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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.

Alice Eve Cohen

posted 3.05.15

“Years ago, a friend told me that she thinks of writer’s block as ‘fallow time,’ the season the farmer leaves the field unsown so that crops can grow more productively (I’m a city girl; I had to look it up). I’ve had some long fallow seasons—months, years—when I haven’t been able to start the story that’s burning inside of me. In retrospect, I realize that I wasn’t ready. But a writer has to write. So how do you start again after an extended dormant period? These strategies have worked for me: Try this prompt. Have your character reveal a secret she’s never told anybody before. The two-page secret I wrote a year ago won’t be in my book, but it got me started; I’m three hundred pages in. Invent deadlines. Mine have included: I must finish this essay by four o’clock today; I’ve promised to send a new piece to my writers group next week. Go out and be with nature. I live in New York City, where we are chronically nature-deprived. I’m lucky to live near Central Park. I have a favorite spot, overlooking the lake. It looks like the Adirondacks, with loads of wildlife and no traffic noise. Being there wakes up my imagination and makes me happy. Squelch your inner critic. If you have trouble, read and reread Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird (Anchor, 1995), for her profound and hilariously funny take on doing battle with that self-judging voice. I keep the book permanently on my bedside table.”
—Alice Eve Cohen, author of The Year My Mother Came Back (Algonquin, 2015)

Sean Bishop

posted 2.26.15

“At some point I realized that I’m incapable of writing poems unless someone forces me to do it. Revising is easier for me; it can happen even against my better judgment as soon as I open a document. But someone’s got to make me do that first act of writing—I have to feel accountable to real, meat-and-blood people other than myself to make it happen. So I write most of my first drafts as part of a poem-a-day challenge. Once in the winter and once in the summer, I send an e-mail to about a hundred poets I know—some old classmates, some former students, some colleagues, some people-I-got-drunk-with-once-and-am-pretty-sure-I-might-have-liked—and I convince about twenty of them to try to write a poem every day for a month. Then they must send that daily poem to every other participant, silently-yet-relentlessly pass judgment on everyone who misses a day, and adhere to the following set of absurdly rigid rules: 1. First drafts only! The entire poem needs to have been written that day. 2. No disclaimers! Just send the poem and don’t qualify or apologize for it. This isn’t about writing ‘good’ poems, it’s just about getting it done. 3. For the same reason, no commenting! Positive, negative, it doesn’t matter—you can’t say one damn word about anyone else’s poem, ever. 4. No pre-writing! You can’t say, ‘Here’s my poem for today and for tomorrow, too!’ And that’s how it goes. Half of us quit halfway through, but we all write more poems than we would have otherwise, and that’s all that matters.”
—Sean Bishop, author of The Night We’re Not Sleeping in (Sarabande Books, 2014)

Rae Armantrout

posted 2.19.15

“In order to start writing, I need to put myself in a receptive state of mind, which isn't easy when you're busy: ‘Stop, look, and listen,’ as they used to tell school kids crossing the street. It might just mean sitting in a different place, taking my notebook out into my garden or to a street café. The trick (for me) is to be patiently receptive without turning off my critical faculties. Sometimes I take a more active approach and turn to reading for stimulation. In that case, I tend to prefer certain kinds of nonfiction. Right now I'm reading Life on the Edge: The Coming Age of Quantum Biology (Bantam Press, 2014). Three new poems have begun with something I drew from that book in the last month. I'll read other poets, too, but generally only when I'm revising.”
Rae Armantrout, author of Itself (Wesleyan University Press, 2015)

Reif Larsen

posted 2.12.15

“I find that I generate new material via a two-step process. In the morning, I will sit my butt in the chair as close to 9:00 AM as possible. I’ve even contemplated purchasing one of those old punch clocks. Showing up every day is key. I’ll usually bang away all morning. When I’m working on a first draft, what I call 'fresh tracks,' the writing is inevitably bad. I used to be horrified by this and would immediately go back and try to improve it. I’ve learned over time to just let it lie, to be comfortable with the messiness. When I get hungry enough that I can’t see out of my left eye, I’ll go make myself a sandwich. Then comes the most important part of the day: I’ll take a run in the afternoon, around 4:00 PM. I won’t bring my headphones. And it is during the course of that run—as I move across the landscape, as I breathe, as the blood moves through my veins, as my muscles contract, as the pores open—that I begin to digest what I threw down on the canvas in the morning. I don’t try too hard. I just let my brain marinate on it. The Japanese call this kind of movement and reflection a 'brain bath.' These little connections begin to form and often about twenty minutes in, I’ll stumble upon some revelation and realize what I was actually trying to say. And I’ll run straight back to my office and make some notes. The next morning, I rake the soil and start again.”
Reif Larsen, author of I Am Radar (Penguin Press, 2015)

Steven Church

posted 2.05.15

"Though it may seem counterintuitive, I find that one way to keep from getting stuck or to find inspiration and new directions for my essays is to write with handcuffs on. Not real handcuffs. That would be weird. But I give myself constraints or limits, and in the case of several of my essays in Ultrasonic, these took the form of language, or specific words that served to narrow the focus of my writing. Focus, for me, is always a challenge, and these constraints became a way to harness my mind's tendency to ramble and digress. I have one essay where every section is either about 'blue' or 'noise' in some way, and another where each section is either about 'crown' or 'shoulder.' Every time I sat down to write, the constraint gave me a starting place and an assignment, a challenge to try and find a new way of looking at or thinking about the subject. I found that this led to all sorts of exciting discoveries—in terms of etymology, history, and metaphorical resonance—and for personal material that had otherwise been buried."
—Steven Church, author of Ultrasonic (Lavender Ink, 2014)

Todd Colby

posted 1.29.15

“When I’m feeling dazed and spent, and perhaps even a bit self-pitying, I turn my attention to the gleeful nihilism of E. M. Cioran. Romanian by birth, and a philosopher who wrote in French by choice, Cioran’s short paragraphs (he started writing in short bursts after he quit smoking) are instant jolts out of the narrowness of my own perceptions. He had a grand view of the senselessness and absurdity we encounter every day of our lives. At the same time, there is a dark humor bubbling around his writings, like a raging man who can’t stop himself from laughing. My favorite passage in all of his writings is a section in The Trouble With Being Born, where he tells us a story about Pope Innocent IX who, while still healthy, commissioned a portrait of himself on his deathbed. The Pope would look at the portrait of his dying self whenever he was about to make an important decision. Cioran reminds us that there’s a certain prickly solace in knowing it’s all going to end, and if we dig deeply enough into the true meaning of it all, we can’t help but laugh.”
—Todd Colby, author of Splash State (The Song Cave, 2014)

James Tadd Adcox

posted 1.22.15

“I will try anything to break through my own perfectionism and dull literal-mindedness, my need to explain everything, my need to defend. I can be a very slow writer, prone to fidgetiness and second-guesses. What I’ve found helpful recently is to give myself the writing equivalent of stress tests. I’ve never done NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), but two summers ago I attempted to write a novel in a week, aiming for 50,000 words and managing 35,000. This past Labor Day weekend, I tried to write a novel, a novella really, one hundred pages or so, in three days, and succeeded. Results vary in terms of the content thereby produced: I’m revising my three-day novella and have generally positive feelings towards it, but I haven’t done anything further with the 35,000-word draft from my week-long novel and don’t really plan to. Regardless, after writing 10,000 words in a day, 2,000 becomes a much calmer and more manageable thing. It helps to remind yourself that ultimately you are only putting words on a page.”
—James Tadd Adcox, author of Does Not Love (Curbside Splendor, 2014)

Meghan Daum

posted 1.15.15

“When in doubt, channel your inner Fran Lebowitz. Obviously there’s a certain irony in suggesting that the cure for writer’s block is to channel the person who’s known for being among the most famously blocked writers of our time. But for me, Fran Lebowitz is not just a personal cultural and literary hero. She’s a kind of pacemaker for the brain. Sometimes when I’m at a loss for words or ideas, I type her name into YouTube and select any one of dozens of videos in which she holds forth on some subject or another. There’s Fran on young writers (‘I have no interest in them.’), Fran on Jane Austen (‘I don’t think she’s popular for the right reasons.’), Fran on work ethics (‘I am the most slothful person you’ll probably ever meet.’) There are clips from the wonderful documentary Martin Scorsese made about her in 2010 and from interviews with David Letterman dating back as far as 1978. When I say Fran is a pacemaker, what I mean is that she speaks with such total authoritywith such an absence of apology or hesitation or equivocationthat her voice lodges into my head and helps me to stop apologizing and hesitating. Her confidence is infectious. She reminds us that an author’s task, quite literally, is to exercise authority. Of course, the ‘inner Fran Lebowitz’ doesn’t literally have to be Fran Lebowitz. Everyone, if they’re lucky, has their own version of Fran, someone whose voice and pulse are strong enough to jumpstart their own. The key is in remembering to seek it out when you need itin other words, giving yourself permission to do something other than write. Which Fran, for one, would approve of.”
—Meghan Daum, author of The Unspeakable: And Other Subjects of Discussion (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014)

Tim Johnston

posted 1.08.15

“Not long ago, I chanced on an interview with Raymond Carver in which this early hero of mine said: ‘I think it's important that a writer change... so when I finish a book, I don't write anything for six months.’ The statement seemed casual enough, matter of fact—minimalist, even. But after a lifetime of being told that a real writer writes every day, no matter what, its effect on me was maximal. I thought about the long unhappy period of not writing that followed a novel I'd spent two years writing—working on it every day, no matter what—only to have it go absolutely nowhere. When I finally began writing again, after far more than Carver's six months, everything had changed—my tone, my language, my intentions, even my process. Now, rather than working on the novel every day, no matter what, I would work on it only when I knew I had the entire day to do nothing else. Which is one reason it took me six years to finish it, because there weren't a lot of those days. But I did finish, and the novel is unlike anything I've written before—and I know that both of these outcomes are the result of that long period of not writing. Leading me to wonder, more or less calmly, as another day of not writing slips by: What kind of writer am I becoming now?”
—Tim Johnston, author of Descent (Algonquin Books, 2015)

Tod Marshall

posted 12.30.14

“‘What kind of beast would turn its life into words?’ Adrienne Rich asks in Twenty-One Love Poems, referring to the being/observing duality of a writer’s life—the persistent possibility of remove that turns the lived moment into ‘material.’ I also think of this quotation as a direct challenge about the time allotted to writing. If I spend hours fine-tuning phrases, reading and mulling and assigning myself difficult exercises, or if I am going to wile away mornings, evenings, and afternoons scribbling out my life, then I had better make the absolute most of writing time—those moments hammering on keys or etching ink across the page. Our duty and best possibility, I think, is to try. Edward Hirsch—responding to a question about partisanship in the contemporary poetry scene—once told me, ‘We need all of our poetries.’ I believe that assertion and apply it both to my reading (Mary Ruefle, François Rabelais, C. D. Wright, Countee Cullen, and Dante; books published by Wave, Copper Canyon, Bloof, and Alice Blue) and my listening (Blue Oyster Cult, Blondie, Bob Marley, and Bach) while struggling over sentences. I think that it’s best not to know where a poem or essay might come from and, of course, not to anticipate the next sudden swerve of where it might go. Cultivate possibility through a willed variety of influences.”
—Tod Marshall, author of Bugle (Canarium Books, 2014)

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