Happy Friday!

After last week’s webinar, I left still thinking about writing spaces and what truly supports creativity and sustainable routines.

My assistant, Beth, and I wrote blogs this week, and the same theme emerged: connection. Not connection as a concept, but connection as something that steadies us, creates happiness, and makes writing possible in the first place.

What follows are two reflections that approach connection from different angles: one through objects and memory, the other through loss and participation.

Appreciate Each Moment and Your Life Will Be Extraordinary

by Marilyn Horowitz

My cat died. There is no improved version of that sentence. When she died, I did not collapse. I descended. Quietly. Deep. As if someone had lowered me into still water and left me there without instructions. Life continued with impressive indifference. Emails arrived. The weather shifted. People made plans. Inside, I was somewhere else. Even my faith felt out of reach. Not gone. Just misplaced. Like reading glasses, I was certain  had been right here a moment ago.

And I could not write. For someone who has written for decades, who teaches writing, who believes story is oxygen, this was inconvenient at best and existential at worst. The internal doorway to language had sealed itself without notice. I sat at my desk and stared at screens that stared back.

For years, I have had a practice. Before sleep, I ask for help. Not theatrically. Not with incense or ceremony. Just a quiet request into the dark. Show me the answer. Help me solve this. Reveal what I am not seeing. And consistently, by morning, something would surface. A solution. A line. A shift in perspective. It has been my private laboratory of faith and cognition.

Except during this period.

During this depth, I forgot. Not once. Not twice. I forgot to even ask. That is how far down I had gone.

One afternoon, I was working with a student. We were discussing creative blocks, which I can usually dismantle with some confidence. She looked at me and asked, “You always tell us to ask for answers before we go to sleep. Does that really work?”

Yes, I said. It works.

And in that same instant, I realized something almost comical. I had not been doing it. The expert had misplaced her own instruction manual. I left that session thinking, Well done. You teach the technique and forget to use it. Excellent form.

That night, I lay in bed and finally remembered to ask. Not for brilliance. Not for relief. Just this. Show me how to get back into my life. That was the request. Because I felt adjacent to it. Functional, but not inhabiting.

Around four in the morning, I woke up thirsty. The sky outside was winter gray. The kind of cold that makes even the light seem reluctant. We had recently bought a new refrigerator. A very modern appliance. You press a button on the door, and water or ice appears. No need to open it. Minimal effort. Efficient hydration.

I walked into the kitchen half awake and pressed the button. A small light came on. Just a dispenser light. Nothing mystical. A practical glow so you can see your glass. But in that gray, pre-dawn kitchen, it looked like a square of contained sunshine. The rest of the room was subdued. The weather outside was colorless and still. Inside that small rectangle, there was illumination.

Water poured into the glass, clean and steady. And I stood there watching it as if it were a performance. I appreciated the water. Cold. Clear. Immediate. I appreciated that I did not have to open the refrigerator door. That I could press something gently and receive what I needed. I appreciated that the light turned on automatically. That in the dark, pressure produced brightness.

It was absurdly simple. And it was enough.

I had asked to be shown how to get back into my life. The answer was not philosophical. It did not arrive with a thesis statement. It arrived as a small appliance feature. Press the button. Watch the light. Drink the water.

Grief stretches the space between you and everything else. It makes participation feel optional. But in that moment, I was participating. The refrigerator responded to my touch. The light appeared. The water flowed. My body swallowed. Nothing grand occurred. But I was inside the exchange.

My cat was still gone. That fact remained immovable. But I was not gone.

There is something instructive about that little interior light. It does not flood the room. It does not compete with the sun. It simply illuminates what is immediately in front of you. When you press gently, it responds.

The weather stayed gray for weeks. The mornings remained cold. But at four o’clock, I would wake, walk to the kitchen, press the button, and stand in that quiet glow. Appreciation began there. Not forced gratitude. Not spiritual performance. Not pretending everything was meaningful. Just noticing what works. The glass. The light. The steady stream of water. The fact that I can stand here and receive it.

I began to understand something I had overlooked. The extraordinary life is not constructed from dramatic events. It is constructed from attention.

When you lose something small and furry, you become acutely aware that nothing is permanent. The ordinary reveals its fragility. But fragility is not emptiness. It is a rarity. It is precision. It is something you only recognize fully when it shifts.

That small refrigerator light was not the sun. But at four in the morning, in a gray kitchen, it was a private sunrise.

I had asked to get back into my life. The answer was participation at the smallest possible scale. Appreciate one functioning thing. Let your nervous system register it. Then do it again tomorrow.

You do not override grief. You do not outthink sorrow. You do not accelerate healing. You press the button. You watch the light. You drink the water.

And without announcement, without ceremony, you are back.

The extraordinary life is not a life without loss. It is the life you are willing to inhabit, even in depth, even in gray weather. Sometimes it begins with remembering your own advice. Sometimes it begins with a refrigerator light. And sometimes that is enough.

I Don’t Write Alone

by Beth Price

Last week in our webinar, we imagined our ideal writing spaces. We clustered around words like private, ethereal, prolific, and dandelion. We wrote scenes that placed us inside rooms where writing flowed easily.

Afterward, I realized something surprising.  

My current writing space, which is far from the one I dreamed about last week, doesn’t inspire me. But the objects inside do. Yes, I have the typical things. A desk. A somewhat comfortable chair. Softer lighting because I don’t like bright lights, though I keep a task lamp nearby. A loveseat I can move to when I don’t want to sit upright and “be productive.” My dictionary, thesaurus, grammar guide, and the Word of the Day book sit within reach.

But those aren’t what “make things happen.”

What makes the words flow is what I have a deep curiosity about or a connection to.

On the wall hangs a new quilt my mother made. The pattern is a Quilts of Valor creation. Intricate, deliberate, stitched with care, created to honor veterans. The fabric is new, but the stories and the sacrifices it represents are old.

Nearby is a vintage quilt, sewn from large squares from old fertilizer bags. Made in a time when there wasn’t money for new fabric and buying from a department store was a luxury. Someone cut, stitched, and pieced together what they had out of pure necessity.

I often wonder who slept beneath it. Who was kept warm? What stories were told under its weight on a cold night?

On a shelf across the room is a teacup from my grandmother’s wedding china set. I imagine family gatherings long before I was born: the voices, laughter, tension, and celebration. Beside it sit modern mugs with sassy, even controversial sayings. They reflect my mood some mornings, especially the one that says: “And yet despite the look on my face, you are still talking.”

In the far corner stands my newly acquired spinning wheel. I don’t know its history. But I’m certain there is one, and there’s a story there to be written.

I find myself touching these objects often and wondering.

Who held this before me?
What did it witness?
What conversations happened nearby?
What hopes were spoken into the room?

When I do this, I relax.

And I realize something important.

I don’t write best when I feel organized. I write best when I feel connected.

Connected to the past.
Connected to story.
Connected to continuity.

Marilyn once wrote about passing two discarded chairs on the street and imagining the history they may have shared, whether they came from the same apartment or simply met at the curb. She offered an exercise:

Take note of what your neighbors are throwing out, and select one item. Write a brief history of where it comes from and what it has seen. Has it passed from person to person like in The Red Violin, or remained in one place the whole time? What does the object “witness”?

That exercise isn’t about furniture. It’s about opening your mind to creative possibilities.

It’s about perspective.

Closing our eyes, we can travel to another time, another space, and immerse ourselves in a story, leaving schedules and to-do lists behind.  An escape. Perhaps we need a reminder that our ideal writing spaces are not just physical, but are defined by what reminds us that we are part of something larger than the word count.

My quilts, my teacup, my spinning wheel remind me that stories exist before I sit down to write them.

And when I remember that, the words come more easily.

Don’t Miss the Next Webinar!

In our recent sessions, we explored writerliness and imagined the writing spaces that truly support our creativity. Now it’s time to design a writing routine that works, not a rigid schedule, but a flexible structure that fits your real life.

On February 24, don’t miss your chance to learn practical strategies for creating realistic writing windows, supportive habits, and routines you can adjust as life changes. When you work with your energy and circumstances rather than fight them, your writing becomes sustainable.

I look forward to seeing you there.

Register here to reserve your spot!

Here’s to your personal success,

Professor Marilyn Horowitz

New on Substack

My Substack community is growing, and it’s becoming a thoughtful space for reflection, creativity, and honest conversation. I’d love for you to be part of it. It’s free to subscribe, and each installment explores writing, personal development, neuroscience-based practices, and the deeper questions that shape how we live and create.

I recently completed a draft of a new book. The next part of the work involved creating case studies to demonstrate how you can reconnect with yourself and build self-trust. Self-trust is the secret of success. People read it and said it was wonderful, but that I just needed to flesh it out a little bit. I wrote up nine different stories about people I’ve known who had improved using this method, and then I suddenly lost all motivation.

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