“Someone once asked Somerset Maughham if he wrote on a schedule or only when struck by inspiration. 'I write only when inspiration strikes,' he replied. 'Fortunately it strikes every morning at nine o'clock sharp.'”
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— Steven Pressfield, The War of Art​
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The War of Art is one of the most impactful books I've ever read. And it doesn't read like most books. It's a battlecry and battle plan against that ever-present, invisible obstacle that creative types face daily. Pressfield gives it a name: Resistance. And a face.

"Resistance is self-sabotage...Resistance is not a peripheral opponent. Resistance arises from within. It is self-generated and self-perpetuated. Resistance is the enemy within."

"Resistance," Pressfield writes, "is experienced as fear; the degree of fear equates to the strength of Resistance. Therefore the more fear we feel about a specific enterprise, the more certain we can be that that enterprise is important to us and to the growth of our soul. That's why we feel so much Resistance. If it meant nothing to us, there'd be no Resistance.” 

So, how can we kill it? How can we win the war of art? How can we finish that which we wish to create? 

By doing the work. By choosing to get up early—to prioritize one's calling as the most urgent part of your day. By feeling Resistance and pushing back. Every day. By being a professional who gets up and puts on the work boots Monday through Friday. Plus some weekends. Rain or shine. Even when sick. Even when tired or frustrated or disheartened. By mastering oneself, by quitting the lethal habit of procrastination in its many forms—eating sweet food, drinking alcohol, sex and masturbation, social media, chronic talking or reading)—by waging war against Resistance every day, we strengthen our creative muscles and or output. Win enough daily battles and you will inevitably win the war of art. 

Pressfield's exploration of the creative process cuts through and captures the essence of artistic blocks with epic brevity and pace. The audiobook is 6 hours, 4 if you crank the playback speed to 1.25. It's the perfect hiking companion. I revisit The War of Art monthly. But don't just take my word for it. 

Tim Ferriss, John Mayer, Ryan Holiday, Marie Forlio, Aubrey Marcus, Joe Rogan, and many other top performers cite Pressfield's body of work regularly, The War of Art especially. [JG]
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Steven Pressfield is the author of Gates of Fire, Tides of War, Last of the Amazons, Virtues of War, The Afghan Campaign, Killing Rommel, The Profession, The Lion's Gate, The War of Art, Turning Pro, Do the Work, The Warrior Ethos, The Authentic Swing, An American Jew, Nobody Wants to Read Your Sh*t, The Knowledge, and The Artist's Journey. 

It took Pressfield 17 years of writing to earn the first paycheck from his writing. It took another ten to publish his first novel, The Legend of Bagger Vance. That same year it was adapted for the screen and stared Matt Damon, Will Smith, and Charlize Theron. Robert Redford directed it. His Wednesday's column on stevenpressfield.com is among one of the most popular writing blogs on the web to this day. 
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I have been meaning to get around to reading "The Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass" for years. The abolitionist movement and the American Civil War have fascinated me since middle school. I think because it's our nation's most bloody and introspective conflict to this day. ​It was also the first photographed war. The invention of the camera coincided and was put to use by Matthew Brady. I learned though that Frederick Douglass—not Lincoln or Lee or Grant—was the most photographed American of the 19th century. 

Douglass never smiled by design, aiming to blast the meme of the happy, content-in-his-bondage black man from public discourse. His life's story is a powerful and painful-to-read indictment that peels back the dishonestly romanticized Old South's way of life—a meme which continues to this day. Anecdotally, I think it's why growing up I saw so many more battlefield re-enactors in grey than the 'blue bellies' at Gettysburg park.

Apparently, there are many slave narratives (yes, that's what the genre is called) and I plan to read many more. FD's tale is unique historically, though, as I understand it, as well as psychologically. Here was a man born into slavery, whose desire for freedom was awakened by his vision of an alternative life. In large degree, this was triggered by learning to read in secret. It's troubling to us readers, but the desire for freedom in Douglass' view were not automatically shared by many others, especially those who have never known a different life. [JG]

Lately, I've been striking out with books. I've marooned three in a row, feeling uninvolved with the topics, less moved by the authors' prose, and ultimately unmotivated to finish them let alone recommend them. That's not a good sign. I can count the number of unfinished books on one finger in the past two years. So I returned to basics. And I'm so glad. 

Growing up, The Swiss Family Robinson (1812) was one of my favorite adventure stories and the Disney movie (1960) was a chronic Blockbuster rental for years. Prying open the pages of my original copy, nearly twenty years later on the banks of the Pacific in La Jolla, I immediately felt at home alongside the minister, his wife, and four sons, Fritz, Ernest, Francis, and Jack—plus their menagerie of tamed and untamed animal friends. I smiled through the simple adventures of the shipwrecked Robinsons, as they worked to build Falconhurst, a mansion-sized treehouse amidst the jungle of a majestic, deadly island, all the while battling sharks, snakes, and monsoons. In time, with each passing season, the Robinson boys' unique preferences and skillsets blossom and the dangerous unknowns became a beloved home. Of course, with all storybook endings seeds for new adventures are planted, in the Robinsons' case on land and by sea.

I felt like a kid again. What spoke to me in The Swiss Family Robinson then and now was its thrilling adventure at sea, a taming of the wilderness with one's own hands, and a celebration of the strengthening of relationships during the process. I've always wanted a pet monkey too. [JG]

Johann Wyss's classic tale began as a bedtime tale for his own four boys, each of whom were represented in age and characteristics as Fritz, Ernest, Francis, and Jack. This isn't an uncommon origin for children's stories of course. Watership Down (which I love), The Lord of the Rings, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and many others began this way. But SFR was unique in that it's had a helping hand from many others over the last 200 years. 

​Wyss (1743-1818) based his story off Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. One of Wyss's sons, Johann Rudolf, edited and published his father's bedtime story in 1812. A French version appeared in 1824 in Paris with new adventures added, translated by Mme La  Baronne Isabelle  de Montolieu. Dozen of English and French versions went to market with new adventures added and old ones dropped or edited for 60 years. In 1889, W.H.G. Kingston's abridged English version became the The Swiss Family Robinson as it is known and sold today. Of course, the Disney version took liberties too, adding pirates and some ostrich olympics. 

Upon discovering this sampling and cutting and editing from different writers, editors, and publishers, I'm reminded of Homer's The Odyssey and The Iliad and its refinement from generations of oral tradition. Hip-hop beats from the 21st century come to mind too, sampled thousands of times over. In this sense, The Swiss Family Robinson is still alive and growing two centuries later, much like the island and its inhabitants of its pages.

"The leafy shade of this green tree is far more beautiful than any church."

— Minister Robinson, The Swiss Family Robinson
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I stumbled across the Girl sometime last year in The New Yorker archives. The lead-off short story of the collection within At the Bottom of the River is a lyrical, dizzying list of demands from a mother to her daughter: domestic chores multiply and hang on like nagging reminders, repeating and piling on. Then, slipped in come warnings of men and instructions on social posturing. And a cutting, ugly word—slut—that causes me to flinch.

It's a pejorative, hurtful word that sears the girl like a cattle brand due to Kincaid's contrast with the barrage of domestic instructions and chores. It aims to trap, to reduce, and to induce guilt. That would be bad enough, but Kincaid's brilliant final line, a question about the girl's inability to use her sexuality as a tool with the baker, is the cherry on top of the commandments and castigations.

The nine other short stories of At the Bottom of the River explore these themes of motherhood and adolescence, sexuality, and cultural divides—all in a brilliant lyrical style that feels equally whimsical, grave, and foreign. [JG]

Last month, I tumbled down the rabbit hole of rustic living ala My Self Reliance, the incredible YouTube channel of an outdoorsman who builds a log cabin and lives off the Canadian wilderness. One of the books he recommended was Hunt's log cabin manual. It maps out the planning, building, tools needed, and lessons learned of making an authentic pioneer cabin and furnishing it. We're talking foundations and fireplaces, walls, windows and doors, stairs, ceilings, and roofs, how to assemble a team of helpers with skillsets, and so on. This book is the perfect afternoon hike size and packed with illustrations, drawn to scale and details with dimensions. [JG]