When I can’t write anymore, I turn to more writing. I always have three or four documents open on my screen, and I like—perhaps need—to be working on multiple projects at a time. Even if my attention is required on one piece, I prefer to break it up into chunks so I can jump around. On any given morning I could be trying to finish a paragraph, starting a new idea, revising a sentence I’ve been frustrated with, and polishing a section I’m ready to let go of—all at the same time. A few minutes on this, a few minutes on that. I know this seems erratic and scattered, but it actually helps me to focus better; I trick my mind into believing that I don’t have to concentrate on one thing for too long. A moment of laser focus here and then I can roam in the green pastures of other words elsewhere, which always feels like freedom. When I got my first tattoo, the artist told me it was going to hurt. “But,” she said, “the needle will touch skin for only ten seconds at a time.” Endure those many ten seconds and I’d have a piece of art on my body. Writing is like this: Work in short and intense moments, and then retreat, but don’t stop writing.
—Vinh Nguyen, author of The Migrant Rain Falls in Reverse: A Memory of Vietnam
(Counterpoint Press, 2025)