Would you please tell us a little about your writing process?
My process comes in intense phases. I’ll write for days, crash for twelve hours, and then do it again. It’s not particularly sustainable, but I’m riding this thing ‘til the apocalypse.
When I’m in one of those phases, ideas arrive constantly. Stories, scenes, lines, bits of dialogue—I’ll make some kind of outline to get them into some legible structure before they disappear. I’m typically trying to get a first draft out as quickly as possible.
After that, I cut. Anything pleased with itself is in danger. Anything that explains the emotional meaning without shame is gone. I’ll do that a few times, then leave the piece alone and work on something else so I can come back with a little less mercy. Sometimes a story is done in a day and I’ll send it out while I still feel reckless enough to believe in it. More often, I keep circling back through drafts until perspective stops pointing things out.
Do you enjoy writing?
I enjoy having written. Writing itself is more complicated. I work quickly and prolifically, but I feel every word while it’s happening. Usually with too much urgency and very little dignity. I’m always worried about getting to the next idea before I lose excitement for it.
Finishing something, though, is deeply satisfying. I keep several lists to track my stories and submissions, and I enjoy updating those lists more than I should admit. I don’t actually type “The End” at the bottom of drafts, but I get the impulse. Seems cathartic.
How do you believe a writer improves? Practice? Mentors? Reading everything? Attending festivals?
All of it helps, but I think the main thing is learning not to be precious. You have to write a lot, read a lot, and stay honest about what is and isn’t working. Reading helps orient your sense of what’s possible. Practice gives you more chances to fail usefully. Revision shows you which instincts to trust and which are just decoration.
A discerning mentor can help, too, especially if they understand what you’re trying to do rather than trying to grind your voice into a more familiar shape. The best guidance helps the work become more itself rather than safer.
I don’t know anything about festivals. I’m sure they’re useful. I improve by writing, cutting, reading, and trying not to defend sentences just because I suffered while making them.
What are the most important steps an amateur writer can take?
If we’re talking about getting published, I think you have to become your own biggest advocate and be relentless. Rejection is part of the sorting process. I don’t take it personally. If I’m certain a piece is finished, I trust that there’s a place for it somewhere. A decline just narrows the field. I’m into that.
The harder part is knowing which voices to listen to. I had to learn that I can’t be available to everyone’s opinion. Some feedback is useful, and some feedback is just someone trying to make the work more comfortable for them. I try to listen to people who understand the creative intent of the story and are giving feedback through that lens.
Beyond that, you have to protect your work, keep improving it, and keep sending it out to places where someone might recognize it.
What do you find most inspiring?
Hearing someone say something off the cuff that is profound or witty or strange. Something immediate and alive and only belongs to that second. I love writing dialogue, and that feeling is something I try to capture: the thing people say before they have time to make it impressive.
I’m also inspired by people sharing what they’re good at, especially when they’re not trying to make a living with it. A friend playing a song in their apartment with the autoharp I thought was decoration for eight years. Telling someone I like their pants and finding out they made them. Those moments make me want to write better. People are quietly devoted to things all the time and pretending it’s just pants.
What is the best piece of advice you would offer an aspiring writer?
As it was told to me in Pichilemu, Chile, in 2011 by a chef who lived in a surf hostel: “Ceviche has six ingredients. If it had five, it would be better.”
Jonathan Daniel Gardner is a writer originally from the American South, who currently lives in Brooklyn, New York. His work has appeared in The Brooklyn Rail, The Disappointed Housewife, Identity Theory, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. He holds a degree in Creative Writing from The New School and is at work on his first novel, In Moon I Keep You. Find him on Instagram: @jonathandanielgardner