Michael Pollan is one of my all-time favorite nonfiction writers. He has been writing about food, nature, and consciousness for decades. For him, the writing process begins with a question. He finds something he's interested in and embarks on an adventure. He experiences things, talks to people, learns, and then compiles it all into a book. His writing style feels as if he's putting an arm around you, simply reporting back what he's learned and experienced, all in a very friendly way.
Michael has taught nonfiction writing at Harvard and UC Berkeley. At the end of the interview, he said: "I just gave you an entire semester's worth of content in one hour."
Hope you find this as valuable as I did.
Transcript
00:00:48 Caffeine and writing
00:03:37 Do drugs make you creative?
00:10:45 How psychedelics change writing
00:12:57 Michael’s journaling method
00:16:29 Writing routine
00:18:55 Two ways to write a draft
00:20:34 Why write in the first person
00:26:09 The cow story
00:34:08 How to balance story and facts
00:39:02 Metaphor is a cheat code
00:42:48 Finding the right question
00:51:25 Why you should read novels
00:55:40 How Michael does research
01:01:43 What makes a good character
01:08:35 Art expands our consciousness
01:11:05 What junior writers must know
David (00:48-00:59)
To begin, I told you earlier that I tried to abstain from coffee this morning, but I experienced severe brain fog. So I just chugged a cappuccino, and I feel much better now.
Michael (00:59-01:39)
Good, I’m glad. Many people interpreted my piece on caffeine and my fast from it as if I had a problem with coffee, suggesting one shouldn’t drink it, or that abstinence is heroic. However, that wasn’t my point at all. I was abstaining purely to observe the effects, and I looked forward to resuming caffeine the entire time.
If you can succeed in stopping for even a week or two, that first cup back makes it entirely worthwhile. You truly realize what a powerful drug it is.
David (01:39-01:41)
You said it was almost psychedelic.
Michael (01:41-03:04)
It was amazing. Of course, you can’t maintain that heightened state because you quickly return to your baseline. There’s no reason not to drink caffeine, unless you’re among the few who become incredibly jittery.
Abundant evidence suggests coffee and tea possess important health-giving properties. I specify coffee and tea, not just caffeine, because the benefits may stem from various plant chemicals, like polyphenols, found in both the coffee and tea plants. While it might not be the caffeine itself, its consumption correlates with lower rates of Parkinson’s and improved cardiovascular health. There are many positives associated with it.
I don’t urge anyone to give it up, except perhaps to acknowledge their dependence. It’s indispensable to my writing.
David (03:04-03:07)
How does your brain function differently?
Michael (03:07-03:37)
It’s sharper; I feel more present. You described brain fog earlier, and that’s precisely what you avoid.
What’s truly strange is that I feel more like myself on this chemical than I do without it. It has become woven into the very phenomenology of my being. When it’s taken away, it feels as if something is wrong.
David (03:37-03:42)
Now, I want to talk about different drugs.
David (03:44-03:50)
Specifically, I’d like to hear your take on how they affect the creative process. Let’s start with nicotine.
Michael (03:53-05:40)
I haven’t been exposed to nicotine in a very long time. I did smoke for a few years in my teens and twenties. To me, nicotine and caffeine are quite similar; they are both great focus drugs.
In my consciousness book, I draw a distinction—borrowed from psychologist and philosopher Alison Gopnik—between spotlight consciousness and lantern consciousness. Gopnik explains that spotlight consciousness is an adult skill: putting on blinders and focusing on a single task, which we learn in school and is necessary for achievement. Lantern consciousness, conversely, is typical of young children. They take in information from all 360 degrees, aren’t singularly focused, and may not stay on task or accomplish specific goals. However, they are mastering the world by absorbing more sensory information than adults typically do.
To write effectively, you definitely need that focused, spotlight concentration. Both caffeine and nicotine help narrow your cognitive aperture, which is necessary for getting tasks done but simultaneously closes off a lot of other information. I would categorize them similarly, and other stimulants likely have a similar effect.
There’s a sharpening of focus. With caffeine, there’s also an energetic component where you feel empowered, capable of accomplishing what you need to do. Sometimes you feel mentally too weak to accomplish a task, and caffeine provides a sense of empowerment, or at least the illusion of it.
David (05:40-05:45)
People often say, “Write drunk, edit sober.” Let’s talk about alcohol.
Michael (05:45-09:40)
I have never really connected to work. Most writers who drink do so to unwind from their work, not to write. I don’t know how many writers genuinely write while drunk, though there must be some.
Even someone like Hemingway, a heroic drunk, likely used alcohol to de-stress after a hard day’s work, not necessarily while writing. There’s a way you can become so fraught and tangled after a difficult day that you need a drug to chill out. In my experience, that’s how writers use alcohol. However, I believe that approach was discredited over the course of the 20th century. You don’t hear about drunk writers now in the way you constantly did back then.
Psychedelics can feed the creative process. It’s a mistake to assume epiphanies automatically occur on psychedelics. Most of these insights are stupid, banal, or unhelpful. For example, while it’s true that love is the most important thing in the world, what practical use is that insight? It’s a useful reminder, but not a creative breakthrough.
People certainly have powerful experiences. There’s a history of scientists achieving breakthroughs on psychedelics. Kary Mullis is a famous example. He was a biologist who conceived the idea for PCR, a technique for multiplying DNA, while tripping on acid and driving in Mendocino County. He described this experience, and many similar stories exist about scientists achieving breakthroughs, often involving a visualization of a problem they were trying to solve.
However, it has also led many people astray; it’s not an automatic path to insight. I had an experience, which I describe in A World Appears, that led to an important element of the book. While in my garden, I perceived the plants around me as cautious, returning my gaze. They felt benevolent, very present, and desirous of engagement.
I didn’t know what to do with this perception, as I’m usually quick to dismiss such things as drug-addled fantasy, even while tripping. In the moment, it was completely persuasive, consuming, and wonderful – truly awesome. But afterward, I questioned, “What do I do with that? Plants conscious?”
I read William James, who discusses mystical experiences in Varieties of Religious Experience. He argued that we cannot judge the truth value of these phenomena because we lack sufficient knowledge. The best approach, he suggested, is to treat them as hypotheses and seek other forms of knowledge that might support the idea.
That’s precisely what I did. I dove down a long, deep rabbit hole, researching plant intelligence and consciousness. I discovered scientists who are actively working on this topic and genuinely believe plants possess some form of sentience. This became an important part of my book, exploring how deep into nature consciousness extends. I doubt I would have pursued this research if I hadn’t had that psychedelic experience. In that sense, it was an inspiration.
David (09:40-10:57)
I taught writing for six years, and the biggest challenge my students faced was writer’s block. They struggled to transfer ideas from their minds onto the page. But it’s interesting: people don’t experience ‘talker’s block.’ If you simply speak your ideas aloud, it works. That’s why I constantly use Whisper Flow for my writing.
It’s incredibly easy. You press a hotkey, talk, and suddenly your ideas appear on the page. There are no filler words or sloppy punctuation, just a clean draft you can refine into something amazing. Because I’m no longer tethered to a keyboard, I can write on the move. The most significant benefit is that I trust it.
While I appreciate Siri — we’ve known each other for years — I sometimes wonder if she ever passed fourth-grade English, given her struggles with punctuation. Whisper Flow, however, automatically cleans up mistakes, digressions, and vocal fillers without losing any substance. That’s why I love it. I use it daily and recommend it to every writer I know. You can try it for free at ref.Whisperflow.AI/howirrite.
Psychedelics seem to have experienced a significant resurgence since the 1960s. I would assume there isn’t a long history of writers using them specifically for the act of writing.
Michael (10:58-12:56)
Some studies were conducted in the 1960s on creativity, psychedelics, and LSD. While not methodologically robust, they offered insights. At Stanford, psychologist Jim Fadiman initiated these studies to test the impact of LSD on creativity.
He gathered people from various professions—writers, scientists, architects—all of whom were stuck on a particular problem. He administered a moderate dose of LSD, about 100 micrograms. After they tripped and sprawled on the floor for a while, he instructed them to go to their desks and work on their problems. There was no control group, and the findings relied entirely on self-reports. Nonetheless, many participants claimed to have figured out designs or solved complex problems, reporting the experience as very helpful.
This is something that needs further study. Measuring creativity is tricky, especially with concepts like divergent thinking. However, it would be fascinating to revisit this type of research. I interviewed a scientist for A World Appears who studies spontaneous thought.
Spontaneous thought encompasses daydreaming and mind-wandering, where your thoughts are shaped less by your environment and more by internal, perhaps unconscious, processes. This type of thought is crucial for creativity. She posits that psilocybin nurtures spontaneous thought, leading to a surge of ideas from which creative insights can emerge. The entire concept, however, requires rigorous experimental testing.
David (12:57-13:09)
Tell me about the journaling you do when conducting such an experiment. I was struck, while flipping through various books, by how vivid some of the journal entries are.
Michael (13:10-14:22)
When I conduct an experiment to write about it, which I often do—I like to experiment on myself—I keep careful notes and maintain a diary. Certain phrases from my diary might appear in the finished piece, but its primary purpose is to remind me what the experience was truly like, day by day. As the effects fade, the vividness diminishes.
I always keep a detailed journal, whether I’m following a cow through the meat system or using a psychedelic. With psychedelics, taking notes in real time isn’t really possible. However, that same night, I always write down everything extensive I can remember about the experience.
You only use a fraction of it, but that’s the nature of writing nonfiction. You’re constantly overshooting. You conduct dozens of interviews that never make it into the final piece. You have all these experiences that turn out to be irrelevant. There’s a lot of what you could call “waste,” but it all goes in and is composted in some way.
David (14:22-14:26)
Do you collect it all in one single document?
Michael (14:26-15:14)
Yes, I maintain a journal for each piece. Throughout my research period, I write in it daily. It includes things I’ve read, interesting quotes, and highlights from interviews. It doesn’t contain the full interviews, but it refers to them; those are in separate files, organized by individual and then subject.
As I review transcripts, I copy salient quotes and add them to the journal. That’s what I write from. It’s a searchable document and quite messy—it wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. However, I don’t have a great memory, so everything needs to be recorded there.
David (15:14-15:22)
I was so happy to hear you say that. I have the worst memory. My sister can remember absolutely everything, but I simply cannot. I have to write everything down.
Michael (15:22-16:25)
As a writer, forgetting is very important, or at least I’ve convinced myself of that. With such a massive amount of material, forgetting is essentially how you edit. It’s a crucial mental process.
I wrote about this in Botany of Desire when I discussed cannabis, because one of its effects is causing us to forget. Everyone knows you forget moment by moment; you don’t recall what happened five seconds ago.
I remember interviewing Raphael Mechoulam, a scientist in Israel who studied cannabis. He had established that it causes people to forget things. I asked him, “Why would that be adaptive? Why is forgetting useful?” He responded, “Do you really want to remember all the faces you saw on the subway this morning?” We receive so much information every day that forgetting is as important as remembering. That made me think, “Oh, good,” because I’m very skilled at that.
David (16:25-16:26)
I’ll be alright.
Michael (16:28-16:28)
Right.
David (16:30-16:40)
As you’re working, it seems like the writing happens in the morning, and the afternoon is dedicated to researching and reading. How do you structure that?
Michael (16:40-17:41)
Yes, I usually have one drafting session in the morning. As a journalist, you have many days when you’re not writing at all, but instead taking notes, conducting interviews, or reading. However, when I’m in the drafting phase, which I actually enjoy the most—even more than reporting—I never feel I’ve done an honest day’s work if I haven’t produced some pages. It’s a very old-fashioned idea.
So, I start in the morning. If I’m drafting a chapter or an article, the first thing I do is read it through from the beginning and edit it. I find editing a good way to prime the pump and bring the piece back into my short-term memory. I trained as an editor; I was an editor before I became a writer.
David (17:41-17:42)
Oh, I didn’t know that.
Michael (17:42-18:55)
Yes, I was an editor for many years, including ten years at Harper’s magazine, and before that, at a couple of other magazines. Consequently, I’m very comfortable in that mode.
I edit from the beginning of the piece, so it’s combed over repeatedly every morning. Since I start at the beginning, the initial sections become very refined. This process can take one or two hours, sometimes longer.
I do this by hand: I print out the previous day’s work, mark up the clean copy, implement the changes, and then continue drafting for a few more pages. That method works for me.
However, I tell my students that this isn’t necessarily the best approach for everyone. I have friends who simply produce very rough drafts without looking back. They write until they’re done, sometimes even creating a short version of a book before it’s fully reported, and then they refine that. I prefer to keep everything neat.
David (18:55-19:09)
When I taught writing for many years, I would categorize people into two camps: the “printer method” and the “pixel method.” The printer method is like printing a photo where it emerges perfectly, line by line.
Michael (19:09-19:09)
Yes.
David (19:11-19:23)
Each line is perfect. The pixel method, in contrast, relates to earlier internet days: a photo would pop up, initially blurry.
Michael (19:24-19:24)
Then it would sharpen.
David (19:24-19:36)
Then it would sharpen in resolution. That’s what other people do; they get the whole thing down and then sharpen it. People often exclaim, “Oh, my goodness, I’m either this one or this one! I didn’t even know you could write the other way!”
Michael (19:36-19:47)
Yes, I see that with my students. Some are much better at producing that initial draft quickly. People often talk about “vomiting the first draft,” but that has never been my style.
David (19:48-20:07)
Your point about research reminds me of something I discovered while helping people with writer’s block. Sometimes, if you gather a vast enough base of information and ideas, you might look at that huge mountain of possibilities and realize you can easily build a smaller, focused piece because you have so much material to draw upon.
Michael (20:07-20:33)
That’s definitely true. You can get overwhelmed by material. I’m working on a piece now that has too much information. I step away from it for a couple of days or weeks, forget a lot, then see what sticks, and focus on that. I rely on forgetting to help me manage those overwhelming situations.
David (20:34-20:37)
Tell me why you write in the first person.
Michael (20:40-24:34)
There are several reasons. My professional magazine writing began with pieces I wrote for my first book, Second Nature, which were about gardening. At the time, I read a lot of English and American garden literature, which is very much in a letter-writing mode: familiar, first-person, and informal. My first essays were an effort to write in that genre.
Even though I was exploring different themes—not just the beauty of the rose, but why we find roses beautiful, how they’ve evolved to manipulate us, and other related issues—I still wrote in that familiar mode. I became very comfortable with that epistolary mode—an “over the back fence” conversation, very familiar, talking directly to the reader. It stuck with me, and I found it useful for other kinds of journalism, even those a bit more hard-edged than garden writing.
I also like breaking the fourth wall and talking to the reader, though I move in and out of doing so. Over time, I’ve developed a distinct voice on the page. While it varies from piece to piece, there’s a common thread that readers find helpful in guiding them through the subject matter.
Another source of this approach comes from my time at Harper’s. When I was executive editor at Harper’s, working for editor-in-chief Lewis Lapham, I would assign pieces and bring them to him for approval. Invariably, he’d ask, “Who is this person, and why do they care? You have to tell me on the first page.”
He was very suspicious of the omniscient, third-person voice—the kind often found in The New York Times or The New Yorker. He felt it implied an authority that wasn’t real and failed to convey something crucial: the writer’s perspective and personal investment. Consequently, I was always editing to incorporate the first person into those pieces. It wasn’t in a confessional way, but it subtly situated the writer, which he believed was a very honest approach. This was another source of my current style.
I also enjoy doing immersion pieces, where I put myself directly into the story to understand it better. This goes back to when I was 13; my parents gave me a copy of George Plimpton’s book, Paper Lion. Plimpton founded The Paris Review, but he was also a superb literary sports writer, primarily for Sports Illustrated.
He had the idea that he could revitalize sports writing by getting on the field himself. Although not a great athlete, he persuaded the Detroit Lions, back in the late 60s or early 70s, to let him go through summer training camp and even start as a quarterback in an exhibition game at the beginning of the season. How about that?
David (24:34-24:36)
That’s an assignment I’d say yes to.
Michael (24:36-25:43)
Plimpton was a rangy 6’4”, skinny as a rail. Paper Lion is a wonderful book that reinvented sports writing. Instead of the cynical, cigar-chomping voice of the usual sports writer in the press box—the one who’s seen and done it all—you were on the field experiencing the awe that comes only from doing something for the first time. No number of interviews with experienced football players, who had been doing it since childhood, could provide that same vividness.
He performed with the cymbals at the New York Philharmonic under Leonard Bernstein, and he pitched a baseball game. I’m not sure if he did hockey, but he used this technique several times. I loved what it produced: vivid, often humorous accounts, because you’re invariably a fish out of water and not very good at what you’re doing.
David (25:43-25:43)
Right.
Michael (25:43-26:09)
You might even get killed. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this idea had settled within me. I read that book when I was 13, and when opportunities arose to use this approach, the first time was probably when I was planting a genetically modified potato in my garden.
David (26:09-26:12)
You watched a pig from birth to slaughter.
Michael (26:13-26:15)
A cow.
David (26:15-26:15)
Yes.
Michael (26:16-26:16)
A steer.
David (26:17-26:17)
A steer.
Michael (26:18-26:44)
That was an interesting experience. The New York Times Magazine commissioned me, and for a few years, they encouraged me to write about the food system. This was before I wrote The Omnivore’s Dilemma, but there was a growing awareness, beginning in 2002—which I can trace to Eric Schlosser’s surprise bestseller, Fast Food Nation.
David (26:44-26:45)
So that was what year?
Michael (26:45-26:46)
2002.
David (26:46-26:48)
And what year was Super Size Me?
Michael (26:48-27:38)
Later in that decade, toward the end, it was certainly after The Omnivore’s Dilemma, which came out in 2006. So, about 20 years ago now.
A good editor, and I had wonderful editors—Adam Moss and Jerry Maserati at The Times Magazine—has a sense of the zeitgeist and its trajectory. They sensed that people were becoming very interested and anxious about how their food was produced.
They told me, “We want you to write a big cover story about the meat industry.” That’s all they said. I asked, “Which animal? Can we be more precise?” They actually paid me to spend a month finding the story, which was a nice opportunity. It should happen more often, as pitches are usually written on spec.
David (27:39-27:39)
How did you do that?
Michael (27:40-32:57)
I got on the phone and started calling people I knew. I began with Bill Nyman at Niman Ranch, who was friends with Orville Schell, the dean of the journalism school where I was teaching. Following that daisy chain of contacts, he explained how cattle are produced and acquainted me with the absurdity of the process.
For instance, they feed them corn even though cattle evolved to eat grass. When fed corn, they grow quickly but get sick, requiring antibiotics. He was very good at showing me how the system worked.
I continued calling other people and ranchers. By the end, I went to my editor, Jerry Maserati, and presented all the information I had learned. I told him I could think of six different focuses. First, it should be about beef, not chicken or pork; I felt beef was the more interesting story. I could cover the environmental story, the animal welfare story, the feed story, or the pharmaceutical story. I had about six different thematic buckets.
I had just done this data dump, without a clear idea of what the main angle would be. He then came up with an idea: “Why don’t you find one cow?” He called it a cow, but in the meat system, they’re usually steers; cows are for dairy. He suggested I tell the life story of one animal, and then I could hang all those different issues on that narrative. I thought it was a brilliant idea.
So, that’s what I started doing. Then I had to begin a second phase of research: finding the steer whose biography I would write. I didn’t know any steers. For me, in nonfiction, there are two big phases, which is a similar approach to documentary filmmaking.
The first phase is global research: understanding the system, what’s typical, how it works, and how it affects the environment—these are often the questions that engage me most. Once you understand the general case, you find your case study. That’s a very different kind of research.
Then you’re looking for the right subjects: a rancher who gives good quotes, an animal you have access to, and the ability to get into the feedlot and slaughterhouse. This can be harder to research, especially in the secretive food system.
I found my animal, but buying it wasn’t my idea. In fact, both key ideas for this project came from others. I was on the ranch, ready to pick out my animal, when one of the ranchers said, “If you really want to understand our business, you should buy this.” I immediately thought, “That’s a really good idea,” because it changes everything.
If I owned the animal, I could interact differently with the feedlot and slaughterhouse. Questions like, “What are you going to feed my animal?” or “Are you going to give it a hormone implant?” become my decisions. How would I weigh those choices?
Suddenly, I had departed from the skeptical press box perspective of a journalist. I was on the field, and I had to look at those decisions differently. Consider the hormone implant. It’s totally unnecessary and raises questions about things like early puberty in girls, given that we’re putting hormones in our meat—something Europeans don’t do.
It costs $15 to put that implant in the neck of my steer, whose number was 534. But it adds $50 more in weight at the end, which could be the difference between profit and loss for the animal. In a competitive environment, you have to do it. This personal involvement allowed me to present some of the ranchers’ decisions in a more sympathetic or empathetic way.
That idea came from the rancher. The next question was cost. It was about $600 for a baby calf at that stage. I considered expensing it to The Times, but realized I wouldn’t have any real skin in the game. So, I put up the $600 myself and bought the animal. Psychologically, it dramatically changed my relationship with the feedlot operator.
They knew I wasn’t a real rancher, that I was a journalist. But when I asked, “What would you do if 534 got this illness?” they treated me more like a client and less like a journalist. This softened their skepticism and made them less guarded. That’s a big part of journalism—making people less guarded when you’re
David (32:57-32:59)
talking to them as you’re going, yes.
Michael (32:59-34:07)
Gaining cooperation for that story was challenging; access was a real issue, necessitating a specific strategy. I needed to visit a ranch, a feedlot, and a slaughterhouse. These were the three essential stops on the journey.
Had I started with one of the four large companies that slaughter 85% of America’s beef, I would have been referred to their PR department and immediately denied access. Instead, I began at the other end, with the ranchers. Since ranchers are the feedlot’s customers, their call essentially cleared my visit, a favor they extended to their clients. This pattern continued up the chain.
Ultimately, I secured good access, even though everyone involved was quite upset when the article was published. I was able to speak with veterinarians on the feedlot and return for a reunion.
David (34:08-34:20)
Could you discuss the relationship between first-person writing and narrative? How does writing from the first person enable narrative to emerge in a piece, especially when you also talk about a “through line”?
Michael (34:20-34:30)
I call it the “laundry line.” It’s a metaphor my students don’t quite understand anymore because they haven’t seen one in a very long time. Now everyone has dryers.
Michael (34:31-36:24)
Every now and then, on a train through Baltimore, you’ll still see laundry lines.
I view a narrative nonfiction story as having an X and Y axis. The X-axis, the horizontal one, represents your narrative. This is the life story of the animal: insemination, birth, weaning, feedlot, slaughter. Those are the key points moving forward.
Then you have all the information you want to convey: grass versus corn, pharmaceuticals, feedlot pollution, animal cruelty. This is the laundry. You need to space it out because if you clump it all together, it sags. Exposition is less appealing to the reader than the narrative. We constantly want to know what happens next. In this specific case, readers know the animal will be killed in a slaughterhouse and are curious about that process. This curiosity acts as your suspense principle.
You can depart from your laundry line for a period to provide exposition—to explain the feed, why corn is used, what that means, and how it’s grown with fossil fuel, in contrast to grass grown with sunlight. Metaphor is also a very important part of this.
However, you cannot stay away from your narrative for too long. You must cultivate a sense of when your reader will grow impatient. While you could go on forever with exposition, you always need to return to your narrative.
Michael (36:25-36:56)
That’s how I conceive it. In some pieces, I don’t have a distinct laundry line; the laundry line and the narrative are one and the same—it’s what’s happening in the foreground.
For instance, in the caffeine piece, I created my narrative by giving up caffeine to observe the effects. That was my sacrifice. However, this approach doesn’t always work. Sometimes, it’s very difficult to find a laundry line that naturally fits the story.
David (36:56-37:12)
I recently heard it described as taking a walk in the woods: you have a destination, and you must stay on the path. You’re allowed to look around, but you cannot stray from the path itself. I like that analogy because it suggests you can observe different things, yet you are fundamentally moving towards a specific point.
Michael (37:12-37:14)
I think you can get off the path.
David (37:14-37:14)
Okay.
Michael (37:15-37:30)
For short amounts of time. Perhaps you notice something interesting just off the main trail, like a mushroom, and you want to explore it, venturing 10 or 20 steps away. The key is never to lose sight of the main path. If you go too far, you’ll lose it entirely.
Michael (37:31-39:02)
You won’t see it anymore, and you won’t be able to find your way back. This is a cultivated instinct—a sense of impatience. Impatience is very important in writing; it’s about recognizing the moment when you risk losing your readers. Part of this comes from internalizing your editor.
The whole point of these immersion experiences serves a couple of purposes. First, it offers a fresh perspective that isn’t that of a traditional journalist. People don’t generally warm to journalists; they prefer to hear from a normal person. So, as soon as I embark on one of these participatory adventures, I’m no longer just a journalist, but someone having an adventure. I believe readers connect to that more easily.
Second, it provides the narrative. I am constructing the narrative. I do this because I don’t naturally see the world in narrative terms; I have to actively work at it. For me, finding a way to put myself into the story is finding the story itself. When I can achieve that, it’s wonderful. However, it doesn’t always work, and you shouldn’t force it.
David (39:02-39:04)
You asked me to bring up metaphor.
Michael (39:05-40:20)
That’s another thing I find really powerful in writing. When you’re doing journalism—and this may not be true for everybody—at some level, you want to change what readers think. You are trying to move the world a little bit. There’s a deep politics to it.
You can argue a point, but if you can find the right metaphor, you can persuade people without even arguing. You can persuade them at an almost subliminal level.
I’ll give you an example. In this cattle story we’ve been discussing, I set up an opposition between a food chain grounded in sunlight and a food chain grounded in oil. Corn is grown using fossil fuel fertilizers. The massive amount of 90 million acres of corn that we grow in this country floats on a sea of oil.
When you feed animals on grass, which they evolved to do—they have a rumen and can digest grass, something we can’t do—you are eating from a food chain founded on sunlight. Which do you like better? What sounds better?
David (40:20-40:22)
Sunlight, obviously.
Michael (40:22-40:41)
I don’t even have to say that one is wrong, stupid, and unsustainable. People reach that conclusion on their own. Setting up that metaphorical framework did so much work for me. It’s a very simple metaphor: a sun-based food chain versus an oil-based food chain.
David (40:41-40:52)
What do you think is the key to a good metaphor? One of the things that stands out is its vividness. I can visualize the food chain on oil, and the food chain on grass.
Michael (40:52-41:32)
We love grass. We are savanna creatures. Look at the obsession with the American lawn. It’s very pleasing to us; it suggests a kind of subjugation of nature, among other things. Kids love to play on the grass. The lawn feels wholesome until Miracle-Gro products or WD-40 end up on it.
A good metaphor is easy to grasp, but they can be insidious too. It’s almost like cheating in some ways.
David (41:32-41:37)
That’s a little dangerous. It’s like the dark arts of communication.
Michael (41:37-42:47)
In some ways, it is. In my consciousness book, I challenge the metaphor that the brain is a computer. That metaphor has been very effective for people trying to create conscious AIs. If a brain is a computer, then consciousness is software, leading you down a path where you assume, “Of course, you can make a conscious AI.”
However, you have to step back and ask, “Is that a fair metaphor? Is it accurate?” Any metaphor likens one thing to another, implying an equation. Sometimes, it isn’t truly an equation, or it’s only a partial one.
You have to be honest about your metaphors. I’m somewhat joking when I call it “cheating.” It’s a shortcut to persuading people. If you find the right metaphor—one that is vivid, accurate, or fair—that has done 90% of your work. For example, if you want to encourage people to move toward one food chain and away from another, finding the right metaphor is 90% of the battle.
David (42:48-42:57)
Let’s talk about questions: how they’ve shown up throughout your work and how they evolve in a writer’s career.
Michael (42:57-44:07)
Questions are really important, piece by piece. Framing questions at the beginning of a piece solves many problems because it limits what you’re doing. It’s a principle of exclusion: “Does this contribute to answering this question? No? Okay, I’m not going to deal with that.”
It also introduces a principle of suspense, which is very basic. Will the writer be able to answer this question? What is the answer? It has to be a question the reader will be interested in, whether they’ve thought about it or not. This drives you forward.
Suspense is very simple: what will make someone wonder what happens next? Almost everything I write is a quest to answer one or several questions. They aren’t tricky; sometimes, they’re very straightforward. But it has to be something the reader cares about, or something you can make them care about.
David (44:07-44:45)
How do you think through the questions of your various books? I was looking through titles, thinking about the central question, and then reading the blurb on the back. I was struck by how quickly you capture interest and how clear a question can be.
For The Omnivore’s Dilemma, the question I wrote was, “How do we get so confused about eating?” Then, at the top of the blurb, it says, “America is suffering from what can only be described as a national eating disorder.” I thought, “Alright, I’m in. Strap in. Start the roller coaster.”
Michael (44:45-48:15)
Introductions are crucial. Let me explain why.
Nonfiction writers are privileged to include an introduction; novelists do not have that option. It’s a great tool because it sets the reader’s expectations. If you are concerned about omitting a topic, you can simply state in the introduction, “This is not a book that does X.” Then, suddenly, no one can criticize you for its absence.
I learned this lesson because the original edition of A Place of My Own did not have an introduction. I thought it was more elegant to launch directly into the narrative. However, I found the book was often misread, especially by reviewers. Since I hadn’t set expectations or established the book’s ground rules, reviewers felt free to interpret it as they wished.
For example, A Place of My Own is very much about building, but it doesn’t provide blueprints or building instructions. It’s not a “how-to” guide; it’s a “how-to-think-about-it” book. I vividly recall a review by Vitold Rypczynski, a Canadian architect who wrote extensively about popular architecture at the time. It annoyed me greatly because he criticized the book for not providing enough information to replicate the building. That was simply not my intention.
Consequently, I later wrote an introduction. I asked my editor, “It’s been ten years; can we add an introduction?” Which I did. The introduction is indeed a great tool. Very important decisions about your book will be made based solely on the introduction.
For instance, producers booking an NPR talk show like Fresh Air will read the introduction to decide whether to feature you. Similarly, book review assignment editors will read it to determine who should review your work. Therefore, it’s crucial to get it right.
What does “getting it right” entail? It means framing compelling questions, teasing what you’re going to explore without giving everything away. You must withhold information. Academics often make the mistake of giving away the punchline in an abstract at the beginning of an article. While that might be convention, it’s counterproductive for an introduction.
You must withhold something for the reader to discover later. It’s like not telling a joke by starting with the punchline.
I applied this lesson to The Botany of Desire, the book I wrote after A Place of My Own. I must have rewritten its introduction 25 or 30 times. I really refined it with the help of my editor, Ann Godoff, and a good friend I’d worked with at Harper’s, Paul Tough. It became more and more polished. I believe it’s the best introduction I’ve written for setting up what was a rather unusual book.
David (48:15-48:24)
What are the components of a good introduction? What do you look for? If I were to submit an introduction to you, what criteria would you use to evaluate it?
Michael (48:24-50:41)
First, there’s often an origin story: why did you become interested? Is there an epiphany, a moment when you suddenly realized, “This is an interesting story”? I find these are often crafted in nonfiction books.
In The Botany of Desire, I describe a moment in my garden, watching bees pollinate an apple tree while I was planting potatoes. A question occurred to me: How am I like those bees? They believe they are extracting the best from the apple tree, taking nectar or pollen, but in reality, they’ve been manipulated by the apple tree to do exactly that — to carry its DNA to other apple trees. Had the potato done the same thing to me?
That little scene contained the kernel of the book, raising questions like: Who is in charge here? Are domesticated plants manipulating us, when we believe we are manipulating them? How do we truly fit into nature?
So, there’s the origin story, and then teasing out the questions from it. I’m making it sound more formulaic than it is, as every book is a little different. Then comes a preview of what to expect, perhaps listing the four plants we’ll examine. And finally, some element of suspense – not just the question you’re going to answer, but a sense of where we’re headed or something you’ll know by the end that you don’t know now, something that propels the reader forward.
The central idea, that we are in a symbiotic, co-evolutionary relationship with domesticated species and less in charge of nature than we perceive, forms the book’s thesis. This is teased in the introduction without being spelled out in great detail. Yes, I spend a lot of time on introductions; they are the most meticulously crafted part of the book.
Introductions are also fascinating because they are in the book, yet somewhat outside it. You can openly discuss the book within the introduction. It’s very much a place to break the fourth wall and tell the reader what they are about to experience.
David (50:41-50:44)
Do you write introductions at the beginning or at the end of the writing process?
Michael (50:44-50:46)
I usually write them at the end.
David (50:46-50:46)
Okay.
Michael (50:47-50:53)
In the case of A World Appears, I drafted it at the beginning and then rewrote it at the end.
David (50:53-51:03)
What do you make of that process? Does drafting it at the beginning give you a sense of direction, a framework or a sandbox to play in, and then at the end, you’re refining it for the reader instead of for yourself?
Michael (51:03-51:24)
At the end, you can ensure you’ve delivered on any promises made. It’s a wonderful opportunity to set expectations and declare, “This isn’t that kind of book,” or “I’m not going to write about free will here.” We should all take advantage of it.
David (51:25-51:44)
How do you approach voice as you write? I know that at times, once you’ve completed your research for a chapter, you put it aside and instead read fiction to absorb its cadence and rhythms.
Michael (51:45-52:37)
In general, fiction is better written than nonfiction. That’s generally the case, although there’s some badly written fiction and some beautifully written nonfiction.
Once I’ve finished my research and I’m in drafting mode, I don’t want to take in more information on the subject. It will only throw me off. I want to work with what I have, relying on my memory.
I treat myself by starting to read novels while I’m writing. What you read before bed influences what comes out the next day. You internalize cadences and think more about metaphor than information. I find it really sets me up.
David (52:37-52:43)
Are there certain writers whose voice you really admire and almost want to mimic as you’re writing?
Michael (52:44-53:20)
I used to be a big fan of Ted Hoagland, a nature writer. I loved his prose.
When I was working on my more nature-oriented books, such as A Place of My Own or The Botany of Desire, I would pick up a collection of his essays. They always provided inspiration.
I’ve also always liked Wendell Berry’s prose. There’s something sturdy about his sentences. He’s more formal than I am, and a little more of a scold.
David (53:20-53:24)
Speaking of formality, what does dialing it up or down do for you?
Michael (53:25-55:40)
I certainly have a friendly voice on the page. I try to keep humor close by, and it’s often self-deprecating.
I’m often an idiot on page one because I don’t think we should be lecturing readers. They don’t like that. If we write from the summit of our conclusions, saying, “Here’s what we know, reader, here’s what you should think,” like a preacher on the pulpit, nobody likes that.
When I say I’m an idiot on page one, it means I have more questions than answers. It’s not clear I’ll be answering the questions, and that’s the suspense. Will I figure this out? Will we truly understand what consciousness is or how it comes about by the end of the book?
The voice is naive at the beginning and gets more sophisticated as it goes on. I often have this conversation with my students: is there something disingenuous about not revealing everything upfront? When I go back and write the beginning, I already know the ending because I’ve done all the research. Am I being disingenuous to pretend ignorance at the outset?
I would say whenever we tell a story, we know the ending, but we don’t announce it immediately. Take the example of a joke: we know the punchline, but we pretend not to for a certain amount of time. It might seem disingenuous, but it’s very important to recreate the conditions of ignorance and curiosity at the beginning, even though you know the outcome.
That’s part of the voice, although I find it changes automatically depending on the subject. Some subjects demand more seriousness; the stakes are higher. If you use the exact same voice in every book, you lose impact. You need continuity, but also change.
David (55:40-55:55)
How have changes in the information environment — from before the internet, to the rise of Google, and now AI — impacted your craft and approach to work?
Michael (55:55-57:13)
You have access to a lot more information, and you can access it more easily. I haven’t been to the library in ages; I used to have to go there.
Now, I get onto the Harvard or Berkeley library site and download papers. Occasionally I’ll take out a physical book, but generally, with a few keystrokes, you can find almost any academic paper. I rely on a lot of scientific papers.
It’s actually overwhelming; there’s just too much. I always set up a Google alert on my subject. For example, I’m currently writing a piece about the microbiome, and every day, I receive about 20 alerts — 20 things to read. It’s astonishing how much work is being done and how much coverage there is.
The job has become sorting through this blizzard of information, and it’s not all good. I’ll use Gemini or ChatGPT for research occasionally, but the results are very uneven. Sometimes it’s helpful, but you have to be pretty distrustful. I’ve seen it make huge mistakes, but it’s also very helpful for defining a term or finding the origin of things.
David (57:13-57:17)
Finding the origin of things, like the etymology of an idea?
Michael (57:17-57:56)
Yes, like who was the first person to say X, or who invented Y?
I was writing something and became curious: how long have we known about electromagnetism? I was writing about panpsychism, which is essentially the idea that everything is conscious. It’s like adding a new quality, consciousness, to matter.
I thought a good metaphor or analogy for panpsychism, to help people take it seriously, would be an example of something else we’ve added to matter. On its face, panpsychism seems crazy to most people. I look at this wooden chair,
David (57:56-57:59)
and wonder if there’s consciousness in it.
Michael (57:59-58:02)
Just a tiny, tiny bit of consciousness?
David (58:02-58:05)
Trying to interact with this chair and ask, “Are you conscious over there?”
Michael (58:07-58:54)
I thought, if you want people to take that idea seriously, what else have we added to matter in recent history? Something we once had no idea existed, but turned out to be a fundamental part of the material world.
Then I thought of electromagnetism. It turns out it’s only 200 years old; Nicholas Faraday figured it out. We then added this new thing — these waves that are going through us all the time, capable of carrying information and telephone messages.
That’s an example. I didn’t know about Faraday and electromagnetism. I should have, but I never took physics in high school. Gemini or ChatGPT provided the answer.
David (58:54-60:10)
As you explore a new idea, are there heuristics you look for? One I’ve found useful is to examine the “civil wars” within a field. For example, I was once talking to a beekeeper. We were in Austin, Texas, and I asked him, “Ed, what are the big arguments at a beekeeping conference? What do people fight about?”
He replied, “Well, there are the localists and the globalists.”
I said, “Tell me about this.” He explained, “The localists believe bees should remain in their local environment. This approach yields different colors and textures of honey. Additionally, if a disease emerges, it remains locally concentrated.”
“Then there are the globalists. Globalists operate bee farms that travel on trucks, manipulating location and temperature to trick bees into producing more honey by extending their exposure to sunlight. They argue, ‘Of course we should do this; it leads to far greater honey production.’”
He continued, “These two groups genuinely dislike each other.”
I realized this is probably a good question to ask when examining any field: What is the core divide among the experts?
Michael (60:10-60:33)
That’s a great question. Scientists always try to be polite about it, not as direct as the localists versus globalists, but you can still uncover that conflict. Of course, you’re looking for conflict, right? Narrative depends on it. That was a great way to organize your piece.
David (60:34-60:38)
Narrative depends on conflict. Explain that.
Michael (60:40-61:43)
If there’s no conflict, there’s no tension. You want a certain amount of tension in a narrative. My book, for example, starts with a bet between two people. Christoph Koch is a neuroscientist who, back in the 90s, claimed that within 25 years we would find the neural correlates of consciousness—the specific neurons in the brain that produce subjective experience.
He was sitting in a bar with David Chalmers, a then-young philosopher from Australia who had framed the “hard problem”: How do you get from matter to mind? Chalmers asserted that they wouldn’t find these neural correlates in 25 years. They bet a case of fine wine. Suddenly, you have conflict: two opposing theories. Who will be right? It’s so simple. If you establish that tension, the reader thinks, “I wonder who won the bet?” That will compel them to read 20 pages.
David (61:43-62:03)
We’re talking about looking for specific people. In the case studies you mentioned earlier, what kinds of people do you seek? Are you looking for people with strong opinions and a bold voice? What makes a good character? What qualities do you recognize when you find the right person?
Michael (62:05-62:40)
They have a vivid way of expressing themselves. You can read their quotes and some people just sing, while others are halting and boring. That’s a key factor. So you’re looking for someone who is well-situated, has the authority to speak on the topic, and expresses themselves vividly. To me, that makes a good character. Often, someone who plays against type is also interesting.
David (62:40-62:41)
Playing against type?
Michael (62:41-63:20)
You expect a rancher to be a cowboy, but sometimes they’re like guys with visors, bookkeeping types—quirky. Michael Lewis is very good at finding these nonconformists who play against and sometimes beat the system. He revisits this character type constantly. Think of Moneyball or The Big Short. They’re often on a spectrum of unusualness. He enjoys these quirky types, and they’re appealing because they represent the “little guy beating the big system” narrative.
David (63:21-63:35)
At the risk of a slight digression, what is it we love so much about gardens? The Bible begins in a garden. You’ve been to the Huntington Library.
Michael (63:35-63:36)
Oh, yes. I love that place.
David (63:36-63:51)
Oh, my goodness. The Japanese Garden, the Chinese Garden—all these different kinds of gardens reveal so much about culture. Consider the linearity of a French garden versus the winding nature of a British garden.
Michael (63:51-65:19)
They are idealizations of nature. We live in nature. Gardens represent nature that answers to our wishes and desires. If we are authoritarian and crave order, we gravitate toward Versailles, the formal French garden. Sometimes we have a more romantic notion of nature. The English landscape garden pretends to be untended, yet it’s very carefully cultivated.
It’s a language through which we express our desires for how we wish nature to be. I believe some friction with the natural world is very important to who we are. It’s one of the things AIs will never experience—perhaps robots will—but it’s about actually dealing with the natural world, not just its representations.
Gardens are interesting because they are both representations and real. That’s very powerful. Gardens are also expressions of our human power, demonstrating our ability to make nature conform to our will. Yes, there’s a lot of that. The formal garden is the most blatant expression of this desire. It’s no accident that they flourished during times when kings and queens were in charge.
David (65:19-66:02)
As you spoke, I was thinking about something I mentioned when we first met: I have a garden in my front yard, and I’ve never lived next to one before this. At 31, this is my first time experiencing living alongside a garden. As you talked, I realized I need to write about this. I feel very strongly that something profound has happened to me over the last two months. I don’t have the words to describe it, and that’s really bothering me. This leads me to ask you about writing as a way of thinking. It’s a way to put words to experiences for which you currently lack expression. There’s something frustrating about that feeling. Writing can be...
Michael (66:02-67:10)
It becomes clear that writing is a form of thinking, not merely a form of expression. Often, I have only a general outline of where I want to go, yet I discover new ideas and metaphors in the course of writing.
Writing does something unique to your brain; it grants access to thoughts and connections you wouldn’t find just by walking, thinking, planning, or outlining. If you could separate what you initially thought you would write from what you actually produced, I believe you’d be surprised by the difference.
This is what concerns me about our current trajectory: the idea that we can outsource writing to AI. AI can write papers, and professors are grappling with this issue everywhere now. What is lost is the generative process itself—a fundamental way of thinking. I don’t fully understand how it works, but I’m consistently surprised by it.
Michael (67:10-68:34)
The fun part is that if you were merely transcribing what was in your head, it would be onerous, even if you found pleasure in the craft. The true thrill comes from what you discover in a day of writing—new knowledge and unexpected ideas.
To delegate that to a machine would be to deprive oneself of something profoundly important; it’s a dimension of creativity. It’s not just writers who experience this. My wife is a painter, and her process involves very little planning. One mark leads to another, one color summons another into existence because it simply works.
She learns so much along the way that she didn’t know when she started. It’s a process of discovery, not merely expressing a pre-conceived vision. I’m sure this holds true for architects and composers as well. The process itself is generative. We make a mistake when we hand such a precious thing over to machines.
David (68:35-68:58)
You’ve spoken about art as a way of expanding consciousness. I recall an interview you did—perhaps with Charlie Rose years ago—where you discussed art’s capacity to expand consciousness.
This resonated with my own experience, particularly with visual arts. You look at them and think, “I didn’t know that was possible.”
Michael (68:58-71:04)
In my new book, I discuss art as a means to access the consciousness of others, thereby expanding our own. Individual consciousness possesses an encrypted quality; there’s a breach, a space between your consciousness and mine.
Even with our exchange of words, it’s incredibly difficult to truly know what occurs in another person’s mind. Novelists provide us with access to this. While it’s a fictionalized person, we often know more about Madame Bovary’s consciousness than we do about people very close to us.
Proust beautifully describes this, noting that we exist on islands of consciousness, aware that others possess it, but art is our primary means of access. This also occurs in painting, not just writing.
I believe that’s a crucial function of art. While art also changes our perspective or allows us to see in new ways, this fundamentally means seeing as another consciousness sees. The more diverse consciousnesses we can access, the broader our own becomes.
This is why the book, though beginning with the science of consciousness, dedicates significant time to the humanities; I realized novelists were experts on the subject. Poets, too, constantly expose consciousness to us. While consciousness doesn’t necessarily consist of words—much of it defies articulation—art allows us to get as close as possible using the tools we have. It’s amazing how close we can get.
David (71:05-71:18)
Let’s conclude here. As you teach writing, what are the most important insights you want to impart to budding writers who aspire to do the kind of work you do?
Michael (71:19-72:41)
A lot of what we’ve discussed, such as finding the “laundry line,” framing questions, and working with suspense, are elements I teach. I also teach that no one truly feels proficient while actively engaged in the process.
Unlike woodworking or playing an instrument, which can become second nature, writing remains challenging even after doing it professionally for 40 years. Every time you face that white screen, you wonder why it doesn’t come more easily.
There’s a tendency to believe that if it’s difficult, it’s not meant for you, or that you’re simply not good enough or the right person. However, it’s hard for everyone to some degree.
I still struggle every time I sit down to write, even playing games with myself about how much I need to produce before earning a snack. So, simply because you find it difficult doesn’t mean you weren’t meant to do it.
David (72:41-72:43)
That was a wonderful conversation. It’s great to meet you.
Michael (72:43-72:45)
Thank you, Dave, very much. It was a great pleasure.
