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Magazine » Writers Recommend
In this online exclusive we ask authors to share books, art, music, writing prompts, films—anything and everything—that has inspired them in their writing. We see this as a place for writers to turn to for ideas that will help feed their creative process.
“My cures for writer’s block are alarmingly pragmatic and physical. So pragmatic that they arrange themselves in list form! To wit: 1. Get up and walk around. A few years ago, I realized that the solutions to most of my writing problems would come to me in the bathroom. It wasn’t the bathroom itself, of course, that was magic, but the act of getting up from my desk and walking there, getting the blood flowing, and tearing my eyes away from the computer screen. So now, when I’m staring down a huge plot problem, I take a long walk—without a notepad. It’s nearly always solved by the time I get back. 2. Vitamin B. It’s better than caffeine. It makes you both calmer and smarter. I keep a bottle on my desk. 3. If you can, sleep late. That last cycle of sleep is when the weird dreams come, the ones you’ll actually remember. (And how great is it to say, “I have to sleep late for work?”) 4. Yoga. My point with all of these being: Writing isn’t entirely mental. You’re a physical being, and sometimes when your writing is broken, it’s your body that needs attention, not your mind.”
—Rebecca Makkai, author of The Hundred-Year House (Viking/Penguin, 2014)
“The very worst times in my life have been marked by silence: times when I wasn’t allowed to write, or couldn’t write, or when language completely failed me. I didn’t write a word, beyond e-mails or Facebook status updates, for nearly two years after I finished graduate school. After I had finished each of my two books, I spent at least six months casting around, writing nothing new. Each time, what finally got me off the block was digging for its root: It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t think of anything new to say, it was that I believed what I had thought of wasn’t any good. I realized that when I approached the page, I brought with me a ruthless, internal critic who killed words, lines, and whole essays before giving them a chance to breathe. Now I’m in the practice of writing nearly every day, and it’s because I learned to silence the voice of that ruthless critic, especially when starting something new. I type whatever comes to me, and do so with curiosity, not judgment. If I bring anyone to the page these days, she’s an adventurer, not a critic. She says only one thing: Let’s see where this goes."
—Lacy M. Johnson, author of The Other Side (Tin House Books, 2014)
“I do various things to keep the muse going, but mostly, I read, read, read! I make myself the ‘expert’ of the particular form I am attempting. I am a big poetry nerd and proud of it! The history of literature is rich and various. The more rigorous we are in our practice, the more interesting our poems will be. For instance, in my latest book of poems, Hard Love Province, I prepped myself by reading thousands of quatrains from different traditions: from the Chinese jueju ‘cut verse’ tradition of the High Tang poets of Li Bai, Du Fu, and Wang Wei to western ballads written by anonymous songsters (the ‘Unquiet Grave’ is a chilling ballad); from Auden's work and Dickinson’s weird hymns to children’s nonsense verse and even that reviled form, the limerick. The quatrain and the ballad are versatile and beloved forms that are here to stay. I listened to folk songs from all over the world, work songs, blues songs, and rap. And that Nicki Minaj is nasty! I love her. I’m researching hard, but I’m also having fun learning about my genre. It’s about loving and honoring my art. It’s about appreciating the work that came before us. It’s about adding and talking back to the tradition and passing on the good news.”
—Marilyn Chin, author of Hard Love Province (Norton, 2014)
“In the morning when I walk to work, I try to think up stories for everything I see along the way. Three birds sitting on a bag of trash behind the used record store. A waterlogged ball cap in a parking lot. A turtle gliding past sun-bleached beer cans in the stream that winds its way through downtown. Each has enough story in it to fuel an entire writing career. There are stories upon stories in the peeling paint of an empty storefront’s façade: the lives of the people who painted it, the store owner’s excitement when opening the front door of the new enterprise for the first time, the joy of children hiding in the racks while parents shop, the landlord noting the declining condition of the building as he stops by to serve an eviction notice. My morning walk—without music, without computer—is a chance for me to remove myself from the landscape and to see everything—bugs, gravel, garbage—with compassion and interest, especially those things that I usually ignore. The goal isn't to think of a story and to tell it, but to remove myself enough to see the story that is already there and to help it surface. I want to relinquish control—of the story, of the sentences, of the sounds—and to serve the work, to be the instrument and not the song. A morning walk is an opportunity to find the innumerable stories within each fallen thing.”
—David Connerley Nahm, author of Ancient Oceans of Central Kentucky (Two Dollar Radio, 2014)
"Before Knockemstiff made him famous, my friend Donald Ray Pollock came home from work at the paper mill, rolled a page into his typewriter, and began to copy, word by word, passages by writers he admired. One day Raymond Carver, the next day Cormac McCarthy, the next day Dawn Powell, the next day Larry Brown. This, he told me, was the bulk of his writerly education. Word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, painstakingly slow, a process not dissimilar to what literary translators do when they bring a work from Japanese into English. I thought I’d give it a try, and almost every week of my life since, I’ve done it a little or more than a little. If I’m reading something and it makes me feel something, I want to know why, so I slow down, and I copy it out, word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, savoring the pleasures, and doing my damnedest to uncover the secrets. This evening, I’m at a stopping point in the novel I’m writing, and I have a beautiful book on my tabletop. The Virgins, by Pamela Erens. It does a thing with first person I’m dying to try—a thing Philip Roth and Alice Munro have done, too—and The Virgins is waiting there, ready to teach me how."
—Kyle Minor, author of Praying Drunk (Sarabande Books, 2014)
“Earlier this year while I was finishing my novel, I was reading Dani Shapiro’s wonderful book, Still Writing. I swear every page was like another delicious choice in an intellectual, emotional, and creative buffet. I especially love the section on 'Shimmer,' which is what Shapiro calls the unmistakable, indelible epiphany a writer has when she discovers her subject matter. Shapiro says: ‘We must learn to watch for these moments. To not discount them. To take note: I’ll have to write about this.’ When I’ve been fortunate enough to experience this kind of creative energy, I’ll pluck the spark from wherever it comes: a song lyric, a situation or moment or character that takes root in my mind, a minor detail someone has shared with me in a completely different context than where I put it in my work. At my luckiest, I feel mostly like a harried but devoted transcriptionist, following my characters around so as not to miss anything they say or do. But when that energy, that magic, is absent, I have a very tough time writing. More than once I’ve resorted to staying in the chair for a specific and painful amount of time only to write very exaggerated, purple, really lamentable prose. In the end, it makes me laugh, and forces me to cut myself a break and realize that although it may be a purposely false start, it’s a start nonetheless.”
—Polly Dugan, author of So Much a Part of You (Little, Brown and Company, 2014)
"As both a poet and clinical psychologist with a therapy practice, I tend to lose time in a very cerebral world. Concrete, really physical activities help me emerge from a more linear modality toward an enlivened creativity. I try to immerse myself in things like digging in the garden, exercise, cooking, or art projects like collage. I believe that if we give ourselves over to something wholeheartedly, we enable our art to emerge. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has written about creative jumpstarts from the psychological construct of flow: I highly recommend his books. I also find my voice by letting go of it for a while. I love to go to museums, galleries, even coffee shops to watch and listen to other people—not simply for observation but for empathy. I really think when we step outside of ourselves to connect with others, we connect more deeply with our own humanity. I also believe in doing hard things for inspiration. The hardest for me is visiting with my brain-injured sister who lives in a locked facility for people with dementia. Every time I am there, I think about our common desire for self-expression and validation, no matter how diminished one's 'faculties' are. After those visits, I can't wait to get to my desk and write my heart out."
—Lisa C. Krueger, author of Talisman (Red Hen Press, 2014)
"Sometimes I do this thing where I convince myself that writing is really hard. I bang my head on the desk. I suffer and moan. When I am being silly and insufferable like this, the only remedy is to listen to the Band. More specifically: to listen to Levon Helm, a man I think of as a kind of patron saint for my writing life. Levon Helm sang 'Ophelia.' He sang a cover of 'Atlantic City' that is better than the Boss's (don't argue, you know it's true). He played the drums like no one's business and a mean mandolin. And he was grinning the whole time he did it. The best part of listening to Levon play is this: You can hear him enjoying doing what he does best. So, when I catch myself thinking that 'writing is hard,' I put my headphones on. I remember the night I saw Levon play at the Ramble where he sang harmonies with his daughter and cracked jokes and let us all pet his dog. I remember to write because I love it. And because a book or a song can make an excellent vessel for joy."
—CJ Hauser, author of The From-Aways (William Morrow, 2014)
"At a hotel in West Papua, New Guinea, above my bed in room 104, there hangs a painting. Three horses—cream, chestnut, and honey brown—gallop through pinkish-orange shallows. The sky—of a warmer, flooded world?—is goldenrod. Each horse, though wingless, looks as if it might take flight, especially the white one, who rears up with a pained expression in his eyes and bares his baby teeth. All three have steeled themselves, are focused—on what? What lies ahead? Will they ever find sanctuary? Distracted and anxious for weeks, I’ve written almost nothing; hoping to be shocked into inspiration, tomorrow I leave for Raja Ampat, an archipelago comprised of more than fifteen hundred remote karst islands, where I will dive among the world’s most biodiverse reefs. Their coral, their longnose hawkfish, will be dead soon: the pH of the oceans is falling. On such a planet, why live a writing life? Civilization can’t last much longer—my poems and essays aren’t for posterity. But neither should they be solely self-stimulating. Beauty, discovering it for oneself and sharing it with others, is as essential for the soul as glucose is for the brain. My room’s A/C rattles. It stirs the peeling wallpaper, which is actually gift wrap. The painting above my bed, signed only by the name 'Putra,' is both warning and inspiration. It is a Tarot card: Fear Death by Water, it says. The cosmic ocean never ends."
—Greg Wrenn, author of Centaur (University of Wisconsin Press, 2013)
"Whenever I get stuck—when the sentences close in on themselves or the characters don’t make sense or I just get that awful feeling of WTF STORY I HATE YOU I HATE YOU—I close the laptop and tell it out loud. Sometimes this means talking to myself in coffee shops or on the L train, folks nearby giving me the side eye. Sometimes it means having a drink or two or five with a friend, saying, “You’ll never believe what happened!” and then trusting how I naturally tell the story; how the words tangle together, how they connect with this particular audience, how they grab her, grip her, hold her. Sometimes it means asking my husband to listen—he is patient, and honest, and knew up front what he was getting himself in to. But mostly, it means finding a live show. In Chicago, there are several; storytelling events and curated performances and open mics in theaters, festivals, and bars. They’re happening every night, sometimes three or four a night, and there’s something magical about standing in front of those fifty or hundred or five hundred people and trusting the story; grabbing, gripping, holding. Their faces are the most immediate form of feedback. Are they laughing? Crying? Is the silence so heavy you could slice it? When did I lose them, what did I do to get them back, and—here is the important part—how does all of this translate to literary craft: pacing, structure, movement, tense, point of view, character, character, character? When I’m off the mike and back in my seat, I make notes—what did I learn from this performance and how will it influence my rewriting process? Art doesn’t exist in a vacuum; I’m writing to share, and these moments of audience connection are everything—all of us face-to-face, eye-to-eye, on the edge of our seats and living the experience together."
—Megan Stielstra, author of Once I Was Cool (Curbside Splendor, 2014)