“Three years ago I picked up Marjorie Welish’s third book of poetry, The Windows Flew Open (Burning Deck, 1991), in a used bookstore in the Midwest as I was preparing to move away. I’d never read a word by her nor had anyone recommended it to me. I was searching for one last shard of mystery in a town that had been formative to my understanding of myself as a poet, and had become perhaps too familiar. In that moment for no particular reason the universe emphasized this book. I took it to Brooklyn, unpacked, read it on the subway.
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.
“One of the hardest things about daily writing is getting back in, reconnecting with the page and your work. Far easier to fall down some Internet rabbit hole, and avoid it all. Meanwhile, your dog isn’t going to write your novel for you (if only). This recommendation can help you dive back in, almost fooling you into that deep, necessary level of engagement:
“When my words are jammed, I like to draw or paint. It’s a relief to let go of language for a few hours and work using light and shade. Drawing always feels more physical than writing—it clears my mind. Many of my blocks come from anxiety about whether I can excel as a writer. Painting calms me because I do it primarily for myself. I become absorbed in how the papery skin of a garlic bulb is streaked with ochre. Stories can seep into that calmer mind. The very best thing is to leave the house with a small box of paints. Outside, I’m jolted from my home’s overly familiar images and objects.
“Writing of any real consequence has to be brave. It has to take chances. For a long time, I thought being brave as a writer meant being experimental. But, actually, bravery is not necessarily about experimenting as much as it is about risk. The biggest risk we take as artists is making art. The second biggest is deciding we want to make art of consequence. To set yourself this task is to admit that you take your own work seriously, that writing is not a hobby, and that (to you at least), what you are writing has to matter. What does that mean?
“I grow concerned when I find myself slipping into the same familiar skin while writing—when my mind reaches for the overworn but close-at-hand images, diction, syntax, and moves. To jostle myself out of my own stale rhythms, I like wading in strange, unfamiliar work and voices.
“I live in the Driftless Region of northeast Iowa. The land here isn’t perhaps what you think of when you think of Iowa. Rather, it’s marked by coldwater streams that snake through steep ravines and valleys, and around limestone bluffs, before meeting the Upper Iowa River, which eventually dumps into the Mississippi.
“When Spike Lee screened Do the Right Thing at Cannes in 1989, reporters at the subsequent press conference suggested that his film was too bleak, offered no hope for race relations and presented no solutions. Spike replied, ‘What makes you think that filmmakers are gods…what I have to do as a filmmaker is present problems so that the discussion can start.’ As a writer, I’ve never heard an idea so liberating.
“‘Everything will be very simple,’ wrote Thomas Bernhard in a letter to his publisher, ‘so long as we remember to service our complicated, our enormously complicated (mental) apparatus.’ It’s possible when Bernhard wrote about servicing the mental apparatus what he meant was to stop writing and to water the plants or walk up a steep hill or cook a meal for a friend or clean the house. There is garbage on the ground and in my thoughts. It needs to be picked up and thrown away properly.
“It’s funny how we can say things to students over and over (ad nauseum!) and only belatedly see how they shape our own approaches to writing. After twenty plus years in the classroom, I find I quote the following consistently enough that they seem driving philosophies. What I notice now is how each offers a prescription for getting around over-thinking and calculation: two activities that can stop a developing poem in its tracks. T. S.
“In the summer before my final year of grad school, I needed to finish a complete first draft of my thesis, a novel. My loony plan was to do it in one week while I stayed at my aunt and uncle’s unoccupied condo in Colorado. I packed my bags. Before I left, the great Robert Boswell—then and now my mentor—offered me this advice: ‘If it’s not working, change something.’ Here’s what he meant: If you find yourself going in circles, identify the variables by which you work, and one by one, session by session, change them. Keep changing them until your circling straightens out.