“In her book The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer’s Block, and the Creative Brain (Mariner Books, 2005), neurologist Alice W. Flaherty describes how the brain functions when we write: the temporal lobes deal in raw creativity—it’s the part of the brain we use when we generate new material; the frontal lobe is in charge of the editorial process. We need both parts of the brain working in concert to write well.
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.
“All art has a rhythm, a pulse. Whenever I feel lost, when I seem to keep missing the beat, I find it elsewhere: in movies, music, or books. It always helps to revisit an old favorite, so when I can’t seem to make sense of my own work, I turn to writers whose work I trust, people like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Junot Díaz, and Jhumpa Lahiri. I read their books over and over again, and their words click like a metronome in my head. Hopefully I’ll catch a vibe, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll just turn up the music and dance. Dancing makes sense to me; it’s instinctive.
“I used to think half the battle was simply sitting down to write, but over the years I’ve learned sometimes that isn’t enough. Sometimes inertia seeps in like the plague, my pen heavy with ink, the page blanker than it’s ever been. I know my conscious mind is responsible, and that I have to loosen up my associative memory, move it toward a dream state. For me, this process usually involves some combination of reading poetry and going on easy runs around Brooklyn.
“The origins of the word urge contain both the idea of pushing forward, forcing, but also to fasten or to tie. I turn to the urges of others and attempt to inhabit them through translation. I tie myself to someone else’s work, and the practice that emerges—the conflict of translation—can lead me into language, into saying, into translation’s agonistic pleasures of wayward mimicry and irresolution.
“When I was working on my novel there were two Bolaño novels that I kept returning to—not because their style or content was similar to what I was working on, but because they would get me into a sort of trance. I would be reading and my mind would be drifting, but at just the right frequency for inspiration. Writing feels a lot like the Magic Eye books—where you have to sort of relax and stare into the middle distance so that a 3-D picture will emerge, popping out towards you out of the abstract one. To see the image hidden in the page, you can’t look directly at it or you lose it.
“In Martha: The Life and Work of Martha Graham (Random House, 1991) by Agnes De Mille, Martha Graham spoke about the process of choreography. My mother is a dancer and choreographer and would share this quote with me and my sisters when we were growing up:
“Some days I find it difficult to sit down to write; other days it goes well. Most days I will snag on an idea or get restless. At home, I work with books all around me—the ones nearest to my desk have been my companions for years, while the ones by the door are the newest arrivals. I’ll get up and pace my room, open a book at any page, read a line, and return to my desk ready to take on the clutch of words that I’ve already got down. It’s poetry, familiar or new, that I pick up most. Right now I am traveling. When I am not writing, I’m usually browsing in bookshops.
“I recommend writers play with different modes of creativity. The first year of my MFA, I got really into designing logos for shirts and hats. The next year, I received a canvas and paint as a gift. These last couple of years, though I have very limited actual musical training (I played the trombone in high school), I've really gotten into music production and I have an MPC on which I try valiantly, but fail over and over again, to make beats.
“I’d say the sonnet saved me, but that would seem too dramatic. So instead I’ll ask that you imagine me four years ago: a new mom to a crying baby. A writer of two unfinished books. A queer woman marooned in West Texas. The winter rains won’t stop. I’m sad, alone, and uninspired. But then I sign up for a poetic forms class. I learn to scan. I read a curtal sonnet by Gerald Manley Hopkins, a terza rima by Gjertrud Schnackenberg, a jokey pantoum that makes me cry.
“A cool thing about me that not a lot of people know, even though I talk about it almost daily, is that Hilary Mantel is my spirit twin. Consider the evidence: not only are we both writers, not only are we both masters of historical fiction (at least I assume I would be, if I’d ever written any), we also both like to take showers when we’re stuck in our writing. She’s written that this habit has made her the cleanest person she knows.