“I think of writing like I think of building a house. First you walk through the front door with that first line, first image, first phrase, and ask, “What am I going to do next? Am I going to build a room to my left? And am I going to go into that room? Will I allow it to have a door that leads to another room?” I think of writing as building doors to rooms, and then saying, “Let’s just walk through it. And let’s put in windows to see what the light shows.”
I think of writing as a form of allowance and permission. It’s telling yourself to keep making those doors and walking through them. That, to me, is the blueprint for surprise. When you look up and it’s been an hour or two hours of writing, you’re so far from your first door, you’re in a room you never thought existed. And it didn’t. It didn’t exist in the world. You made it. It’s a beautiful thing. It’s why writing and making art is so special, because you can’t predict what it will look like, sound like, read like, until it’s been made.”