Prompt 308. Ambition & Fear

& Samarra Khaja on reclaiming joy

Hi friend,

A few days ago, I shared the news that I have a new book coming out called The Book of Alchemy—as well as a humbly made request to preorder it! As I wrote in the announcement, this book is in some ways the culmination of a lifetime, distilling everything I’ve learned about how journaling can help us transform life’s interruptions and tap into that mystical trait that exists in every human: creativity. But to put a finer point on it, I began working on The Book of Alchemy back in the fall of 2020, after hearing from this community that this practice was as life-altering (maybe even life-saving) for you as it has been for me. However, my progress on the book was slow, initially because I was still gestating on the structure and ideas, then because I got busy launching Between Two Kingdoms into the world. Within a year, I learned my leukemia had returned, and everything was put on hold.

The early sketches of The Book of Alchemy ended up sitting in a drawer for three years. It was only last fall that I began to feel well enough to start working on it again, and when I did, I kept it quiet. A longtime community member named Peg wrote in the comments section of the announcement that it both scared and impressed her how well I can keep a secret. But the thing is, I’m not actually secretive by nature. The main reason I keep things close to my chest—especially something like writing a new book, which is often a multi-year endeavor—is because I’m never completely confident I can pull it off. I worry that my body will thwart me, or that I just don’t have what it takes to see it through. I certainly don’t trust that things will go according to plan. The events of my life have trained me to expect the ceiling to cave in, so when I start to dream wildly and ambitiously, the voices of doubt and fear immediately chime in. But what if you’re not well enough? they say. What if some known or unknown danger thwarts the plan—so what’s the point of even trying?

I know this pattern well by now—the hope, the fear, the back and forth. My illness means that I do this sort of tango with fear perhaps more often than most people, but we all do a version of this, don’t we? You go through a bad break-up and swear off romance because you feel like you won’t be able to survive that kind of heartache again. You get a rejection letter, and the sting is such that you vow to never write another word. You want to try something new, but you worry you’ll be bad at it—you fear you’ll humiliate yourself—and so you never start.

This kind of fear response has a purpose—as Elizabeth Gilbert said in our Studio Visit, “Fear has an evolutionary mission, which is, ‘Don’t do something new, or that we don’t know the outcome of, because it could end in death.’” But I’ve also learned that allowing myself to be hemmed in by fear is not the life I want to live. A fear-driven life is one where I never make plans, where I stop myself from dreaming ambitiously or wildly. It means living safe and small, always hedging against the worst-case scenario.

Instead, I want to live boldly. I want to hold the best-case scenario at the forefront and have that guide my decisions and actions. Of course, there’s a tension between dreaming big dreams and knowing that they might not come to pass, at least not in the form you had imagined. But what grounds me in those moments is remembering my proven track record of resilience, and how I have been able to adapt, change gears, and reimagine a new plan.

I have no idea what my life will look like in April, when The Book of Alchemy comes out. Will my current chemo protocol keep the leukemia at bay? Or will I be back in the hospital, undergoing a third bone marrow transplant? I can’t predict where I’ll land on the best, medium, worst-case scenario spectrum. But right now, I’m focused on what’s in front of me—on my excitement and deep gratitude for this community and your response to the book. It’s got me buzzing with all kinds of new big dreams in the form of an epic book tour and in-person events and workshops and retreats. Beneath the surface of that buzzing is the old familiar hum of fear, but I have to trust that if the worst-case scenario comes to pass, I’ll be able to adapt. I’ll make a new plan that fits the circumstance, one that might even work out to be just as good as my original plan—maybe better.

And so my current modus operandi must be this: I have to trust and find ways to delight in the mystery of how things unfold, even if it’s not what I had planned, even if it’s far from ideal. I have to believe it’s possible that facing the thing you fear brings you exactly what you need.

With that, I’ll turn to today’s guest essay and prompt—“Cats!” by the visual artist Samarra Khaja. In it, she writes about making plans, only to have them go awry, about adapting as a way to reclaim joy, and about how her creative practice gives her the power of alchemy. It’s a piece that resonates so strongly with me, and I’m absolutely thrilled to share it with you. For her wisdom and some delightfully whimsical paintings of felines, please read on.

Sending love,

Suleika

Some items of note—

• My new book, The Book of Alchemy, is officially available for preorder! I’d be so grateful if you would preorder a copy for yourself or a friend—or both! Preorders are so important for authors, and it would mean everything to me.

• Quick reminder that our next meeting of the Hatch, our virtual hour for paid subscribers, is happening today—that’s Sunday, October 20 from 1-2pm ET.

  Holly Huitt
  will be hosting this time, sharing an exercise that maps the intricate webs of inspiration surrounding the art we love. Find everything you need to join us here!

Cats by the author, clockwise from top left: Willow Longhair, Feta Longhair, Calico, Tikka Longhair

Prompt 308. Cats! by Samarra Khaja

A year ago, I was diagnosed with uterine leiomyosarcoma, a rare, aggressive, shitty-ass cancer. (My husband joked that I’ve always had an eye for the unusual.) Last August, our family trip was canceled because I had to have surgery, then start chemo because the cancer grows so rapidly. Recently new growths have appeared, and I need to go back on chemo. Here we are again in August, and we’ve had to cancel another trip, this time to Australia and New Zealand. We got travel insurance for this reason, but still. I had hoped.

My husband and my two sons, who are thirteen and sixteen, have weathered this storm as well as they can, but it’s so awful to know they are unwitting participants. I almost wish I were alone so my pain wouldn’t spread to the people I love the most. I’ve always wanted to be the helper in the room—the one who makes things better. And here I am, the vessel containing something that makes things worse. I worry it may become an insurmountable trauma of their childhood, which is hard because I didn’t have the best childhood myself. I didn’t get along with my dad, was a third parent of sorts to my older brother, and forced to take on responsibilities sooner than any child should. I was just starting to find myself—finally, in my early fifties—when I received my diagnosis.

My entire life, I’ve been surrounded by my mom’s enormous body of artwork that she refused to edit down. She insisted each piece was just as important as the next. I’ve struggled for years with what to do with her art; it was in their Brooklyn brownstone for years and then sat in storage, doing nothing but draining money. I swore I’d figure something out so as not to saddle my kids with it.

Finally, I had an idea: I would reclaim joy by repurposing her art. Pieces I didn’t like or want—many are dark, morbid, or otherwise uncomfortable for me to behold—would be reconfigured into something of mine. I am drawn to whimsy, absurdity, and foolishness, as it brings light and joy. I would unapologetically make whatever I wanted to make out of her materials. 

I’ve always deeply loved animals, cats especially. I wanted to be a vet but didn’t want animals dying on my watch, so that never happened. Since making art and playing with our two family cats was my comfort growing up, I decided I’d turn all the artwork I was burdened with into CATS! I have made about fifteen cats so far and already sold one. In a fun, weird way, I can say they’re collaborations with my mom. When I sell one, she sells one, too. 

As for reclaiming the joy of our family vacation—after my infusion on Thursday, we’re driving to the beach. I refuse to have no holiday, and I want to breathe the ocean air. We’ll figure out the rest.

Your prompt for the week:

Search for something in your life that has sat unused for too long. It could be an object, a space, an old journal, a dream. Write about how you could repurpose it—where it has been, what it means to you, what it could become. 

If you’d like, you can post your response to today’s prompt in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals. As a reminder, we love seeing your work inspired by the Isolation Journals, but to preserve this as a community space, we request no promotion of outside projects.

Today’s Contributor—

Samarra Khaja is a New York-based multidisciplinary artist and award-winning craft & coloring book author. She gravitates toward purposeful projects that can be infused with her hallmarks of whimsy and joy while reimagining the unexpected out of the everyday. You can currently find some of her public art pieces in Brooklyn and Ithaca, NY. Learn more about what’s she’s up to on her website or on Instagram.

Our Isolation Journal No. 1—

If you’re looking for a fresh start for fall, consider treating yourself to our custom journal! We designed it with all of our favorite features: it’s the perfect size to tote around wherever you go, has ink-bleed proof paper and numbered pages for easy indexing, and for extra inspiration, we’ve printed our Isolation Journals manifesto on the flyleaf. To get yours, click the button below—