) Pick up the phone 2) Invite them over 3) Clean the dining room, the bathroom, and maybe the living room and, 4) Make the meal. The invitation will delight them, but picking up the phone, cleaning up our dining rooms, and planning a meal requires restarting.

 

Remembering that we need to restart multiple times a day may be an excellent suggestion, but that doesn’t make it easy, particularly with an event as dramatic as the pandemic. Unlike restarting a creative or professional pursuit, the pandemic changed nearly every aspect of our lives for a long period of time. Logically, the restarting process will be more taxing and provoke a range of emotions, but people aren’t logical, and we generally prefer to avoid unpleasant challenges and feelings.

 

The complexity of Homo sapiens’ evolution never ceases to fill me with awe. People perceive change as a threat to our safety, which sets off a sophisticated reaction to protect ourselves. A series of signals release the hormones we need to stay and fight or hightail it out of there (“the fight-or-flight response”).

 

Even positive changes like returning to activities we considered normal and fun can make our brains tell us, “Uh-oh, this is new. Danger!” However, this reaction can mislead us. When the potential for a positive outcome outweighs the potential for loss—as it may with the loosening restrictions—we push ourselves to overcome our resistance to change. We restart. Balance on one foot for a few seconds, clean the dining room, invite friends over, go to an outdoor concert, return to work with gusto, put pen to paper. And whenever we falter, as we will, or if things change and we need to take precautions again, we’ll close our eyes, take a few deep breaths, and restart.

 

Rachel Kobin is the Founder and Director of the Philadelphia Writers’ Workshop. She has facilitated creative writing workshops and provided editing and coaching services since 2011. Read her most recently published poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction in the anthology, Through the Looking Glass: Reflections on Madness and Chaos Within. 

 

Coaxing My Worst Dance Partner Down the Stairs and Out the Door

by Rachel Kobin

 

Late at night, after another day of moving so little my whole body hurt and topping it off with a snack I knew would upset my stomach, I did what many of us do in this situation—I searched Google for “Self-sabotage.” On my most recent foray, I came across the article “30 Types of Self-Sabotage (and What to Do About It)” by Alice Boyes, Ph.D. The article included a quiz to determine which types of self-sabotage challenge you the most. At first, I was dubious about taking it because most quizzes leave me feeling worse. This one helped me determine what to focus on and made me feel hopeful rather than overwhelmed. 

 

Despite how positive I felt after taking the quiz, I missed other articles I had read that went into more depth and took a more compassionate approach. I found one I can recommend: “The Fascinating Reason We Sabotage Ourselves and Hold Ourselves Back.” The author, Debra Mittle, explains how procrastination and self-sabotage are survival mechanisms we can learn from to bring more joy into our lives. The author convinced me to invite my “worst” dance partner inside rather than showing her the door. 

 

After all of that reading, I brought my awareness to my approach to solving my self-sabotage problems. I concluded Google is great, but it’s not the same as having a good talk with a friend. Then I remembered I had neglected to get back to a girlfriend who wanted to have lunch with me. This is another thing I do—I feel lonely and then realize I haven’t reached out to anyone. I’m not sure where I saw this self-help tip or if I made it up, but I think I need to make an appealing little drawing or collage that shows all the people in my life who make up my community. And I will not call that procrastination because there’s nothing more important to my physical and mental health than nurturing the relationships I have.

 

Rachel Kobin is the Founder and Director of the Philadelphia Writers’ Workshop and has facilitated creative writing workshops and provided editing and coaching services since 2011. Read her most recently published poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction in the anthology, Through the Looking Glass: Reflections on Madness and Chaos Within.

 

Reflections on 2020 - from Rachel Kobin

For what are you most grateful as you look back over the year and why? I'm grateful everyone in my immediate family, including my elderly mom and boyfriend, and my friends are still alive.

What did you take for granted this year? Nothing.

What did this reveal to you about yourself and your presence in the world? Having the ability to appreciate simple pleasures like a good cup of tea or a phone conversation with a friend who makes you laugh is an invaluable survival skill. 

What new hobby or old pastime did you take up or revive during the months of lockdown? I started painting with acrylics just for fun. With my paramour's help, I did several nesting projects, including using a sewing machine for the first time to make curtains, something I've meant to do since I bought my house in 2005. 

Was there an unexpected joy that you experienced during this time? Teaching via Zoom has added my commute time back to my life. I've enjoyed having that time to simply be.

What is the most important thing that the year of Covid 19 has taught you? Life is fragile; take nothing for granted.

Learning to Say "No!"

by Rachel Kobin

 

There are times when we have to let people down. Maybe your name has been on the volunteer list for years, but which is worse, feeling resentful as you do the job, or letting someone else step up to the plate? Perhaps the task would be skipped or reinvented for the month. Who would judge us harshly for our human frailty?

 

It seems I am the one who judges myself harshly for my human frailty. I have a hard time saying "No." I want to help everyone improve their writing, publish their book, get into the MFA program of their choice, deal with their recent bipolar disorder diagnosis, or figure out how to spell "trivial." Inevitably my desire to help so many people at the same time leaves me overextended. Recently I said I didn't have the energy or time to do something I'd promised I would do, but when no one could take my place, I caved in and did it after all. Don't be like me. Stick to your guns. Say, "No!" Preserve your mental and physical health. You are worthy of such basic kindness.

 

I am worthy of this, too, which is why from this very moment, "No," will flow from my mouth like saliva while I sleep. I said "No" to drugs in the eighties, and endlessly to my parents when I was two, so I'm just going to say no to everything. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Oh, even typing that is fun. And then, I'll do the work I can and make some people happy. But not everyone, because as I should know by now, it is impossible to make everyone happy all of the time. 

 

Okay, given how much I love what I do, I'm probably not going to say "No" to much that has anything to do with writing or friends who need help spelling a word. But next time I'm exhausted and say I can't do something, I'm not going to back down. I'm going to remember that my refusal is a courageous act of self-care. I invite you to follow my lead.

 

To further bolster your newfound confidence saying "No," I leave you with the words of the infinitely wise band, "They Might be Giants," and their song, "No!" from their album titled, "No!"

 

No is no
No is always no
If they say no, it means a thousand times no

No plus no equals no
All nos lead to no no no

Finger pointing, eyebrows low
Mouth in the shape of the letter O

Pardon me, no!
Excuse me, no!
May I stay?
Can I go?
No, no, no

Do this, no!
Don't do that, no!
Sit, stay,…

 

Rachel Kobin has over twenty years of experience writing in a variety of professional settings. She founded The Philadelphia Writers Workshop in 2011. Though normally found leading creative writing workshops at The Resiliency Center, she currently provides them via video conferencing. She works with writers privately as a coach and editor to help them make their final drafts as brilliant as their original ideas.

 

The Healing Power of Telling Our Stories

by Rachel Kobin of the Philadelphia Writers Workshop

 

When the writers workshops migrated from The Resiliency Center to Zoom in March, I was initially concerned about whether I’d be able to recreate the comfort participants develop from writing in the same room together week after week. Although I always provide participants with the option to use the workshop time as a substance-free escape from reality, the tentacles of the virus had us in its grip. Some expressed their fear and frustration with humor, while others' emotions poured onto their pages like tears shed mourning for the dead. No one held back despite the electronic context. 

 

When the Black Lives Matter protests began, I decided to address the issues head-on in the best way I knew how: I offered prompts that would give us the opportunity (but not obligate anyone) to write about aspects of the movement. Today a woman responded to the prompt "If I were the last storyteller in my tribe..." with a story about the resiliency the three branches of her family developed as they rose above suffering by making love their guiding force. Of course, she phrased it much more elegantly than I just did, but the point is that storytelling is how we make sense of the world around us. 

 

The writing and conversations provoked by this summer's writing made me see, once again, how healing it is to listen and be heard. When one person shares their story, we grow by coming to understand that while our life journeys may be vastly different, the feelings they evoke are universal. Even when the togetherness we create is on computer screens, the connection is real."

 

Rachel Kobin leads the Philadelphia Writers' Workshop at The Resiliency Center. The workshop provides a safe, structured setting for writers to express themselves, experiment, learn, and grow. To learn more about joining her fall workshops - and learn about her new writing marathons once they are announced - see her website at www.phillywriters.com.