#13 Francesca Lo Basso, writer
'... and then I pace: to the window, to the door, back to the window.'
Francesca Lo Basso is a writer and narrative strategist living in Philadelphia. She deeply believes in narrative power and its ability to compel people and power holders. For nearly fifteen years, she has contributed her narrative skills to mission-driven nonprofit organizations as a communications strategist, grant writer, and community organizer. She holds an MFA from Kingston University in London and BA in English and Philosophy from La Salle University. You can read more of her work on her website.
Where do you write?
Sort of while roving—or at least it feels that way. I usually start on my couch with my laptop (staring at that blinking cursor of death until I can’t stand its judgment), and then I pace: to the window, to the door, back to the window. I’m always antsy when I first sit down—eager to sink into that inner place where I inhabit myself fully and can write for hours. When it’s just fun. But I can’t force that immersion. It took me years (and much therapy) to accept this invariable nagging panic as part of my practice.
Roof decks became a solace for me during the first year of the pandemic. I was living in a shared house at the time and spent whole days on my roof because it was the only place I could sit undisturbed. I’ve since moved to my own apartment and even with the (merciful) silence, I still wander up to my building’s roof when I get stuck. I think that breach—the crossing of the literal threshold I’ve drawn between my living and creative spaces—allows me to allow myself to open up.
Morning writer or late-night words?
Morning, definitely. I need to get up early and have the whole day ahead of me to meander through a plotline.
Coffee, tea or any other drinks?
Coffee. I’ve never been a tea person. Even two and a half years in London couldn’t convert me.
Handwritten notes or phone files?
Handwritten. I love the materiality of handwritten notes. I have dozens of hardback 3.5 X 5.5-inch Moleskins filled with overheard snippets of conversation, half-formed lines, story ideas, song lyrics I can’t get out of my head, quotes of funny or ridiculous or insightful things my friends say. Out of sheer utility, I carry notebooks around in my back jeans pocket, and I’ve come to love how body heat or sweat or an extended lean against a beer-soaked bar will warp the pages, bleed the ink. It’s like the words take on a life of their own.
Something to nibble while you write?
No, I find food distracting. I just keep a glass of water nearby.
What's your most tempting distraction?
Oh, research for sure. I will go down that digital Google rabbit hole like a modern day Alice. (Case in point: I had to pause here because I suddenly needed to know if the rabbit hole idiom inspired Lewis Carroll or if it was the other way around… FYI it’s Lewis’s brainchild.)
Any desk essentials?
Not so much essentials as inevitable accumulations. In theory, I prefer a clean workspace, but over the course of writing a piece, the stack of books I’m referencing for inspiration/atmosphere/cadence will grow—as will the diameter of coffee mug rings—and I’ll need to add a third, no fourth, print-out of the most recent draft to the pile because of that tricky metaphor on the last page and I’ll lose my pen under the sheaf of papers and grab two more (because I need an extra just in case)—and so on it goes until by the time I’m done with the piece my desk has taken on the aesthetic of a fictional 1970s detective’s on a TV police procedural.
What's on the speakers?
It totally depends. Sometimes I need palpable silence, other times I’ll create a kind of song mood-board that mimics the atmosphere of the piece I’m working on. If I need to block out background chatter, the only thing that works is early 2000s new rave dance-punk—Hadouken!’s Music for an Accelerated Culture, The Klaxons’ Myths of the Near Future, anything by The Faint or M.I.A., etc.
Writer uniform?
My comfiest clothes. Right now, it’s black sweatpants and a Libertines T-shirt with the neck cut out. (Am I the only one who experiences T-shirt collars as a slow strangulation?)
What are your pre-writing rituals?
Other than the anxiety shuffle mentioned earlier, my writing practice begins with reading—mostly novels but also creative nonfiction and books of short stories. I just finished Bernardine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other—a beautiful, lyrical journey through the lives of women and nonbinary POC of different ages—and Deborah Levy’s Hot Milk. Before I started writing today, I read the first few chapters of Rachel Cusk’s Second Place.
Perfect bookshop to hide on a rainy day?
Ooh—I love this question. I’m partial to a good used bookstore. In Philly, I frequent Philly AIDS Thrift—which itself is like a delightful romp through a drag queen’s boudoir. It has a wonderfully curated used fiction section. Or Mostly Books. We also have some great independent bookshops: Harriet's Bookshop and A Novel Idea are my favorites.
The best word in the English language?
Liminal—that in-between space. All that pregnant possibility—and those delicious rolling double “l”s. Or maw. I love how the word itself gapes open as you travel down the path of it and ends with that open-mouthed “w”—like a shout.
A poem that has changed your life:
I wouldn’t say this poem changed my life—though, then again, what characterizes as life-changing?—but the first poem that comes to mind is Julia Goldberg’s “The Boys I Mean,” a response to e.e. cummings’ “the boys i mean are not refined.” I stumbled onto it on someone’s Livejournal nearly twenty years ago and was enamored with its bawdiness and I-don’t-give-a-fuck-ness. Goldberg’s poem is almost impossible to find anymore (this is the only text of it I could find online so I’m not sure it’s 100% accurate), but she details its origins on her website. In college, someone pasted copies of the cummings poem inside all the bathroom stalls and it got stuck in her head. The cummings poem reads as pure bullshit misogyny and I love the idea of her shouting back at him through time.