The shelf nearest my desk holds eleven books, and none of them are there because they are great. They are there because each one solves a problem I keep having.
Two are for rhythm, opened at random and read aloud for ten minutes when my sentences start running long. Three are for structure — books that do something difficult with time, kept close so I can check how it was actually done rather than how I remember it being done.
The rest are for nerve. When a chapter feels too quiet or too strange to hand in, it helps to be reminded that the writers I admire most were routinely both.