THE MAKING OF A WRITER; WE NEED SILENCE TO FIND OUT WHAT WE THINK (Published 1982)

And it’s interesting that the writing I tend to think of as “good” is good because it’s mysterious. It tends to happen when I get out of the way—when I let it go a little bit, I surprise myself. I feel most pleased with my language when I don’t understand it completely.

The creative act is a process that often unfolds in solitary reflection, and indeed, the portrait of any artist is often one of solitude. The trope of the reclusive writer and the introverted artist stems from a significant truth of creativity: In order to make art, we must find the space to become intimate with our own minds.

When you make space; slow down enough to process; and write down facts, thoughts, and feelings, you will inevitably let loose your own hot air balloon, and you will be amazed at the new perspective you find. This is your “narrator voice.”

What they don’t know is that all the seemingly unproductive acts that happen around writing—reading, daydreaming, decluttering, taking long walks, closing your eyes to fully appreciate the smell of rain on asphalt—are actually subtle and crucial activities that make writing possible.

What I have to do is go back to my beginner’s mind, trying as much as possible to get rid of all my assumptions, the usual pat thoughts, the confusions I have, the conclusions that cause me to contrive direction in the story.