I spend a good deal of time, perhaps more than I should, delving into the experiences and observations of writers, musicians, artists and creators of all kinds, as I attempt to understand more about this mysterious thing we call ‘the creative process’. Inevitably I gravitate towards those whose work I particularly admire; and among my creative heroes there are a select few whose musings are so illuminating that they stand apart from the rest. People like Brian Eno, Sister Corita Kent, Marina Abramovic and … Hilary Mantel, who died, aged 70, just a couple of weeks ago.

The double Booker prize winner will be missed by many. Not least for her capacity to weave imaginative threads between the known facts of the historical record and conjure irresistible stories. But I will miss her most for her exquisitely expressed insights into creativity. Insights which speak not only to fellow writers, but to all of us who seek to bring ideas into being.

And so here is my own small tribute to Hilary: my favourite quotes from her on the creative process. Her advice is of course orientated towards writers, but can just as well be applied to painting or sculpture or composing or, well, whatever it is you make.

On how every artist has to create space for the work to make itself …

If you think of any worthwhile novel – its intersecting arcs, its intertwined themes and metaphors – no one is clever enough to do it. When you have crammed your head with data, you have to take your hands off and see what shapes the story forms. You must trust the process, and that can be difficult, because you have to quell anxiety; the task is to get out of your own way.

For sure, in the preparation stage, you need all your wits, all your commitment, all the resources of your memory. But after a certain point, you can’t engineer the novel, or will it. You can listen for it, make a space for it, pick out its approach in the distance.

On serving your subject, rather than your audience …

The best advice came from my agent, when I was a year or so into my career. I was dithering about a future project, saying that there was a way to do it that would be accessible and commercial, and a way to do it that would be smart but unpopular. He said, “Just write as well as you can.”

That advice has saved me years. I never again asked the question, of myself or anyone else. It’s the only way to work—don’t write to what you perceive as a market. Don’t write out of anyone’s need except your own. Don’t try to cater to an audience you think may not be keeping up with you—find the audience who will. I have amplified the advice in my mind: just serve your subject. Each book makes different and fierce demands. Each one uses up all you can do. Later you may be able to do more.

On doing little and often …

I get my admin done by noon if I can, and push it out of my mind so I can do some real work. I feel shy of saying this, because to non-writers it sounds so lazy—but if, seven days a week, you can cut out two hours for yourself, when you are undistracted and on-song, you will soon have a book.

On what to do if you hit a wall …

If you get stuck, get away from your desk. Take a walk, take a bath, go to sleep, make a pie, draw, listen to music, meditate, exercise; whatever you do, don't just stick there scowling at the problem. But don't make telephone calls or go to a party; if you do, other people's words will pour in where your lost words should be. Open a gap for them, create a space. Be patient.

On the fallacy of writer’s block …

I am dubious about the existence of blocks or frustrations peculiar to writers. Sometimes people claim they are blocked when they have nothing to say, or they have, temporarily anyway, exhausted their subject; this is not pathology. Sometimes a project goes into an incubation period; as I’ve said very often, the moment you have a good idea isn’t always the moment to see it through. Writing is a long game and you have to be patient with yourself and your material. A great deal happens in the dark, as it were; work goes on half-consciously. You have to trust this process is happening.

On editing as a creative act …

But there’s no point in having a healthy word-count, unless they’re the right words. Writing’s not an industrial process. You can’t measure your productivity day-to-day in any way the world recognizes. Compression is the first grace of style and takes hard labour. Your best days are sometimes those when you end up with less on the page than when you started.

On the difference between craft and art …

What makes craft into art is the margin left for contingency, the space made for ambiguity.

On being asked the question ‘Why do you write?’

I glimpse some fugitive meaning, glimmering in the general murk; I want to catch it in a net. I never do. But there’s always tomorrow.

RIP Hilary Mantel, 1952 - 2022