In this #amwriting podcast episode, Jennie Nash talks about what it means to “play big” on the page. Using Ian McEwan’s choice to write his latest novel without research as an example, she shows how true impact comes when a writer fully owns their story and brings it to life with depth and intention. She encourages listeners to think about their own top five most powerful reads, notice what made those books unforgettable, and aim to create that same sense of bigness in their own writing
Transcript Below!
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Hey, it’s Jess Lahey. If you’ve been listening to the Hashtag AmWriting Podcast for any length of time, you know that yes, I am a writer—but my true love, my deepest love, is combining writing with speaking. I get to go into schools, community organizations, nonprofits, and businesses, and do everything from lunch-and-learns to community reads to just teaching about the topics that I’m an expert in—from the topics in The Gift of Failure: engagement, learning, learning in the brain, cognitive development, getting kids motivated—and, yes, the topic of overparenting and what that does to kids’ learning. Two topics around The Addiction Inoculation are substance use prevention in kids, and—what I’ve been doing lately that’s the most fun for me, frankly—is combining the two. It makes the topic of substance use prevention more approachable, less scary, when we’re talking about it in the context of learning, motivation, self-efficacy, competence, and—yes—cognitive development. So if you have any interest in bringing me into your school, your nonprofit, your business—I would love to come. You can go to JessicaLahey.com. Look under the menu option “Speaking,” and go down to “Speaking Inquiry.” There’s also a lot of information on my website about what I do—there are videos there about how I do it. Please feel free to get in touch, and I hope I get to come to your community. If you put in the speaking inquiry that you are a Hashtag AmWriting listener, we can talk about a discount—so that can be one of the bonuses for being a loyal and long-term listener to the Hashtag AmWriting Podcast.
Hope to hear from you.
EPISODE TRANSCRIPT
Hi, I’m Jennie Nash, and you’re listening to the Hashtag AmWriting Podcast. This is a Write Big session, where I’m bringing you short episodes about the mindset shifts that help you stop playing small and write like it matters.
Today we’re talking about how writing big shows up on the page—how you know when somebody else has done it, when a writer has really wrestled with their material, when they’ve really thought about what matters about it and why it matters, and how they want their readers to feel. They’ve done all the work of making the choices that deliver an experience to their reader. You can feel it—and you want it.
Just before Ian McEwan’s new novel came out—which is called What We Can Know—I read an interview with him in The Wall Street Journal, and the interviewer, whose name is Jon Mooallem, asked McEwan this: “You seem to savor research for your books. To write about a brain surgeon, in Saturday, you observed brain surgeries. Here you’re writing about a future that’s so plausible-seeming and specific but diverges dramatically from all the well-worn dystopian tropes. How do you go about researching the future?” And McEwan answers, “I didn’t do any research for this novel.” The interviewer says, “Amazing—none?” And McEwan says, “I could have written it from a prison cell. I mean, there are factoids I looked up on the internet in 30 seconds, but as I approach 80, I’d rather revel in taking a walk through my own mind.”
I don’t normally read dystopian fiction, but when I heard that answer, I went and pre-ordered the book. I’ve read some of McEwan’s other books and have adored them—especially Atonement. So he’s on my radar as a writer that I like to read, and a writer that is worth my time. But I pass up a lot of books by writers whose previous work I’ve liked, so it’s not a foregone conclusion that I would have read this one. But that idea—that he did no research for a sci-fi dystopian novel—and those words about how “I’d rather revel in taking a walk through my own mind”—that tells me that this is a book in which he’s playing big, and that’s a book that I want to read.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with research, obviously. People who are writing nonfiction are going to need to do a lot of research, and people writing historical fiction or maybe memoir, and people writing sci-fi or fantasy who are making up worlds that have new technologies or thinking about future systems of government or transportation or food delivery or any of that, are going to need to do research. It’s not that I’m knocking that. What I heard, though, was this idea of a writer who was just owning this story—who had it alive in their head and was bringing it to life on the page. And that’s what I always am looking for, and I suspect it’s what you’re looking for, too.
If I were to ask you to reel off your all-time top favorite five books, I bet you would be able to. These books live in our minds because of the experience that they delivered to us. And sometimes it’s because they came at the exact right moment in our lives. A lot of people will reference a book like Charlotte’s Web, which maybe was one of the first books that they ever read—or one of the first times they understood what death is about. Or people will talk about Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, because they felt, for the first time, that this author was really speaking to them and got into their heads and their hearts. So there’s a huge part of this about where we are in our lives when we encounter a particular book and why it might hit us in that particular way. But if you really think about that list of five books, you’re going to understand that there’s something about those books where the author was playing big. They own their story in a very specific way.
One of the books that would be on my top-five list would have to be the book Desert Solitaire by Edward Abbey. This is a memoir that I read when I was a teenager. I think I pulled it off of the shelf of my dad’s study. It’s a story of this guy who spends a season in the wilderness. He is a ranger at Arches National Park, which is one of those beautiful parks out in the middle of the desert. It’s a red-rock landscape, and there are arches out there made out of that rock. It’s a very harsh environment, and he is out there greeting the people who dared to come visit this space. And the reason that book is on my list is that I read it more than forty-five years ago, and I can still remember exactly what it felt like to open that book and start reading. Edward Abbey writes in a very specific and unique and intense voice, and he has very big and controversial thoughts about comfort and wilderness and what people seek when they go out there. But for me, the reason that book stays on my top all-time list is because that was the book that helped me finally understand my father. And my father was a professor of environmental studies. He spent a lot of time out in the wilderness, in places that were harsh and uncomfortable, and he had a lot of very strong opinions, like Abbey. And he was a hard man to understand because of some of these things. And as a kid growing up and, you know, becoming a teenager, I didn’t understand him, and it was a struggle to understand him. And when I read this book, it was as if somebody handed me a whole new understanding. And I just thought, Oh, this is it. I get it. I get him now. And I can call up that feeling all these years later—of how amazing it was to have somebody see me and see my dad in a way that I hadn’t been able to see. So when I think about that experience, and I think about what it was like to be immersed in that book…
To me, that is a memory of somebody who played big. I think it was one of the first times I encountered—certainly in an adult book—somebody who was writing big. That book just had a bigness about it, a sense that the author was holding nothing back.
And what I mean about holding nothing back—I don’t mean that all good writing is just dumping your most private or vulnerable thoughts on the page, or forcing that kind of revelatory work on somebody. That’s not what I mean. I mean that there’s a sense of depth to it, a feeling of authority—of that author having come as close as you can get to bringing their vision to life. That’s what makes a reading experience unforgettable. And it’s worth noting here that we live in the time of AI, and AI can do a lot for a story. It can analyze your structure. It can flag plot holes. It can suggest fixes. There’s a whole lot that you can use it for if you so choose. People can decide whether they want to use these tools in their work or not.
But the thing is that, no matter if you’re using those tools, AI can never touch this thing that we’re talking about. It can never do the work of the heart—of deciding why a story matters, or why a book matters, or why you’re willing to risk writing it or going all in on it. It can never connect with the reader who’s going to encounter that work on the other side, because it’s a machine.
And this human work of connecting is what playing big is really about.
Playing small is skating across the surface of an idea. It’s polishing words while avoiding the deep meaning. It’s leaning on formulas or tropes or trends or tools to do the heavy lifting of intention. The result may be polished, it may be clean, it may be publishable—it may even do well in the marketplace—but it lacks that sense of aliveness that only you can bring, that sense that this work mattered to the writer. So what I’d like you to do today is think about the top five books that you have read in your life and that you remember and that hit you with a strong power. And it might be fun to think about what you felt when you read them and why they impacted you in that way. But what I really want you to do is to pin down the reason why that book has a sense of bigness to it. What did the writer do to make you feel what you felt? And I don’t mean tactically—we’re looking for something ineffable here, some sense about why that writer was playing big. And then you might write down the way you want your reader to feel when they finish your book, and ask yourself: what do I need to put on the page to make that happen?
Until next time—stop playing small and write like it matters.
Narrator
The Hashtag AmWriting Podcast is produced by Andrew Perrella. Our intro music, aptly titled Unemployed Monday, was written and played by Max Cohen. Andrew and Max were paid for their time and their creative output, because everyone deserves to be paid for their work.
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