Novelist, filmmaker and Zen Buddhist priest Ruth Ozeki opened the 23rd annual Kachemak Bay Writers’ Conference on Saturday morning with a keynote address on writing in times of change and as a “community of one.”

In her talk to fellow writers gathered in Kachemak Bay Campus’ Pioneer Hall — titled “Why Write? Why Now? Why and how to write in times of uncertainty and change” — Ozeki expounded on the importance of creativity and the responsibilities of writers, particularly in current times where the Trump administration has terminated federal funding for libraries and museums, frozen federal grants for more than two dozen universities across the U.S., and is seeking to defund the National Endowment for the Arts.

“It’s during times like these that I think literary citizenship has never been more important,” she said. “I look out here and really see how precious it is to be part of a vibrant literary community.”

It was her hope during the conference, she said, that faculty and attendees together could think about what it means to be a “good literary citizen.”

“How can we support each other? How can we keep going?” she said. “Because I think as writers, it’s our responsibility to do this, and our collective survival really depends on it.”

The title of her talk came about in February, when Ozeki saw that “our freedom of speech was first under attack and words were being banned,” including diversity, equity, environmental justice and advocacy, and “there (were) now questions that we (were) not allowed to ask.”

“Our curiosity is dangerous, and this is exactly why we need to cultivate it,” she said. “Our curiosity is our survival skill — it’s the best way to cope with our anxiety over the state of our country and our planet.

“Our curiosity will inspire us, and this wonder — our wonder — will keep us engaged and make us strong. Nobody gets to take that away.”

Ozeki then segued into the next part of her presentation, a writing tool that she said has kept her going through many decades of uncertainty and change — her process journal.

“It’s my hope that this will be something concrete and useful that you can actually take home and do,” she said.

Ozeki explained that a process journal — or PJ, as she calls hers — is a conceptual place where a writer can hang out and write informally about writing. Better yet, PJ can be a friend, someone to talk to about any aspect of writing.

“Writing, practically by definition, is a lonely business conducted in solitude. So how do we find the support that we need? Writers’ groups can help … but ultimately, as a writer, you’re on your own. So how do you create a community of one?” she said.

The solution she came up with years ago was her process journal.

Ozeki’s journal has taken the form of physical notebooks and, in later years, digital files that she can easily transport and access anywhere. In her process journal, Ozeki has brainstormed ideas for new stories, asked questions about her current projects and then written down the answers as they come, listed and analyzed narrative problems she needed to solve, made lists of research topics, and much more.

Ozeki read aloud several PJ excerpts from 1996 and 1997, the years in which she was writing her debut novel, “My Year of Meats,” which was published in 1998. She said that in this time before she officially became a published author, PJ was helping to teach her how to write her first novel.

“I remember how excited I was when I wrote this in 1996,” she said of one particular excerpt, dated July 26, 1996, where she was working to connect major plot points of her debut novel. “It was kind of a breakthrough moment when all of the elements … started coming together, and I was literally delirious with excitement.

“It was the first time that I could see the possibility of an ending shimmering out there somewhere on the horizon, and I just needed to figure out how to get there — and this is where the process journal really helped, and this is what I still do.”

Writing in her process journal allowed her to engage with “free, uncensored” questioning and brainstorming and helped her create a process she could trust, she said.

She also recorded the moment — Monday, Feb. 17, 1997 — when she finished writing her first novel, and acknowledged that then “the real work” came with editing.

Ozeki noted that, in reading excerpts from her journal, it was clear that she didn’t really know what she was doing when she was writing it — but then, “funnily enough,” the same held true with her subsequent novels.

“Apparently I still don’t know what I’m doing,” she joked to the audience. “I think this is important, because in reality, every book is unknown and unknowable until I have finished writing it. Every book requires a different approach, and the minute I think I know what I’m doing, I’m pretty much screwed.”

She encouraged conference attendees to “take heart” if they feel swamped or at sea, adding that their process journal can help them recognize that discomfort and “keep you company as you sit patiently at the edge of that bog of not knowing … waiting for some unthinkable creature to crawl out.”

In Ozeki’s community of one, PJ is there to console, scold, encourage or celebrate with her.

“I never feel completely alone,” she said. “My process journal helps demystify the process of writing. It helps me understand what my particular process is, and it teaches me to trust that process.

“My process journal authorizes me to be a writer, and every time I write in it, I’m reinforcing that authority.”

Ozeki encouraged the writers in the crowd to find their own inner authority, and if they choose to keep a process journal, to allow it to help create a safe space for their true authorship to emerge.

Learn more about Ozeki and the Kachemak Bay Writers’ Conference at writersconf.kpc.alaska.edu/.