This past Monday marked Yom Kippur, the most important annual observation in the Jewish calendar. Also known as “The Day of Atonement,” Yom Kippur gives Jews the opportunity to reflect on transgressions of the past year both individually and as a community; it’s a somber observance often marked by fasting and long hours of contemplative prayer.
A central facet of Yom Kippur services is the al chet, or confession, which is traditionally recited ten times over the course of the 24-hour observance. During the al chet, we rise as a congregation and recite the litany of sins both we and our broader communities have committed—knowingly and unknowingly—in the past year. We privately utter a long list of phrases, each of which begins with the words: For the sin we have committed by. We punctuate each line by gently striking our hearts with a fist—a gesture of “contrition and also […] a kind of Jewish defibrillation—we are trying to awaken our better selves.”1 It’s a powerful, healing practice central to Yom Kippur, and it got me thinking…
What does an al chet for the modern writer look like, and perhaps more importantly, why do we need one?
Let me take the second question first.
The phrase “writing community” is trotted out as often as the adage “show don’t tell.” Writers typify “alone together” behavior, finding solidarity with one another as we navigate what is often a solitary practice. But even if we engage in a limited capacity with a writerly friend or two, or follow a few relevant hashtags on social media, I’m not sure how often we’re thinking about our place in the broader (local, national, global) writing culture.
Not thinking about something is a great way to pretend we’re not responsible for it.
At a time when competition is high in every corner of the publishing world—when our desire for success and personal validation gnaws at our insides like a hunger—it’s easy to forget we are part of an ongoing culture of writers and writing. Jews tend to be very big on a concept called tikkun olam (“healing the world”), but the idea transcends religious doctrine. Writers from all walks of life should be asking themselves: How can I make the writing world better? How can I contribute to healing a broken system? In what ways have I transgressed as a writer, and how can I commit to bettering myself and my world in the coming year?
With that in mind, I’ll return to question #1 above: What does an al chet for the modern writer look like? As I share my version with you, it’s important to note that the linguistic roots of the Hebrew word “chet” come from an archery term that means “to miss the mark.” While poetic license has somewhat devolved the meaning to “sin,” the distinction is both apt and important.
Al Chet for the Modern Writer
by Rebecca Heyman
For the sin we have committed by relegating the importance of our writing practice to the margins of our lives;
And for the sin we have committed by breaking our promises to ourselves.
For the sin we have committed by perpetuating the belief that success for others means failure for ourselves;
And for the sin we have committed by secretly resenting those who have found success.
For the sin we have committed by offering disingenuous feedback to fellow writers;
And for the sin we have committed by imbuing our feedback with bitterness instead of compassion.
For the sin we have committed by not calling out injustice and harm in our work and the work of others;
And for the sin we have committed by seeing malicious intent where there is only ignorance.
For the sin we have committed by assuming we understand others’ culture and lived experiences, and appropriating them for our work;
And for the sin we have committed by relying on stereotypes to shape our characters.
For the sin we have committed by not reading widely and often, but expecting others to read our work;
And for the sin we have committed by judging ourselves and others for their reading tastes.
For the sin we have committed by believing we have nothing to learn;
And for the sin we have committed by convincing ourselves we will never be good enough.
For the sins we have committed by writing,
And for the sins we have committed by not writing.
For all the ways we have missed the mark as writers, both knowingly and unknowingly, may we find the courage to forgive ourselves and others, and the strength to do better starting today.
First Line Frenzy Round-Up
In which we recall the perils of starting with a stop. No.421 (adult fantasy): Laying on his back on the grass, golden eyes staring into the bleakness of the night sky, a little ball of fire twirling between his fingers, Barak wondered what his so-called chosen bride would be like.
In which we rescue the sentence’s first half from its latter half. No. 422 (adult literary): When the stack of $100 bills fell from the sky and thumped down at Harry Carmichael’s feet, it was a vivid reminder all he had ahead of him was a lifetime of misery.
In which we live, laugh, love ourselves enough to make a change. No.423 (adult romance): The warmth of a knitted blanket enveloped me as I stared at the blank page of my journal, sifting through my tangled emotions.
In which we accentuate the correct kind of stabbing, and disallow the incorrect kind. No.424 (adult thriller/suspense): While I let the seamstress stab needles into the airy tulle fabric around me at an alarming speed, I entertained daydreams of an entirely different kind of stabbing.
In which we savor a delicious name. No.424 *I screwed up the numbering so we have two 424s* (adult fantasy): Hamnet Higgins paced the cold, tiled floors of Ashelton Museum with the urgency of a man possessed.
In which I talk at a truly impressive speed, if I do say so myself. No.425 (adult historical): Firelight waltzed on Anastasia's bedroom window, as it had every year on the Night-of-the-Fates, but the music coming from the citadel's courtyard gradually turned into a ululation that chilled her to the bone despite the warm, silk-lined blanket she was tucked under.
Book of the Week: The Genius of Birds by Jennifer Ackerman
I’ve written previously about my love for birds and especially birds of prey, so it likely comes as no surprise that I’m utterly fascinated by Jennifer Ackerman’s The Genius of Birds (Penguin Books 2017). Ackerman begins her exploration with a basic premise: the term “bird brain” as a euphemism for low intelligence does a disservice to avians the world over. What follows is a keen balance of science and anecdotal evidence, with beautiful implications for how we see our feathered friends — and ourselves.
Wolpe, Rabbi David. “The Playground Theory of Morality.” TIME (online).
The honesty of the Al Chet list got me where I live. I cringed at each one. I found myself out and called myself on them. Not that any one of them was a surprise, but to see them together cut my work out for me. Powerfult.
Oh I love this intersection of ways-of-being here, & carrying Al Chet from last week’s holiday into my writing life