Writers Who Make You Furiously Jealous Are Your Best Mentors

Just as musicians credit their musical influences, writers, too, have literary inspirations who help them discover and shape their unique voice.

At a White House event for poets in 2011, Billy Collins said to students about finding your voice:

You’re searching for the poets who make you jealous...you're looking to get influenced by people who make you furiously jealous…And then copy them.1

Billy himself was influenced by the work of Wallace Stevens—I suppose he would say he was furiously jealous of him.

Anne Lamott's Seemingly Effortless Prose

Author Shauna Niequist openly mentions the influence of Anne Lamott on her work.

The first time I read Anne Lamott, I thought, “Is this allowed? People can write like this and it gets published?”

I laughed at her sometimes-crass and often sarcastic style. She opened the door to a whole new way of writing, with honesty and sass. While hers was not exactly my style, I admired the conversational tone—the seemingly stream-of-consciousness flow of ideas—that, upon close examination, were carefully crafted.

That skill to make her work seem like it effortlessly spilled onto the page but was actually carefully constructed?

That made me furiously jealous.

Annie Dillard's Literary Craftsmanship

My friend and co-author Charity Singleton Craig has mentioned Annie Dillard's impact on her. She frequently quotes her and I sense hints of that literary genius in my friend, as well as in Dillard.

I read Annie Dillard in my early 20s and wondered, “What is this?” I liked it, but I didn’t “get it.” I didn’t understand what she was doing.

But I saw that she stitched her work together with precision using the tools of a literary craftsman. And that, I admired.

That made me furiously jealous.

Madeleine L'Engle's Bridges of Trust, Love, and Hope

As a child, I read Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. Whether I voiced it or not, I know I wondered, “How did she do that?”

At that time I didn’t want to write in that style or genre, but she led us to trust, love, and hope through the delight of quirky characters. I was thrilled how intimately she connected with her reader—with me. I was grateful at the time.

Now, as an adult who writes, I’m furiously jealous. I want to create bridges of trust, love, and hope, as well.

Scott Russell Sanders' Unpretentious Midwestern Truth

Charity and I attended a lecture by Scott Russell Sanders. In my notebook, I scribbled notes. Then I leaned back and listened. Finally, I wrote, “I want to write like that” on the page of my notebook. I tilted the page toward Charity to show it to her. She nodded.

She could see I was furiously jealous.

He writes about the Midwest, where I’m from, so I’m always impressed with how he brings it to life. His work connects with me in the familiar references of trees and rivers and birds. He names them and I know them.

He makes creative choices seem less mysterious than Dillard and more accessible. He’s conversational in some ways but not curmudgeonly like Anne Lamott. When I read him, I think, “Hey, I could try that.”

He’ll tell stories, create scenes, and introduce a theme, a phrase, a word. He presses in, gently, a little more—labyrinthine at times and progressively, sequentially, other times.