Lessons from my conversation with José Luís Peixoto

I met José Luís Peixoto at FILIT in 2021 where I interviewed him for Zest Podcast. Today I’m revisiting some of the ideas that stuck with me, because there were plenty.

Decide before you start

José told me he’s strict about knowing where a book is going before he begins.

Not every detail needs to be fixed, but the essential ones — especially the ending — should be clear. That gives him a way to build toward something, to shape each part so it contributes to a coherent whole.

Many of us start writing in order to figure things out. He works the other way around.

When a text feels like it’s drifting, it’s often not a matter of discipline but of direction.

Writing before writing

Before beginning a novel, José fills notebooks with ideas. Fragments, possibilities, scenes, questions.

He spends time thinking about the world of the book, testing characters, imagining situations, and getting familiar with how everything fits together. He described this stage as deeply enjoyable.

Then comes the writing itself, which he sees as work.

If writing feels difficult, it doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong. It may simply mean you’ve moved past exploration and into execution.

Restarting is part of the process

At one point, he told me about restarting a novel after 300 pages.

He didn’t abandon it. He went back, kept what was useful, and reorganised the entire structure. This has happened to him more than once.

There’s a difference between giving up on a project and recognising that its current direction can’t carry the whole. Continuing in the wrong direction just because you’ve already invested time rarely leads anywhere good.

Sometimes the more demanding choice is also the right one: going back and rebuilding.

Patience to mature

José published his first book at 25, self-published, and it worked out well. Still, the advice he gives now is to take your time.

Writing develops over time, and in literature, there is often more to gain from patience than from speed. The pressure to publish quickly doesn’t always serve the work itself.

You can maintain a steady writing practice while allowing space for the work to mature before you share it.

Pain and effort are part of the process

One idea stayed with me more than anything else: if writing a novel feels entirely pleasant, he tends to question how strong it really is — an idea that I heard several times, including from bestselling author Markus Zusak.

Doubt, resistance, the sense that you might not be able to pull it off — these are not interruptions to the process. They belong to it.

Writing, in his words, is an exercise of confidence and will.

You are putting something personal in front of others, without knowing how it will be received. That exposure creates tension, and that tension is part of what shapes the work.

What matters is continuing despite it.

Think marathon, not sprint

He compared writing to running a marathon, with that familiar moment when everything in your head tells you to stop.

The difference lies in continuing, step by step, even when the impulse is to quit.

At the same time, continuing blindly doesn’t help. He pointed out that writing without direction easily turns into accumulation — words placed one after another without leading anywhere.

Endurance only matters if you know what you’re moving toward.

Coherence matters more than simplicity

When I asked how he evaluates writing, his answer was clear: coherence and unity.

A text can be complex or even confusing, as long as it makes sense to the person who wrote it. That internal logic is what holds everything together.

During editing, this becomes a useful lens. If a scene, a character, or a paragraph doesn’t contribute to the overall direction, it weakens the whole. You begin to feel it as excess.

Don’t write like a sardine moves

At one point, he used an unexpected image: sardines moving in vast groups, following whatever food appears closest to them.

Writing requires a different kind of movement. If you rely only on what seems interesting in the moment, the structure dissolves, and the text loses direction.

Thinking ahead — building a path that connects one point to another — is what gives the work its shape and meaning.

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It’s tempting to look for ways to make writing feel smoother, lighter, more effortless.

But José’s perspective shows that writing requires time, direction, and a willingness to stay with it when it becomes difficult. Especially then.

That means preparing before you begin, knowing where you’re heading, allowing yourself to start over when needed, and continuing even when doubt shows up.

Less about ease, more about commitment.

Photo by Patrícia Santos Pinto