It's Never Too Late to Stop and Start Again

I am sure this happens to everyone who’s tried to write anything, and particularly writers like me, who tend not to plan pieces but work on them organically (it’s inefficient, but I don’t seem to be able to do it any other way). It took me a long time to understand that sometimes, when I thought I was writing about ibises, I was really writing about homesickness, or when I thought I was writing about homesickness, what I was really writing about was ibises. Homes, not spiders; loneliness, not riparian forest. I learned to listen very carefully to what was going on between the lines, to always pay attention to what the words in front of you are really saying. It’s never too late to stop and start again (unless you’re on deadline).

HELEN MACDONALD

The Choice Between First- and Third-Person

The choice between first- and third-person is usually a clear one—tied to whatever my initial thought was in regards to the story. And more often than not I choose third. I find the third-person more interesting to work with, more expansive. I wrote a story in the second-person once that I only attempted because I honestly could wrap my head around why that point-of-view choice made sense, given the main character and the subject matter, and that was a fun experiment that I think was successful. The point-of-view I’ve never tried but would like to try one day is the first-person plural—so wonderfully handled in Julie Otsuka’s The Buddha in the Attic.

PATRICK RYAN

Write Whatever You Want

I don’t think writers should be worried about treading any lines between autobiography and fiction. You should write whatever you want to write. Once you label it fiction, it’s fiction, even if you give the protagonist a feeling you’ve felt, or your same hometown. All fiction is born out of some alchemy of observation, imagination, and personal experience.

RACHEL KHONG

Narrative Objects

I guess I don’t think of work as evolving. I think of writers as sitting down and starting from scratch every time—at least that is how it is for me. I don’t think of one book as having any relationship to the others. The books are not canvasses upon which I attempt to develop my voice, grow my themes, or evolve my concerns. They are not early or later drafts of one another. They are not in conversation with one another. They have no awareness of the others’ existence. They are merely narrative objects that I’ve worked hard on in order that they be the best (most interesting, most true, most beautiful, etcetera) I was then capable of. In retrospect, I could describe each book, but such a description would not constitute a description of an evolution, or a picture of a process, or the naming of a journey, not really. Writing is too disorderly for that—or at least mine is. I don’t mean to hide behind the mysteriousness of the creative act—although it certainly is mysterious, more afterwards than at the time—but I don’t think of the books as a deliberate attempt (by me) to form a body of work that can then be stepped back from and discussed (at least by me). That would be far too overdetermined.

LORRIE MOORE

A Throb

The common conception of how novels get written seems to me to be an exact description of writer’s block. In the common view, the writer is at this stage so desperate that he’s sitting around with a list of characters, a list of themes, and a framework for his plot, and ostensibly trying to mesh the three elements. In fact, it’s never like that. What happens is what Nabokov described as a throb. A throb or a glimmer, an act of recognition on the writer’s part. At this stage the writer thinks, Here is something I can write a novel about. In the absence of that recognition I don’t know what one would do.

MARTIN AMIS

Over-Writing Is a Bigger Problem Than Under-Writing

Over-writing is a bigger problem than under-writing. It’s much more likely you’ve written too much than too little. It’s a lot easier to throw words at a problem than to take the time to find the right ones. As Blaise Pascal, a 17th-century writer and scientist (no, not Mark Twain) wrote in a letter, “I have made this longer than usual because I have not had time to make it shorter.”

HARRY GUINNESS

Resist the Urge to Tell the Reader What Happens in the End

Amy Hempel says the ending of a short story should punch you in the heart, and, Lord, she knows just how to do that. But punching somebody in the heart isn’t about big sweeping gestures or sentimentality. Sentimentality is the anti-heart, a heart substitute, and nothing terrifies me more than tipping into it. I try to avoid it by keeping revelations as small, quiet, and specific to a character as possible. Another way is to leave a scene early, sometimes even before you’re ready to. If you resist the urge to tell a reader what happens in the end, or how to feel, you make space for their feelings. Whatever they bring to the page will always be superior to something you’ve handed them.

KIMBERLY KING PARSONS

There Should Always Be a Window

Writing is facing your deepest fears and all your failures, including how hard it is to write a lot of the time and how much you loathe what you’ve just written and that you’re the person who just committed those flawed sentences (many a writer, and God, I know I’m one, has worried about dying before the really crappy version is revised so that posterity will never know how awful it was). When it totally sucks, pause, look out the window (there should always be a window) and say, I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing.

REBECCA SOLNIT

Don't Rely On Memory

Whatever you do, don’t rely on memory. Don’t even imagine that you will be able to remember verbatim in the evening what people said during the day. And don’t squirrel notes in a bathroom—that is, run off to the john and write surreptitiously what someone said back there with the cocktails. From the start, make clear what you are doing and who will publish what you write. Display your notebook as if it were a fishing license. While the interview continues, the notebook may serve other purposes, surpassing the talents of a tape recorder. As you scribble away, the interviewee is, of course, watching you. Now, unaccountably, you slow down, and even stop writing, while the interviewee goes on talking. The interviewee becomes nervous, tries harder, and spills out the secrets of a secret life, or maybe just a clearer and more quotable version of what was said before. Conversely, if the interviewee is saying nothing of interest, you can pretend to be writing, just to keep the enterprise moving forward.

JOHN McPHEE

Read Life

People like to say that the best advice they can give to writers is to read a lot. And that's true, of course. But you shouldn't just read literature. You should read life. Read movies, and art, and people. Read everything around you, very critically. Then build your method out of that process.

ANTHONY VEASNA SO