Senses of Voice

Some full moon musings + writing prompts

Did I almost schedule this newsletter to land in your inboxes at the precise minute today’s moon is at peak fullness [2:16 AM MT]? You bet your Beaver Moon I did.

Greetings from underneath a Gemini full moon, where before I dive into celebrating lunar cycles for their inherent renewal properties, especially when it comes to writing routines, I first want to acknowledge the deep and abiding privilege I have to write these words to you at all, and especially from the relative safety of my home nestled in the heart of the Idaho mountains on ancient Nimiipuu [Nez Perce] land.

A watercolor meditation to commemorate a specific long swim.

It’s by no merit of my own that I was born where I was, when I was, and within a family possessing the means, however modest, that meant growing up I never wanted for anything essential, never wondered where my next meal might come from, never worried about access to clean drinking water, electricity, heat, warm clothes, adequate shelter. I was hugged every day and kissed goodnight before bed until I outgrew it. I learned the shape of loss at a very early age, yes, but had absolutely no context for war, or racism, or violence. I don’t pray to any god anymore [that’s a topic for another forthcoming missive], but if I did the shape of my prayer would look something like this: Oh, that children everywhere in the world could know abiding peace—right now. Always.

It’s not overdramatic or shocking to assert the world has always been a dangerous place for anyone “other,” anyone deemed different, anyone daring to live a life outside the status quo. It’s also likely not inaccurate to say that since the dawn of humanity, the world has always been at war somewhere. It’s certainly always been dangerous for a group of people to speak and act out against longstanding systems of oppression, especially when those systems include heavily funded military industrial systems founded on (patriarchal, Biblical, which often also means) white supremacist cultures.

A version of the rampant violence and cruelty overtaking parts of the world right now has been playing on repeat my entire life [that’s 41 years for anyone counting], in various places around the world, and still, this feels different.

I think it’s because as humans who are inexorably connected via a global society, these are the sort of losses we’re meant to feel in a tangible way. These are the sort of losses that should interrupt our day-to-day, should wreak havoc with the business-as-usual capitalist humdrum, should make us rethink our privilege and our place in the world. If we’re lucky, huge swaths of us are feeling shaken to our very cores.

Only through disruption of the status quo does anything ever change. Put another way: Disruption of the status quo is the only path to change.

All of that to say: If you’re feeling discouraged, confused, overwhelmed, vexed, bereft—I see you. I am, too.

I sobbed while making stuffing on Thursday. Cried again making pie on Friday. Wished I could teleport our meal to anyone hungry in Gaza. Wished I could teleport every child in a war-torn country to a safehouse to drink cold, clean water before being wrapped in blankets and rocked to sleep.

Change isn’t easy. Oftentimes in the natural world and in our own bodies growth quite literally hurts. Systemic change will cost something. It will take time. It’s also inevitable, I think, if we can collectively learn to sit with hard truths; if we can learn to be uncomfortable more often. If we can lean into hard conversations as a catalyst for making ourselves better communicators, better global citizens. If we can learn to welcome constructive criticism. If we can commit to wake up every day and try.

Sometimes our voices really are the only power we have against systemic inequity, against cruelty, against devastating loss of life. I hope even on the darkest days we can all remember how much we have, and how much we still have to give. Telling the truth matters. The words we use [and don’t use] matter. Using our voices and our respective and collective powers for as much universal good as humanity can muster: It will always matter. What we do locally runs like rivers, ripples out globally.

I often come back to Terry Tempest Williams’ words in good times and in hard times, and this passage in particular, from When Women Were Birds [my favorite book of hers, and one I reference in my first newsletter], has been on repeat in my head the past month:

The world is already split open, and it is in our destiny to heal it, each in our own way, each in our own time, with the gifts that are ours.

It is my utmost hope we can (and do) continue standing up for marginalized voices and oppressed people in any and every way we can. There is still so much to lose, and an entirely new world to gain.

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I apparently had more to say than I realized [title of my memoir]. Thanks for being here. I’d love to hear how you’re coping with the state of world right now, how you’re showing up for your local and global communities, and how you’re unplugging, too.

Keep reading below for more full moon-inspired musings + writing prompts.

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A sticker I made a few years ago after an October full moon swim.

Full and new moons are always packed with potent energy, making them ideal and naturally occuring invitations for intentional breaks and resets in our daily [and writing-specific] routines.

I love to celebrate full moons by walking into cold water, preferably in the dark without a suit and as close to peak illumination as possible—something I’m still trying to convince local friends is much more fun than it might sound from the cozy confines of a warm bed. I like to (say hello to the moon every time I see it, yes, and) use these monthly moon cycles to reflect on the weeks behind me and contemplate specific and general intentions for the days ahead. Mostly, I ask myself questions.

If the weeks leading up to this full moon have felt particularly frenetic, there are certainly valid reasons for that, even beyond what annual lunar cycles tell us to expect.

This Beaver Moon [Alonquin]—also known as the Deer Rutting Moon [Dakota & Lakota], the Digging Moon [Tlingit], the Frost Moon [Cree & Assiniboine], and the Freezing Moon [Anishinaabe]—is the last full moon before the winter solstice; historically it’s served as a marker of a time for preparation and wintry transition—reflecting a beaver’s observed behavior in the natural world around this time of year [alongside our collective human need for warmth and shelter as we head into the depths of winter].

Since my last newsletter, we’ve definitely been in full winter prep mode here in Idaho, scurrying about readying physical and mental spaces for the impending, albeit somewhat delayed, winter. I've been busy writing, greeting the sun as often as possible, sleeping more, watching the ice start to grasp the shadiest sections of our nearby lake. Winter at 5,000 feet comes early and often, so it’s always a bit of an anomaly when the ground isn’t covered in feet (or at least inches) of snow by late November. This year it feels like a gift.

I've been making some good poems lately, I think, too, though the creation of them and not what they're worth is really and perpetually the point; whether or not they're "good" is entirely subjective. 

That's long been one of my favorite parts about art in all its forms: There really is something out there for everyone [what a hopeful reality!], even as that hardly ever (and arguably never) means everything you make will ever be universally beloved. I don't find that truth to feel any less hopeful, though it’s admittedly taken me some time and intentionality over the years to get there.

"You aren't for everyone" is an old adage, and one that actually brings me a great deal of comfort these days. You aren't for everyone, so why would your art be? 

With that in mind, what if you wrote what makes your heart sing? What if you wrote what you most want to say? What if you cared a little bit less about what other people think of your art and instead returned (over and over and over again) to the joy of creating it?

As of late I've been feeling brave and reckless enough to share my words in a variety of places, including with a bevy of literary magazines, alongside stitching together pieces of a nonfiction manuscript that's been living in my heart for what feels like my entire life. It’s a book that feels important, a story that wants to live. It’s taken plenty of fits and starts, and an unquantifiable amount of effort, really, but I think I finally know how to tell it. I think I finally know how to share it.

It's a thin line, the one between brave and reckless. I tend to find most of my best ideas and most memorable life experiences live in that particular liminal space.

More watercolors made to celebrate time in the water.

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Tangentially inspired by a recent Case for Making workshop newsletter in my inbox [they shared vibrant color samples from their handmade watercolor line], and harkening back to a daily color journal I kept in 2022, here are a handful of hand-mixed colors I've selected as representative of recent weeks, and named accordingly. A November color swatch, if you will.

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Without further ado, some writing prompts for [tangential or direct] inspiration: 

• Can you identify a place in your life where you’d like to be and/or feel braver, and maybe even a little reckless?

• What’s a story [real or imagined] currently sitting on the tip of your tongue?

  • What do you need to bring that story to life?

  • There is power in asking for what we need, and what we want. Let your honest desires loose on the page.

• What feels unfinished that you’d like to complete by year’s end?

  • If this ends up being a to-do list, that’s likely exactly what it needs to be.

  • If it ends up being more of a goodbye list, filled with things you don’t want to carry into the new year, I love that idea, too, and you’ll also have a head start for the next prompt.

• What are you ready to release by year’s end?

  • I’ll let you define “release” for yourself, but maybe this means what you’re ready to share with the world; maybe it means what you’re ready to let go.

As we do in our DIVE sessions, I would recommend sitting with each of these prompts for at least ten minutes at a time. Try to keep writing for 10 minutes without stopping or self-editing or even trying to steer yourself a certain direction. I’m a firm and longtime believer that when it comes to prompts like these, wherever you end up on the page is precisely where you’re meant to be.

As always, I’d love to hear where these prompts take you, whenever you’re feeling brave and/or reckless enough to share.

In the meantime, wishing you an inspired and communicative Sagittarius season.

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A little bit of backstory about Kerrtopia and the woman behind the words:

A lifelong writer, enthusiastic English Lit major (see also: I read a lot), and fan of learning something new every day, I wanted a dedicated space to share more writing-specific thoughts and prompts more regularly. By day I work for an Indie nonfiction publisher and by night (among other things) I lead a quarterly writing workshop called DIVE via Creative Fuel Collective—you can learn all about it and sign up to be kept in the loop for future offerings right here. I’m also a Gemini (hi!).

Registration for DIVE’s Jan-March 2024 cohort is open [writing workshops make great gifts for yourself and/or or beloved writerly humans in your life]. Have questions about the sessions? Odds are good I have answers. Please reach out!

Do you know someone who would benefit from receiving regular writing prompts to their inbox, who might delight in reading some intentional rambles about words and water and the power in finding our respective and collective (voices +) senses of place?

I’d love it if you’d share this post and Kerrtopia with them.

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Kerrtopia is a free offering, though I've turned on paid subscriptions for this newsletter if you have the means to support it now or anytime in the future. It's not necessary to pay to read, but it is of course very much appreciated. I’ll likely be adding some special content for paid subscribers down the line. Thanks for reading, and for your ongoing support. I’m grateful you’ve found me here, grateful we’re here together. You can also find me on Instagram.