Prompt 322. The Afterlife of Writing

& Carmen Radley on what gladrackets us

Hi friend,

It’s exactly three months until pub day of my new book, The Book of Alchemy, and it’s finally starting to feel real. Over the holidays, a box of galleys arrived. Holding a copy in my hands, I felt the same sort of vertigo as I did with my memoir Between Two Kingdoms. My mom has always talked about how creative work can feel so abstract—how while you’re making it, you’re living in your own mind, in the world of your ideas. Even when I begin to put pen to paper, it’s still in the privacy of a manuscript, as I work through the first draft, second draft, third, revising and restructuring, volleying back and forth with an editor. For me, the moment of taking an X-Acto knife to a cardboard box filled with books, reaching in, and pulling out a physical copy—only then do I begin to believe that it’s going to be a real thing in the world.

Over the last few days, it’s been a joy to see my friends and family encounter the book for the first time. My best friend Lizzie came over last weekend, and when she saw the galley, she grabbed it and said “I’m taking this to the guest room,” and immediately disappeared to read. When my dad saw it, his face broke into the tenderest proud papa smile. My mom’s reaction was characteristically hilarious. She grabbed the book, flipped through to find her own essay, and promptly asked, “Why am I first in the ‘On Ego’ chapter? Is there a message in this?” And then there was my husband, Jon. When he opened the first pages and saw that I’d dedicated the book to him, he was so surprised that he didn’t say anything at first, only nuzzled his head to my side in the sweetest, most Jon-like way.

So The Book of Alchemy is now entering the afterlife of writing. I’ve started prepping and planning to send the book out into the world, and I’m feeling deeply emotional about it. There were many starts and stops with this one, moments where it felt like it just might not happen at all. The other day, as I held that galley, all my inner resistance, all of the crises of confidence, all my fears rose to the top. But I also believe in this book. I believe in the philosophy that underlies it and this practice that has changed and even saved my life—the one that we’ve been doing communally here for nearly five years.

And so as nervous as I am for this baby to fly the nest, I’m also excited—and maybe the thing I’m most excited about is I get to have a real in-person book tour and will be able to meet with this beloved community in a way that hasn’t been possible before. My first book came out during the pandemic, so that tour was a handful of virtual events. Only months later, I learned that my leukemia was back and I had to re-enter treatment, so for me, quarantine conditions just continued. It was only this summer that I felt like I was back in the world again in a full way—only to learn that I was sick again.

The ongoingness of illness and treatment has been tough, especially in the last month or so—but beginning to plan this book tour is a real bright spot. I’m currently summoning all my “dream as big as you dare” energy to plan my book tour, and I’d love your help! Below is a little survey about what cities I should include on the tour and what shape the events should take. If you have a minute, would you fill it out for me?

As exciting as the prospect of meeting in real life is, I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge how meaningful our virtual meet-ups are. For years now, you’ve joined us for Studio Visits and special workshops and the Hatch, our monthly creative gathering—and each time I’m delighted by how real the connection is, even through the interwebs. And in today’s guest essay and prompt from Carmen Radley, the Isolation Journals managing editor, she writes about a gathering of the Hatch where this community showed up as a force of love—which in this particular moment seems more necessary than ever.

Sending love,

Suleika

Some items of note—

• On April 21, 2025, the day before The Book of Alchemy comes out, I’ll be hosting a free virtual workshop as a special thank you to all those who pre-order the book. Together we’ll explore that divine, mystical trait that exists in everyone, creativity, and get inspiration for transmuting the difficult things in life into something precious, like gold. To reserve a spot, all you need to do is pre-order a copy of The Book of Alchemy, then register at the link below.

• Our next meeting of the Hatch, our virtual creative hour for paid subscribers, is happening today—that’s Sunday, January 26 from 1-2 pm ET. Carmen Radley is hosting and will share thoughts on joy as both a revolutionary act and a righting of the scales, along with some gorgeous verse. Find everything you need to join us here!

Robert Delaunay, Portuguese Woman (1916)

Prompt 322. What Gladrackets Us by Carmen Radley

I first encountered “Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude” by Ross Gay more than a decade ago, at a poetry reading of his in San Diego. It took up a quarter of the hour he was allotted—quite a duration for a single poem—but the hundreds of us in the audience sat rapt the entire time. I return to this poem regularly and will for decades to come, I’m sure, for the stunning images; for the music, sometimes mellifluous, sometimes clanging; for the Whitmanian praise of everything, be it blooming or decaying, heavy or light, sad or joyous, or all those things at once.

I’ll return for this line: What gladrackets us. The line before it goes like this: “Thank you what in us rackets glad”—which I take to mean “what clamors and whirls in us and makes us feel alive.” The poet then elides a few words and flips two to coin a new one: what gladrackets us.

A couple of years ago, I shared this poem in the Hatch, our monthly creative gathering here at the Isolation Journals—though rather than reading the whole thing, we focused on a section where the speaker says “thank you/ the ancestor who loved you/ before she knew you/ by smuggling seeds into her braid for the long/ journey.” I shared some thoughts on why I was gladracketed by this passage—by the tender beauty in the image of this woman braiding seeds into her hair, by how this practical act is infused with ideas of nurture and abundance, and by the notion that something as simple as sowing a stand of wheat or planting a rose bush or a tree can be a blessing for generations to come. I acknowledged that not everything our ancestors bequeath to us is lightness and beauty. Sometimes what they pass down—well, we wouldn’t have chosen those particular things as heirlooms, would we have? But as Mary Oliver wrote, “Someone I loved once gave me/ a box full of darkness./ It took me years to understand/ that this too, was a gift.”

When I finished my spiel, I shared a prompt—to write about the ancestor who loved you before she knew you—and we all dropped heads to write silently together. (It’s always a beautiful moment, when hundreds of heads collectively bow toward the page. It feels almost sacred.) And not a minute later, a box of darkness emerged. For the first and god willing the last time (we’ve since put in place better security), someone had hacked our meeting and was dropping nasty comments in the chat. Then he unmuted himself and let out a guttural screech that seemed to emanate from some dark, angry, almost violent place—incredibly unsettling, to say the least. I quickly found him and removed him from the meeting, but the damage was done. He had punctured our peace.

What transpired over the next hour is what makes the Hatch such a meaningful gathering. As soon as the hacker was gone, people began dropping poignant comments in the chat. “Onward in love,” one said. Another wrote, “I wish that person peace and that someday soon they can enjoy the beautiful energy and words of a community like this.” Someone wrote to me directly, asking if I was okay. Someone else sent this: “Carmen, come back to us. Center us with a prayer or blessing.”

I sat with that request for a moment, unsure of what to do; a spontaneous blessing felt out of reach. But then something came to me. I turned my microphone back on, told the group that we were going to have a little palette cleanser, and played a rendition of “What a Wonderful World” by Suleika’s husband Jon. We listened to the song, its melody gentle and soothing, propelled by Jon’s pulsing baseline, heightened by his thrilling little softshoe of a bridge, and we reclaimed our peace.

We returned to writing about the ancestors who loved us before they knew us, and toward the end, a few people shared with the group what they’d written—where their ancestors had emigrated from, the trials they’d endured, and the imprint those stories had made. (One in particular I remember: A community member wrote about how her mother had once told her, “We come from a line of long-suffering women.” What an imprint that one sentence might leave.) We ended the hour as we always do, sharing one word to encapsulate how we’re feeling. That day, despite the interruption—maybe even because of the interruption—people said they felt uplifted, grateful, and healed.

After the gathering had ended, I opened the community chat and scanned the comments. One stood out to me. “I am comfortable in this group because I know we are all struggling,” she wrote, “and I just wanted to share this text I just got from a dear friend: You have been through a lot. Give yourself some grace around that.”

Oh, the idea of grace. How beautiful and necessary. How it gladrackets me.

Your prompt for the week:

Write about what gladrackets you. Exalt whatever is both necessary and beautiful, be it a plant or a poem, a philosophy or a practice. Praise what is wonderful, to be adored and preserved, like seeds for the long journey.

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.

For more paid subscriber benefits, see—

• A Creative Heart-to-Heart, a raw, unfiltered conversation about life and the creative process with my husband, Jon Batiste, where we answered questions from this beloved community and talked about tapping into the creative flow and about joy as a practice

• On Joy, Sorrow & Creative Alchemy, a video replay of my workshop with the brilliant Susan Cain, where we talked about the challenge of accepting life’s sorrows, but how they deepen the joys, and how, if we’re open and curious, we can find a creative practice that helps us marry the two

• How We Get Through, a week of prompts from our third annual New Year’s challenge, which was inspired by my mom Anne Francey and this installment of Dear Susu, where we talked about art as a tool for getting through life’s interruptions

Pre-order The Book of Alchemy

“A stellar guide that’s sure to spark the imagination.” —Publisher’s Weekly

The Book of Alchemy exists because of this community—because of the five years we’ve spent exploring the alchemical properties of journaling together. Preorders are so important for authors, and it would mean the world to me if you would consider getting yours in today!