Why I Do This Work
& a gorgeous new essay by Melissa Febos
Hi friend,
The Book of Alchemy is coming out in less than ten days, and earlier this week, I got to share it with a lovely group of humans at my first-ever in-person book event. It was an intimate gathering hosted by
of the lifestyle website Cup of Jo and the newsletter Big Salad. The idea was for me to invite a few people, and Joanna would invite some too, and a dozen of us would enact the spirit of the book together. We’d use the journal to tap into that mystical trait that exists in every human, creativity, which gives us the power of alchemy—the power to transmute something considered base or worthless into something meaningful, maybe even beautiful, like lead to gold. My hope was that, in the process, we’d gain deeper knowledge of ourselves, which allows us to make deeper connections with others. Because as the journal has taught me, if you’re in conversation with the self, you can be in conversation with the world.In the week or so leading up to the event, I was nervous, for a number of reasons. To name a few: I’d never done an in-person book event, I had admired Joanna from afar for so long and was a little nervous to meet her, and I didn’t know a number of the people on the guest list all that well. But on Monday—the day before our gathering—I got some test results that weren’t what I’d hoped. I always hope for good test results, but especially now, as I enter the final countdown to the book’s debut, I was really hoping for good test results. I didn’t want to be focused on my illness and treatment. I couldn’t afford any distractions. I wanted to be fully present for this long-awaited milestone.
But somewhat counterintuitively, the test results weren’t a distraction—in fact, they rerouted my priorities. Rather than indulging the temptation to puff up, to show up as an exaggerated or more impressive version of myself, I went into the event feeling very humbled. Instead of getting tied up in my ego, I was reminded of why I do this work: It’s how I get through. I felt unable to do anything but speak from the heart.
So that’s what I did that day in Joanna’s gorgeous living room, with this gathering of brilliant humans both known to me and whom I’d yet to meet, whose backgrounds and occupations were wide-ranging. I began by sharing my story. I talked about the first summer I spent isolated in a hospital room at age 22 in treatment for leukemia, and how in that dark and bewildering time, the journal proved a lifeline, and how it continues to be that for me as I navigate the ongoingness of illness. I told them about the Isolation Journals, and how this project inspired The Book of Alchemy. This is a memoir in essays, I said, but it’s also a collection of one hundred of the most gorgeous stories and prompts from the most creative people I know—a kaleidoscope of experience, wisdom, and insight.
Along with copies of the book, we gave people a journal and a pen, and I asked them to open the journal and do something many of you will recognize: to draw a giraffe with their eyes closed. It’s a prompt by my sweet friend Marie McGrory that I shared in the early days of the pandemic. The result was much merriment, as we drew our gangly creatures, as we held them up for everyone to see.
Then as the laughter died down, I said, “Okay, I’m going to ask you to do this again, though this time we’ll be writing.” Immediately I could feel the hesitation—both at the idea of journaling itself and also doing it together. Likely they all thought what I would think in that situation: Journaling is something you do in private, not at a social gathering with dozens of strangers.
I suspect they were also a little afraid that I would ask them to share their journal entries. “You don’t have to read what you write,” I assured them. “I would never ask you to do that.” I heard a few nervous giggles. I moved on, saying that we would start by reading an essay composed specifically for the book called “Ode to an Outcast Part” by my friend and mentor, the brilliant writer Melissa Febos. Together we read Melissa’s essay in which she wrote about her hands—how she thought of them as a child and how that evolved over time. Then I read the prompt: “Write about your relationship with your hands.”
By then, their hesitation had evaporated, and I saw their body language relax. People quickly settled in. They sank comfortably into the couch, curled over their notebooks, and began a conversation with themselves on the page.
I too began to write, even though I hadn’t planned to journal along with them. I expected I’d spend those ten minutes thinking about what I needed to do to lead them through the rest of the gathering, but instead I conjured memories of my hands. I wrote about the first time I held hands with a boy. I wrote about the moment I realized my hands are relatively big. I wrote about how, when I was in the fifth grade, I noticed fine hairs on my knuckles, and confused and alarmed, I went to my mom and said to her, “I’m sprouting fur! Is something wrong with me? Am I becoming a cat?!” “No no,” she reassured me. “It’s just your body changing.”
And it turned out, I needed to spend that time journaling with them. I can feel outside of myself when I’m in the spotlight—my stage fright makes me dissociate a little—but as I wrote, I felt myself come back to myself. I began to feel relaxed and grounded, amused by what I was remembering and delighted by the way my memories led to other long-forgotten memories. I felt curious and eager to uncover more. Journaling with these lovely humans was a resounding reminder of how soul-soothing and expansive it is to spend time on the page.
The ten minutes flew by. Afterward, I invited people to share—not necessarily what they wrote, though they could if they wanted—but what came up for them. We talked for a good while about it, and the range of responses was fascinating. Someone said that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d written in longhand, rather than on a computer or phone, and that it felt really good to put pen to page. Another person said that while she was writing, she realized she was searching for something negative to write about her hands—but it’s the one part of her body she likes. “They’re so soft,” she said. It made her reflect on why thought she needed to say something critical.
Another participant said he was overly focused on his handwriting, which he thinks is bad, and he wished his handwriting was good—because writing a powerfully reflective, meaningful journal entry should be done with beautiful penmanship. That spurred its own discussion: What is the journal for? Does it all have to be meaningful reflection? Or can we allow it to hold both the quotidian facts of life—the dog walks and trips to the grocery store and eating too much pasta at dinner—alongside epic stories, the apexes and nadirs, and the-meaning-of-life insights? (My answer: Absolutely. The journal can contain anything!)
The experience was incredibly powerful. It felt good to ground myself, to be surprised by my own thoughts and recollections, and to be so present and connected to the other people in the room. It felt so good to listen.
There’s so much uncertainty right now that, if you're anything like me, you may be struggling to find a still point in the turning world, to use the poet T.S. Eliot’s beautiful line. Journaling has always been that for me. Finding that still point with other people felt so special and even sacred, and the group felt it too. Afterward everyone felt calmer, and everyone wanted to gather again. We were connected, even though many of us started out as strangers. We had shared a meaningful, intimate, deep conversation—which isn’t to say it was all serious. We laughed so much, from the beginning to the very end. But when the starting point is being in conversation with yourself, being honest about what you’re thinking and feeling, you can’t be guarded and you can’t be curated. You naturally bring that openness and vulnerability into what comes next, and it reverberates.
In the weeks after I launched the Isolations Journals, a friend asked me to explain the why of this project. I told her, “I do this work because it works—and it’s necessary.” I know this from my own life, and I have watched this unfold in this community for five years, and I saw it in action earlier this week. Now, less than ten days out from the book’s debut, I am so excited for it to make its way into the world, so it can find the folks who need it most.
Thank you for taking the time to read this extra-long missive today—there was just too much richness to give it short shrift. But now I’d like to usher you on to today's guest essay and prompt, which I shared at the event: “Ode to an Outcast Part” by Melissa Febos. It’s one of dozens of never-before-seen pieces in the book, along with others by such brilliant minds as Jia Tolentino, Hanif Abdurraqib, Sharon Salzberg, George Saunders, Lindy West, Marie Howe, Martha Beck, Sarah Ruhl, John Green, Liana Finck, and more. (I mean it when I say these are one hundred of the most creative minds I know!)
I hope Melissa’s essay shifts something in you. I hope it helps you see your hands in a new light—or in an old light you long ago forgot. I hope it helps you remember, make meaning, and connect more deeply, both with yourself and others.
Sending love,
Suleika
A Humbly Made Request—
At the end of the event, my beloved friend Priya Parker asked me how they could help support this new book, and I froze up—turns out I’m not great at directly asking people for help! But I believe deeply in The Book of Alchemy and this practice, so I’m going for it. So I’d like to humbly ask for your support in three ways:
Pre-order The Book of Alchemy for yourself and for a friend—someone who is creative, or someone in the midst of a big life transition, or someone who would otherwise benefit from this work.
If you’ve pre-ordered the book or bought a ticket to the Alchemy Tour, register for the Alchemy Workshop, my pub-day eve virtual celebration happening April 21, 2025. I’ll be joined by a very special guest—more on that soon!
Come see Jon and me on the Alchemy Tour! We still have seats available in Minneapolis, San Francisco, Philly, and LA, and it’s going to be so joyous! Each ticket comes with a signed copy of the book. You can find more info here.
Prompt 333. Ode to an Outcast Part by Melissa Febos
excerpted from The Book of Alchemy
Sometimes I think about going back. I imagine reversing the film of my personhood, reeling the spool to find the single frame where it all changes. As though there would be one murky celluloid square in which my body was taken away from me. Not just my body, but all the pleasures that came through it. A hand reaching into the frame and snatching it all away—the sting of salt water on my skinned knees, the ache of a palm tendered by oak bark, the pelt of gravel against my calves as my bike flew downhill, the hum of my legs after running all day, my own voice ringing in a cathedral of pine trees, the perfect freedom of caring about only what my body could do and never how it was seen.
There wouldn’t be just one frame, of course. It was so many things. The skinny girls splashed all over movie screens. The television set my mother tried to keep out of our house. The slippery issues of Teen Magazine that started arriving in our mailbox. That classmate at her pool party silently commenting on my precociously developed figure. The rich girl who pinched my thigh and pointed out how much thicker it was than her own.
I inherited a lot from my mother, though I first recognized my hands. We have long fingers, wide palms, and strong nails. They don’t carry our ring sizes at mall kiosks. We shop for gloves in the men’s section of department stores. We don’t bother with bangle bracelets. In adolescence, it struck me as unfair because my mother was beautiful, with fine features and dizzying cheekbones. No one was ever going to be distracted from her face by her hands. But me? My hands gave me away. I was no petaled thing. I was not a ballerina. I was a third baseman. I was a puller, a pusher, a runner, a climber, a swimmer, a grabber, a sniffer, a taster, a throw-my-head-back laugher. I used my hands—they were marked by things and left marks. They would never let me become the kind of girl I had learned I should be.
The story of how I learned to love my hands is a long one, but suffice to say, it helped that I turned out to be queer. All the years of therapy helped. It helped to remember, as an adult, that my hands had been and still were the conduits of so much joy and connection. Early in my relationship with my now wife, I once made some casually derogatory comment about the size of my hands and feet. She turned to face me, suddenly serious.
“Do you know what else has big hands and feet?” she asked me. I shook my head.
“A baby tiger,” she said. “They are very strong and nimble. They are excellent swimmers and climbers, in addition to being extremely cute.”
It is true that I am loved now for exactly the things I have tried to erase in myself, but this isn’t a story about love teaching me to love myself. It’s not even about the decision to love myself. Loving myself has never been something I was able to do simply by deciding to. It is something I learned to do through intensive self-reflection. Through writing and making art. Through a close study of what brings me joy and gives my life meaning.
Your prompt for the week:
Write about your relationship to your hands. How have you thought of them, used them, or even abused them over the years? What about now?
Today’s Contributor—
Melissa Febos is the author of four books, including the nationally bestselling essay collection, Girlhood, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award in Criticism, the memoirs Whip Smart and Abandon Me, and a craft book, Body Work. The recipient of a 2022 Guggenheim and a 2022 National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship, she is a professor at the University of Iowa and lives in Iowa City with her wife, the poet Donika Kelly. Her fifth book, The Dry Season, is available for pre-order.
Advance Praise for The Book of Alchemy
“An extraordinary collection of wisdom. The Book of Alchemy is a springboard to new ideas, new insights, and new identities.” —Adam Grant, author of Think Again
“The Book of Alchemy proves on every page that a creative response can be found in every moment of life—regardless of what is happening in the world. It also demonstrates that we can be more creative together than we could ever be alone. I recommend it to every dreamer, with the highest respect and joy.” —Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love
“Beyond her brilliance as a writer, Suleika Jaouad’s greatest offering to the world is her brilliance of generosity, her curiosity, her seeking heart and mind. The Book of Alchemy is an extension and expansion of these gifts.” —Hanif Abdurraqib, author of There’s Always This Year
“Brilliant. Gentle. Encouraging. This book is the perfect mix of incandescent wisdom and kick-in-the-pants motivation to start your own creative journey.” —Kate Bowler, author of Everything Happens for a Reason
What you describe is the blueprint for how modern ritual might look in a world aching for connection yet addicted to performance. The draw-a-giraffe-with-your-eyes-closed moment is so much more than a charming icebreaker…. It is a gentle disarmament of ego, an invitation into imperfection, which, paradoxically, opens the door to depth.
And the idea of beginning with the body (specifically the hands) as the site of reflection is deep. In so many mystical traditions, the hand is a symbol of both creation and communication, action and intimacy. To write about the hands is to begin where experience meets the world. Melissa Febos’ piece builds on that beautifully, challenging the cultural narrative that relegates the body, especially a non-conforming or “non-decorative” one, to a site of shame.
But here is what struck me most: this event, this very gathering, wasn’t merely an extension of the book, it was the book in action. It enacted the very transmutation it preaches. Lead into gold. Discomfort into connection. Isolation into shared meaning. It reminds me of the Jewish concept of “tikkun olam” — the idea that the world is broken into shards, and our job is to piece it back together, not necessarily through grand gestures, but through acts of presence, truth-telling, and attention. A gathering like this becomes an act of repair.
And here’s a thought to offer in return: if the journal is a conversation with the self that becomes a bridge to the world, what if we began to think of every intimate conversation as a kind of journaling aloud? Not performative dialogue, but real-time, co-written meaning-making. What would our relationships look like if we approached them not as rehearsals of identity, but as shared blank pages?
Thank you, Suleika, for always writing with ink, and above all with presence. This isn’t a simple book, it’s a way of being.
5th grade, sitting in a new desk configuration our teacher, Miss Romersa had read about, where the desks were pushed together in groups of four to encourage "community." It was 1972. One of "In" girls, was in my group, and the first thing she said to me was, "Your fingers are way too long!" I hadn't thought about my fingers except that their length had allowed me to glide across the piano keys where others struggled. But suddenly, they were hideous extensions forever connected to my equally huge hands. I began to curl each finger in slightly from that day forth, and the Body Inspection began. My mother, my sweet, adoring mother noticed I was doing this and asked about it in the kindest of ways. I fell into her lap, all 5'4" of my stick body, sobbing, shoulders heaving, full body in a depth of despair and hopelessness, and she held me, pulled me so close to her and said, "That girl is ill informed, and lacks manners. It isn't her fault. She probably learned it from her parents. You are a beautiful, unique soul and I grew those fingers, those hands and the beautiful person that is you. Do not let anyone ever diminish who you are. They will try, as this girl did, and you hold your head up, unfurl your fingers and let your spirit, the one that is only yours, shine brighter than their petty comments." Shine on, all of us, shine on.