In September, the Center for Fiction unveiled the shortlist for its annual First Novel Prize, this year judged by R. O. Kwon, Kiese Laymon, Jordy Rosenberg, and Danzy Senna. Each finalist will receive $1,000, and the winner, to be revealed in December, will be awarded $15,000 “in recognition of their contribution to contemporary literature and in support of their ongoing creative career.” Meanwhile, Literary Hub connected with the finalists to pose a handful of questions about their reading and writing lives. Here is what they shared:
Emeline Atwood, author of A Real Animal
What hours do you find yourself most productive, and why?
I tend to jot notes throughout the day, but it’s six in the morning that yields the most sustained writing sessions. This year, though, mornings have proven stubbornly elusive for me.
To tackle this, I’ve been taking baby steps. My current plan involves my small dog waking me up at six for a bathroom break, then nudging Chris or me with a nudge on the cheek. When it’s my face that’s tapped, I usually shepherd the dog outside, watch her relieve herself, and we both drift back to bed until eight, when she’s craving breakfast.
Recently, I’ve been aiming to simply stay awake after the dog’s business is done. I tell myself it’s fine to crawl back into bed with Crackers as long as I can keep my eyes open until the radio comes on at seven. A small tactic: I keep cooling-caffeine under-eye patches at my bedside for instant use. We also added a bird feeder by the window to coax the morning awake.
Sunrise drives can also be a wonderful way to reacquaint yourself with those precious early hours—ripe for writing and full of new sights. Chris and I managed one last Wednesday; it yielded plenty of material: a rooster perched on a roof, a red light that seemed to linger longer than expected, and a pair of dogs tethered to a man with a bearded white beard that matched one dog’s fur and the other dog’s head.
How do you approach writer’s block?
As a child, I longed to keep a diary, partly because I envied the sturdy memories that form after years of diary entries. Yet recording the day’s events felt dull after a few lines, and I would drift away, noting what I wished had happened with a certain crush rather than what truly occurred.
So, my strategy for writer’s block is to write about what I wish had happened yesterday, what I fear could happen tomorrow, or what future me might be up to in a year or a century. I may also imagine younger me staying on Koh Tao and starting a life as an artisanal cheese maker, or fostering a dozen kittens rather than finding homes for them. These flights of fancy help ignite the imagination—dreams and nightmares are powerful warm-ups.
Alternatively, invite someone—be it a friend, a partner, a coworker, or a family member—to a familiar place they’ve never seen. Have them describe what they notice—their senses, their impressions. This often makes you experience the scene anew.
Or: read something, commit it to memory, transcribe it, and recite it. Then craft your own piece that uses the same syntax but with wholly different words. Tear that up, do a few jumping jacks, and take a walk to reset.
What’s the best or worst piece of writing advice you’ve ever received?
Two bits of guidance stand out:
Ira Glass’s reminder that beginners often encounter a gap between taste and execution—“the reason your early work might disappoint you is that your taste runs ahead of your abilities. It takes time and many drafts to bridge that gap.”
Ursula K. Le Guin’s wry observation: “People who deny the existence of dragons are often eaten by dragons—from within.”
Who or what left the deepest imprint on your literary education?
My family shaped me most: my father would read aloud to us every night—fantasies, mysteries, and sprawling imagined worlds—well into my middle-school years. My mother was the person I most enjoyed discussing great books with, and I aspired to read whatever she did and to someday write something she’d love. My siblings and I also spent lots of time playing make-believe together.
To be a capable writer, one must also be a capable reader, and to be a capable reader, one must know how to imagine.
What was the first book you truly loved, and why?
There was a nonfiction book in my elementary school library about fox families—the fox kits—packed with photos and scarcely any words. It was small yet hardcover, laid out horizontally, with more pictures per page than any other animal book, and I memorized its details. I used to sneak it to the butterfly display after library time to keep others from checking it out, feeling a twinge of guilt even as I kept returning to it. Frost’s end-stopped rhymes also delighted me; he was the first poet whose complete works I read, at the age of seven.
Which books do you reread?
I attempt to revisit many works. Nabokov’s maxim—“one cannot read a book: one can only reread it”—stays with me. Lately, I’ve revisited Chekhov’s stories, Murakami’s The Elephant Vanishes, and Diane Seuss’s Frank.
What’s your favorite way to procrastinate when you ought to write?
Several friends and I meet at a coffee shop a couple of mornings a week to write, usually around 7:30. We often exchange anxious messages about actually writing, only to end up talking. Then we tell each other that talking is writing, and promise to actually write next time.
Which book sparked the strongest emotional reaction in you—laughter, tears, anger?
Wherever Nina Lies frightened me when I was thirteen.
What topic do you wish interviewers would ask you about but never do?
As technology pushes toward touchless experiences, I worry about how detachment alters our perception of life and our capacity for empathy. We should examine how friction—the tactile, imperfect interaction—keeps us connected and human, and resist reducing every action to a single tap. More specifically, I’d love to talk about how readers respond to unlikable characters: does a character being hard to like reveal a danger or a truth about ourselves that we’re reluctant to admit? If Lucy’s unfriendly traits push readers away, I hope they also reveal what unsettles them about her or what they fear in themselves. Lucy exists only as a construct; she carries a fraction of the fullness any real person possesses, and that’s exactly the point—the humanity lies in recognizing both violence and truth within us. If a reader finishes with Lucy intact and unbothered, I’d rather they feel repelled than bored, because friction is where meaning lives.
If you weren’t a writer, what path would you pursue instead?
For five years I held a nine-to-five role in marketing at a software firm. It helps me pay the bills and holds a respectable title, but it isn’t what feeds my soul; writing is what I can’t imagine not doing. I see the job as a career thread that interplays with my vocation, creating a tension between money and meaning. I’ve also entertained the idea of becoming a doctor, and I still wonder if I might someday work as a couples therapist. Teaching literature at a school would also be a dream I’d love to realize soon.
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Samantha Josephs, author of Carrying
Who do you most hope will read this book? (your boss, a childhood bully, etc.)
I’m thrilled by two kinds of readers: trans women who find a home within its pages, and readers who discover the book for their mother, aunt, or grandmother. I love the thought of someone who might be surprised by the book’s quirks and audacity sharing it with a matriarch—imagining these older women reading something wildly strange and defiant.
What time of day do you work best, and why?
Mornings aren’t my natural milieu; I’m not a morning person. If I reply to messages before 9 a.m., it’s a sign something’s off. On an ordinary day, I write or revise from noon to six, then engage in evening activities, occasionally squeezing in a late-night writing burst around ten or eleven if something must come out.
What’s the most helpful or harmful writing guidance you’ve received?
Rutabaga becomes a running joke for me: the aim of the initial draft is to finish quickly, not to refine every line to perfection. When I hit a snag, I write “RUTABAGA.” Then I revisit it after finishing and address the ruts, whether a word, a paragraph, or a whole scene. If you’re writing about root vegetables, switch to “STORMAGANZA.”
What aspect of your writing routine might surprise readers?
I work best with dishes pending in the sink. Living alone without a dishwasher, I don’t procrastinate by tidying the sink; rather, the looming chore pushes me to keep writing so I don’t have to face the dishes. The thought of dirty dishes becomes my incentive to push forward, and I almost boast about it—there are more important tasks than constant dishwashing.
Which non-literary cultural artifact would you be unable to live without?
Family Guy. It’s been a constant companion, shaping my pop-culture literacy since childhood. Its cutaway humor is a bold, postmodern narrative device, a sort of modern substitute for Proust’s madeleines. I even have plans for a book that uses cutaways—so stay tuned. And this conversation reminds me of something…
Which books do you reread?
I’m not an avid re-reader, but the few I return to are meaningful. I’ve revisited Beloved three times and Detransition, Baby twice. I only reread when enough time has passed to gain a new perspective; rereading Detransition, Baby at different points in my own transition reshaped my understanding. I first encountered Beloved as a teenager, and rereading it as an adult has intensified its impact. I’m planning another read soon, though I must first work through my current library haul.
What’s your favorite way to procrastinate while you should be working?
I could spend hours on TikTok—its pull is strong because one little break can turn into a lengthy scroll. It’s educational in a way, offering cooking ideas, places to visit, books to read, and more, which I rationalize as productivity.
Which book elicited the strongest emotional reaction from you?
Andre Aciman’s Find Me, the sequel to Call Me By Your Name, had me sobbing for pages. Elio and Oliver feel inevitable together, regardless of the debates around it.
How do you decide what to read next?
Libby and library holds cause a constant rush: I request countless titles but read at speed limited by time, chasing overdue items. I accumulate new books while scrambling to read them all before they expire, so I often read whatever is about to be taken away from me next.
What would you like to discuss in interviews but rarely get to?
My passion for tennis seldom comes up. I’m quite serious on court and relish a long, thrilling rally. If you’re in Los Angeles, tell me you want to play. I might have access to a few private court options for a game, and perhaps I’ll even meet my future husband that way.
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T Kira Madden, author of Whidbey
Who do you most wish would read this book? (your boss, your childhood bully, etc.)
I often imagine my late father as the reader I’d most want to impress, hoping he would see the book’s effort and care. Beyond that, I’m eager for anyone who might find a sense of recognition within its pages to pick it up.
What time of day do you work (and why)?
During my younger years, I was a nighttime writer, but that’s not feasible now. When I’m fortunate enough to have a stretch of time, I begin early and write for as long as possible before a large meal, which tends to blur my focus. After meals I switch to reading, note-taking, and watching films.
How do you approach writer’s block?
Rebecca Makkai taught me that not all writing is traditional drafting—walks, museum visits, or even staring out a window count as labor on a project if kept close to it. Her class distilled this into the motto “touch it every day,” which even inspired a cheeky t‑shirt order.
What’s the most valuable or least valuable writing advice you’ve received?
Never neglect interiority. It’s the distinct advantage of a novel over other art forms.
Which person or practice has most shaped your literary education?
All of my elementary school teachers left a mark, but my current sense of craft traces back to my first-grade experiences with drawing and writing alongside music. A teacher once had us pair ambient music with images and craft scenes, and I wrote a short story about a New Jersey bargain‑shoe store—though the store still exists, the story did not survive. I remember noting that the aisles smelled like undigested beans, an early attention to sensory detail I’ve carried forward.
What non-literary cultural work could you not imagine living without?
Kid A, the music I’ve carried with me for two decades, is indispensable. Music is a portal to memory, and I’m saving it for the moments I need it most.
Which books do you reread?
I’m not a frequent re-reader, but when I do revisit, the weight of the work speaks to me. I’ve returned to Oblivion by David Foster Wallace, A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan, Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Bluets by Maggie Nelson.
What’s your favorite way to procrastinate when you should be writing?
Diving into a pool of TikTok videos. The platform is maddeningly captivating—short breaks can easily swallow hours. My feed also includes cooking ideas, travel tips, and book recommendations that feel almost like research.
Which book has provoked the strongest emotional reaction in you?
Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West made me confront a realization about my own relationship at the time; it was a transformative moment.
How do you choose what to read next?
I navigate a practice I call the Conclave: stacks of potential reads sit beside a freshly brewed Americano, and I sample the first pages until a spark pulls me in.
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Ankur Thakkar, author of Blow Yourself Up
What time of day do you work (and why)?
In a nod to Chuck Klosterman’s idea that the morning brain functions differently from the evening brain, I write best in the morning: I want to approach the world anew and shape it carefully on the page.
How do you tackle writer’s block?
I owe this insight to Rebecca Makkai: there are many kinds of writing that aren’t traditional drafting. A stroll, a museum visit, or simply gazing out a window—keeping a project close makes you active in its development. Her class summed this up with the line “touch it every day,” which even spawned a humorous t‑shirt for me.
What’s the best or worst writing advice you’ve received?
Never sleep on interior life. That inner depth is what gives a novel its edge over other art forms.
Who has most influenced your literary education?
All the support I received from my elementary school teacher, Mrs. Christie. We would listen to a calm, ambient track, draw whatever we imagined, and then write brief vignettes. I wrote my first short story for her in fourth grade, set around a New Jersey bargain shoe store. The store still exists, though the story is lost to history. I recall describing the aisles as smelling of undigested beans, which shows how I’ve always paid close attention to sensory detail.
What non-literary cultural work could you not live without?
Kid A—a album I’ve carried with me for twenty years. Music acts as a bridge to the past, and I reserve it for moments when I need it most.
What book(s) do you reread?
Oblivion—David Foster Wallace; A Visit from the Goon Squad—Jennifer Egan; Tender Is the Night—F. Scott Fitzgerald; Bluets—Maggie Nelson. I frequently return to these works because they anchor my understanding of craft.
What’s your preferred way to procrastinate when you should be writing?
Reading novels, of course.
Which book has provoked the strongest emotional response from you?
Mohsin Hamid’s Exit West helped me realize the ending of a relationship I was in at the time.
How do you decide what to read next?
Through a ritual I call the Conclave, where a menu of possible reads sits beside a freshly brewed Americano. I skim the opening pages of several options until one calls to me.
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Nafissa Thompson-Spires, author of The Four Wives and Five Deaths of Richard Milford
Who do you most wish would read this book? (your boss, your childhood bully, etc.)
I’d like this novel to reach readers who have ever harbored a desire for revenge and acted on it or kept it secret.
What time of day do you work (and why)?
I don’t tend to wake early due to sleep difficulties and persistent pain, so I’m most productive from late morning through late afternoon. I treat writing like a 9-to-5 gig, even though it runs more noon-to-6 for me.
How do you approach writer’s block?
Blockage often arises from fear or perfectionism. When it hits, I switch to a different document and focus on playful experimentation. That shift usually unlocks some momentum.
What’s the best or worst writing guidance you’ve received?
The best has been to treat writing as play and to practice low-stakes writing regularly so the blank page no longer feels intimidating. Joan Bolker’s Writing Your Dissertation in Fifteen Minutes a Day helped me adopt that mindset during graduate school.
Who has most shaped your literary education?
My parents both dedicated themselves to education, and their influence is strong. But the idea of spite—an impulse to prove something despite obstacles—also drives my work. On the lighter side, my mother’s persistence with grammar exercises from Warriner’s English Grammar taught me to value precision, even as a child. My family’s teaching continues to shape how I write today.
What part of your writing routine would surprise readers?
I predominantly write sad stories, yet I derive immense joy from drafting them. I lean into play, absurdity, and fun during the initial drafts, and then allow revision and cutting to sharpen the tale’s bite.
Which non-literary cultural artifact would you consider indispensable—film, television, painting, or song?
The music of Charlie Parker.
What was the first book you fell in love with (and why)?
Charlotte’s Web—and I suspect my sensibilities still reflect that early affection for animal sentience, tragedy, and resilient friendships in the face of hardship.
Which books do you reread?
I return often to the works of Lynda Barry and also to the short stories of writers who sparked my love for the form: Jamaica Kincaid, Joy Williams, Grace Paley, Kenzaburō Ōe, Janet Frame, Isaac Babel, James Baldwin, John Edgar Wideman, Melanie Rae Thon, Amy Hempel, and many others. I can go on—Borges, Gogol, the entire roster of voices I adore.
What’s your favorite way to procrastinate when you should be writing?
Dreaming up recipes and jotting them down, exploring online rabbit holes, and pondering questions like whether Joanna Newsom will release a new album soon. I also like speculating about how a magic trick was performed at a bar long ago.
What book has produced the strongest emotional response in you (laughter, tears, anger)?
Among many, Baldwin stirs me to tears, particularly his endings; Geek Love’s ending reduces me to tears, and Mona Simpson’s short story “Lawns” changed how I think about writing entirely.
How do you decide what to read next?
During the school year I focus on my students’ work and on titles that might support their goals. I also strive to read a broad range of emerging and debut authors, prioritizing galley copies. In summer and winter breaks I tend to immerse myself more in my own work, choosing books that resonate with my current project’s DNA—the Hoku Pa’a approach, so to speak—the guiding stars I rely on.
What is one book you wish you had read earlier in life?
A truly honest history textbook would have changed everything.
What topic would you like to explore in interviews but seldom get a chance to?
No one asks about poetry, though I often think in verse. A line I recite often comes from Mark Strand’s Keeping Things Whole: In a field / I am the absence / of field. / This is / always the case.
If you weren’t a writer, what would you do?
If writing weren’t central, I’d likely pursue a path in family court judgment, though I can’t imagine a life without writing at its core.
