When I was just a baby writer, I had a fantasy that when my favorite authors got together all they talked about was process, about putting pen to page, choosing titles, moving characters across great swaths of time and space, maybe in front of a roaring fire in some cozy den. I’m sure this happens occasionally (though now I think: how boring) but it’s been my experience that when writers gather the conversation only really snaps to life when someone comes back with another round of drinks and says either: “have you seen…?” or “have you heard…?” Let’s leave film alone for now (though maybe we can meet up later, and remember the video stores of our youth, browsing for hours on a Friday night, dipping a toe in “cult classics,” telling your dad he might enjoy a John Waters film, if he only gave it a chance), and tune the dial through some radio static until something strange and great happens.
My friend has a theory that most writers–either because they can’t play an instrument or have the kind of personality that makes keeping a band together nearly impossible–are failed musicians. Could this be true? Maybe! Or maybe he was just talking about me, and my personality. But I’d certainly say that the writers who hold my attention are the ones who think, nearly obsessively, about the sonic texture of their work, who push words together until the pages sing. I like, when reading, the moment when the language lifts and you realize what you hold in your hands is not a book but sound.
The working title of North Sun: or, the Voyage of the Whaleship Esther–this novel, a fever-dream whaling voyage–was Ocean Songs, a title I’d plunked on it out of my love for the album of the same name by the Dirty Three. And maybe I should just direct you there, to that wonderful, unhinged album. But an album does not a playlist make (everyone knows that), so below I will list some other music that became important to the making of this book, which took me forever, and which I’m happy (and sad) to see finished. So long, companion! I tried my best to make each page a wave, each page a song. I hope you enjoy the book as well as the music below.
Peter and the Wolf / David Bowie
I had this record growing up and played it all the time (not the Bowie version, but it’s since become my favorite). I was terrified of the wolf, and when he was introduced (french horns, his indelible theme: you know it), I remember going rigid with fear and it’s haunted me since. As I was writing, I came to imagine each character in North Sun represented by a particular instrument in the orchestra, like so: Timbo the dog will be played by the flute. Here’s Captain Lovejoy, played by the oboe. The disintegration of his mind, by the clarinet. The bassoon will represent the Ashleys. The terrible Eastman by the French horns. And the boys by the strings. The blast of the whale’s exhalations will be played by the kettle drums. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.
It feels almost silly to tell you how much this helped. And when my friend, the composer Peter C Murray, put parts of North Sun to music of his own, and made a feverish book-on-tape, the spirit carried over (though only the “are you sitting comfortably? Then let’s begin” from Bowie’s introduction made the cut). This collaboration has made me so happy. You can hear parts of it here, and here, and here.
Brother, Sister / Kevin Morby
This song is so mood-setting and great. I listened to this record a lot when in the early stages of writing North Sun and I think the back and forth between the two siblings (one a ghost) must’ve, in some way, influenced the way the two boys, brothers, speak to each other in the dark hold of the Esther.
One by One / Connie Converse
Do you know this song? I didn’t, until a friend sent it over and said: how amazing is this? I love it, and am including it here, because her voice is so haunting, unadorned, and this song so lovely in its repetitions, and the guitar wanders sort of unexpectedly under her singing, and it sounds like the song that one might sing on a ship when the distance between where you are where you want to be suddenly crests into view.
20211201 / Ryuichi Sakamoto
Occasionally when writing I feel like I’m not sinking down enough, and this is a song that helps clear my head. You can hear his breath on the track (in this way it reminds me of Screws by Nils Frahm; or Glenn Gould), the music wanders but not too far, and the effect, to me, is like descending through the ocean’s depths in a bathysphere, losing the light slowly, feeling more focused. I know that’s a strange visualization to run yourself through. But I was writing about water, and it helped immeasurably.
In Waves / Marisa Anderson
I have a hard time drafting to music with lyrics (the words pull me from the page, and if I know the song I can’t help humming along), but I have an even harder time drafting when I’m stuck in complete silence. The two instrumental albums I return to, and love, and put on early in the morning or late at night when writing are both by Marisa Anderson: Into The Light and Cloud Corner. Something about the openness of her playing strikes me as a pure invitation to let your mind wander, and you end up writing to this music as though it were a soundtrack to your own thoughts; and at the end of each record you feel as though you’ve been on a long journey. They also serve as perfect egg-timers–if you are stretched and busy, you can begin one of her records, make the plunge and write without over-thinking, and when it’s through you are done for the day. I also do this with The Disintegration Loops by William Basinski and “Move Your Heart” by Lou Reed, but those are more appropriate, perhaps, for meditation and deep description days (both highly recommended though!). Marisa Anderson is for plot days.
Little Dog Mind / Twain
Have you ever fallen in love (like bodily) with a song? I have; this song. I have no idea why it took me so long to find this record (Rare Feeling), but I can’t recommend it enough, and this song, to me, feels a bit like that strange elation / frustration that comes when you are chasing an idea you think might work but it just keeps slipping through your fingers and won’t put itself down on the page. “I’ve got the strangest feeling / rolling over me…” You have the heart for it, but the mind is wandering, and won’t return to sit at your feet in exactly the way you’d like. But listen to the whole record. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a voice like this. When he sings, you have the feeling of someone facing the world with their settings on maximum exposure, with little intention of making it out intact.
Clair de Lune / Kamasi Washington
Ah, crank this one (it’s from The Epic, his incredible album). It tells a story if you listen closely: invitation, complication, resolution. It begins somewhere familiar, and then uses repetition and patterning to pull you deeper and deeper and then sets you down gently on the other side of the mountain.
The Restless Waves / Dirty Three
Finally, here we are with our buddies again. I mentioned that the early, working title of North Sun was Ocean Songs (after this album). I can’t tell you how important this record is for me. So I won’t. But if you like amazing things, you’ll like this.
Faith in Love / Lostines
To write is to isolate yourself–from loved ones, from friends–for long stretches at a time, and it gets lonely, even if you are doing it right. It’s strange to say, it’s like you have to shut the world out in order to invite it back. But over the course of a long project, there are days when things go sideways and you find yourself deeply, deeply lost in your jagged dream. Only you have access to this dream, and it can be tempting, when things aren’t going well, to shut the world out even more, to say: maybe if I just turned my attention to this project even more completely, I will be able to get it over the line. And maybe that’s true (maybe!), but too many hours in the deep depths can wreck you; and you might need a lifeline at the end of the day to pull yourself back to the world you actually inhabit, with the people you love, and the dogs, and the small habits and chores around the house that really, honestly, do give satisfaction, an arc to the day that can’t be replicated by putting words on the page. So this is a song for the end of the writing day, a reminder to break that isolate streak, to stand up and stretch, to turn off the lamp, and walk downstairs, or outside, where the people you love are waiting for you, happy to see you’ve returned intact, happy to hear about your day, happy to tell you about theirs.