“Nothing is as alarming to me as being unable to write. Since it feels like such an unlikely, magical offering to begin with, the prospect of its departure is a troubling one. To jolt myself out of those writerly impasses, I like to write something I know will never be read: an obituary for an imaginary person; a dating profile for my eighteen-year-old self; a poem about Lisa Frank stationery. I return to Bird by Bird (Anchor Books, 1995) by Anne Lamott like the literary scripture it is. I reread novels and poetry collections that make me squirm with envy towards their genius and inventiveness. Reminding myself that I loved to read before I loved to write is always a good place to start; I go back to being a literary groupie, an admirer of the art of storytelling. Meanwhile, I remain faithful to a ritual I started years ago: writing for thirty minutes every day, regardless of whether the quality of writing is something I’m pleased with or not. I try to go for a run before sitting down to do my thirty minutes; something about the meditative slap of sneakers on pavement helps me daydream about what I’m trying to write.”
—Hala Alyan, author of Salt Houses (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2017)
Photo credit: Beowulf Sheehan