Patrick Nathan

How did you become a writer?

Throughout my childhood and adolescence I always had the idea that, as some kind of side project, I would eventually write books. Since grade school, I'd often started and abandoned them – usually novels. But I wasn't supposed to be a writer, or only a writer. That fell to me as a sort of reduction or elimination; my talents, or lack thereof, guided me toward it. My last creative endeavor, prior to accepting myself as a writer, was to be another version of Trent Reznor – someone who recorded and performed entire albums, alone, in a synth-pop industrial style, with plenty of noise. After writing and recording two of these albums – which no one, I assure you, will hear – I accepted the fact that I couldn't sing, that I didn't have a voice. My lyrics re-alchemized into poetry, which provided the foundation for my fiction.

Name your writing influences (writers, books, teachers, etc.).

Given my answer to the previous question, I feel like I can finally name Trent Reznor – particularly The Fragile – among my primary influences as a writer. In general, the albums I listened to in the '90s and '00s show up, structurally, in my fiction, particularly when I write novels. When I think of a shape, in fiction, it's almost always musical or symphonic. But film, too, has been an outsized influence, particularly w/r/t pacing, movement, velocity, and a resistance to epiphany or explanation, a willingness to allow the image to carry the weight. 

I didn't really read as a child or a teenager, not much. Storytelling for me was movies and television, so as far as writers go, they're much harder to identify. Anne Carson shows up in my fiction, especially when someone has to want something. Louise Glück, certainly, and Elizabeth Bishop. The Bell Jar. Denis Johnson. Elizabeth Hardwick. Mathias Énard. Rachel Kushner. Louise Erdrich. Cheever's journals are the standard in noticing weather, water, leaves. For essays, Teju Cole and Susan Sontag set the standard in rigor and juxtaposition, Hannah Arendt and James Baldwin in moral clarity, and Renata Adler in overall impeccability. 

All that aside: Oddly enough, in the very beginning, it wasn't even a real person who made me believe I could be a writer. J.T. LeRoy – whose work was introduced to me by way of Marilyn Manson, who I learned was to appear in Asia Argento's adaptation of The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things – never existed. But he was real enough for me.

When and where do you write? 

I have a schedule – every weekday from around 9:00 to 4:00. I don't follow it at all, and mostly feel terrible about it. I write at home, at coffee shops, and at occasionally at bars. A hotel bar, when away at a conference or festival, is one of my favorite places to write. A rare treat.

What are you working on now? 

I'm between the third and fourth drafts on a new novel, a big one. I'm also cutting apart a lot of the essays I've published over the last two years, and am restructuring and rewriting them for inclusion in a collection organized around specific themes.

Have you ever suffered from writer’s block? 

I wouldn't say I've suffered from writer's block so much as given in, quite regularly, to the temptations of distraction, especially social media. I always forget, or allow myself to forget, how much space in my life fiction seems to require. If anything – for me – writer's block is giving that space away to validation and entertainment.

What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

Several years ago, Marlon James said that gaps create energy – between chapters, between paragraphs, between sentences, or even between words. The prose has something to leap over, no matter the context. Instead of "omit needless words" (which always seemed ridiculous to me when no words are needed, when no one, really, is going to miss any of the words we might write if we don't write them), I take this as, "Don't forget the needed silences."

What’s your advice to new writers?

What I've found most valuable, especially after my first novel came out, is to be aware of the distinction between "writer" and "author." The author is who you are in public and online. The author is the person who has written. It's fine to be an author now and then. It can even be a way to celebrate. But the author isn't going to get much writing done, especially not writing of any value. To be a writer, I find it necessary to lock the author out of my mind, to remember that writing is a private endeavor. No one has to see what the writer is writing, or even know that the writer is writing. Obviously there's something to be said for accountability, for telling your friends, in the early days, that you're writing a novel, that you have work to do and that you're doing it. But once you move on from those early days, once you know that it's possible to sit in a chair and put a hundred thousand words on paper, there's no longer a reason, I don't think, to share that. There is no more "#amwriting" except as distraction, as a way for someone to "rescue" you from the difficulty of writing, which is ultimately the difficulty of being alone. In the end, nobody cares if you write or not, except you. Nobody but you knows what will be missing if you don't give what you're going to give to the world. Which is fine: you are all you need. Your desire will be enough. The rest falls into place.

Patrick Nathan's first novel, Some Hell, was published by Graywolf Press in 2018. His essays and short fiction have appeared in BoulevardGulf CoastPacific Standard, the Paris Review Daily, TriQuarterlyLongreads, and elsewhere.

Kimberly King Parsons

How did you become a writer?

I was an early and voracious reader, and even as a very young kid I loved telling stories. I’m also a reformed shy person—for much of my life I felt I could only have an opinion on the page. Now I say what I want, but it took me a while to get here. Originally, I thought I wanted to write literary criticism, but in 2005 I applied to an MFA program with the idea that if I got in, I would change my life and start seriously writing fiction. I did, so I did. 

 Name your writing influences (writers, books, teachers, etc.).

I was a lazy high school student without a lot of drive. I took AP classes and made decent grades, but it wasn’t until my freshman year in college that I felt a real sense of purpose. A professor at the University of Texas at Dallas, Dr. Robert Nelsen, taught an intro to the short story course that set my brain on fire. He had us reading Mary Gaitskill, Denis Johnson, Flannery O’Connor, Isaac Babel, Amy Hempel, Barry Hannah—writers whose sentences changed everything I thought I understood about language. At the same time, I was taking a survey course on William Faulkner and Toni Morrison and another course on absurdism and another on dark documentary films and another on poetry in translation. Suddenly, school felt not only meaningful but critical. Transcendent.  

When and where do you write? 

I have a desk in an office like a nice, normal person, but mostly I write in my bed. It’s the place where I’m most comfortable, and I find that I can do very long stretches when I’m comfortable.

What are you working on now? 

I have a novel due to my editor at Knopf soon. It’s about Texas, motherhood, and LSD.

Have you ever suffered from writer’s block? 

Sometimes I should be writing and find I can’t. For me it’s like insomnia—if I can’t sleep at night, the worst thing is to stay in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, feeling terrible about not sleeping. It’s better to get up, read a book, leave the scene of anxiety. When I can’t write, I try to do the same thing. Go to a movie, meet a friend for a day drink, take a walk in the woods. Sitting and staring at the screen only prolongs the bad feeling. The sooner I decide to “waste” the day, the quicker I can usually get back to work. 

What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

After the birth of my second child, I was exhausted and feeling like I might never write again. I was complaining about this to the brilliant writer and teacher Victoria Redel when she calmly but firmly told me, “Get back to work. Or don’t.” Something about the clear binary of that decision moved me to action. Those are the two choices—pick one! Over and over and over again I choose to write.

What’s your advice to new writers?

I don’t think I can beat Redel’s advice, but something I’d tell writers about publishing is to amass rejection. Publication is a numbers game, so if you’re shooting for 100 rejections a year, you’re bound to have some acceptances in there. And seeing each rejection as a step closer to your goal of 100 reframes the whole process. 

Kimberly King Parsons is the author of the story collection Black Light, longlisted for the 2019 National Book Award, and the novel The Boiling River, forthcoming from Knopf. A recipient of fellowships from Columbia University and the Sustainable Arts Foundation, her fiction has been published in The Paris ReviewBest Small Fictions 2017Black Warrior ReviewNo TokensKenyon Review, and elsewhere. She lives with her partner and sons in Portland, OR.

Kate Angus

How did you become a writer?

I hesitate to answer this question because saying “I was always a writer” sounds unbearably pretentious but, in many ways, it is true. My parents always encouraged me and my sibling to follow our artistic interests, writing included, and they also read to us, so I have felt very actively connected to books and writing for as long as I can remember. There was never a moment where I thought “I shall become a writer!”—instead, since so much of my time as a kid was spent making up stories and poems, it was just what I already was doing. 

Name your writing influences (writers, books, teachers, etc.)

The writers whose work most influence my own I think are Mary Ruefle, Richard Siken, Kelly Link, Agha Shahid Ali, Kevin Prufer, Terrance Hayes, Rainer Maria Rilke and T. S. Eliot—those, at least, are the writers I never met but whose work I’ve read so obsessively that I’m sure some of their turns of phrase and tropes echo within my own lines. I’ve also certainly been influenced by my teachers—most particularly Jack Driscoll, Matthew Zapruder, Elizabeth Alexander, David Lehman, Meghan O’Rourke, Mike Delp and Nick Bozanic. 

When and where do you write?

I primarily write at my desk (which is also our living room/dining room table) in my apartment and most consistently in the morning between 9-11 and in the early afternoon from 1-3.

What are you working on now?

I’m trying to pull together an essay collection. The unifying thread seems to be “things I’m interested in” which will probably not be a very appealing pitch to prospective agents but is a little catchier than “essays about wendigos, salt, writer’s block, Iceland, St. Anthony, Finnish coffee bread, Hecate, Sherlock Holmes, trickster gods, Odin, foxes, apples, skeleton keys, tigers who live in Harlem, sleep paralysis, and many other things.” I also must admit that I am mired in the research stage of a novel as well and am slowly slowly compiling my second poetry collection.  

Have you ever suffered from writer’s block?

Haha. Yes. I wrote an essay about it recently. After my first book came out, I couldn’t write anything new for two years. I revised old work, and I started and abandoned many terrible drafts, but I couldn’t finish anything or produce words that didn’t feel dead. I tried everything I could to fix it to no avail, but eventually it lifted on its own. Since then, I’ve begun to look at the times when I’m not actively writing as natural and necessary. Much like how farmers will leave certain fields fallow or rotate the types of crops they produce so the soil can rest and regain depleted nutrients, I think that sometimes instead of writing, I have to spend that time reading or traveling or just living my banal daily life of paying bills and vacuuming and cooking dinner and trust that that rest period is part of my writing process.  

What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

My high school writing teacher Mike Delp used tell us “This is all practice” and it made me so angry at the time because I was working so hard at my writing and I wanted to think that those poems were the real deal (whatever that means)—at the the time, “practice” sounded like a lesser thing. But the older I get, the more I think he was right. Everything I write is practice, practice for the next thing I’m writing. Regardless of whether or not any individual essay or poem gets picked up by a lit journal or if a manuscript gets published, it is still practice for the next day’s work and so on and onward. I find it very freeing to think that way now—we’re always doing the real work, but the real work is also always yet to come. 

What’s your advice to new writers?

Be stubborn. That’s the only thing that really makes the most difference—more than talent, more than connections even (although those things help a lot too, of course). Write, read, take breaks to rest, mull things over, revise, but keep sending your work out. Even if the rejection letters pile up into mountains around you, try to trust that—if you keep putting yourself out there—eventually you’ll find people who want to hear your voice. 

Kate Angus is the author of So Late to the Party (Negative Capability Books, 2016) and the founding editor of Augury Books. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Atlantic Online, The Washington Post, Best New Poets 2010, Best New Poets 2014, Barrow Street, Indiana Review and the American Academy of Poets' "Poem-A-Day" feature. Born in Michigan, she currently lives in New York.