Finding My Process

Not the James A. Webb, but it gives you the idea…

Let’s pretend that we’ve known each other for ages and are sitting down for a chat on your front porch or mine, iced tea or coffee in hand. Since we’re old friends, you know that I have wanted to write stories since I was five—that I caught the bug one evening when my parents, Bill and Coo, sat me and my brother down on the floor in the den for family time, and everyone took turns telling stories. My dad is a funny guy and a walking encyclopedia of interesting tidbits and jokes. After listening to just such a story, I decided to try my hand…and failed completely. That evening, I learned that a story needs structure.

Sometimes simple things are life-changing. What memories have guided you?

As an old friend, you would also know that I have tried, without success, to write a novel since I was eighteen—some time ago, to put it nicely. I was in college and, not having much sense, signed on for a grueling schedule. I was curious about everything. Finding time to write was hit or miss. I managed to get seventy pages in, then discovered that I had no plot—and trashed it.

Similar experiments followed, along with a few college publications, and a lot of encouragement from wonderful teachers, without resulting in anything tangible. I graduated, jumping from job to job over the years, trying to find my place, until a health crisis hit just as COVID was gaining momentum. I’ll spare you the gory details, but I found myself with a lot of time on my hands and a need for an income. Blind Spot was the product of circumstances. All of this is to say that, while I am not a novice, I am by no means a seasoned writer.

Finding my process began in a cold basement. The time of year doesn’t matter; it’s always cold. I sat down, wrapped in blankets and fingerless gloves, and twenty pages fell out. It was not a new story idea, but one I had been tinkering with for a couple of years. The first bit was familiar and easy. I don’t remember exactly how long that lasted, but I recall completing one hundred pages and just staring at the three digits in shock. Boy, was I in for a surprise! I trimmed my book; I promise!

For me, writing this book was an opportunity to get to know myself better. I learned to be honest. I learned to accept my failures and still press on. I learned that writing forty-five chapters and waking up to find twenty gone isn’t the end of all things. I still don’t know what happened. Back everything up and do it often! Once I became my own boss, short-term goals became important and addictive. Balance, a foreign concept, keeps imposing itself. I’ve not mastered it, but I’m learning how to approach it without getting bitten.

I started writing Blind Spot without an outline, knowing only how it began and how it ended. The original scene that kicked things off—Veritas eating at the Sullen Creek Brewpub—is still in there, but it’s no longer the beginning. The characters involved also changed. Go figure.

Once I realized that I really was going to write this book, I read tons of advice. I fell in love with Bookfox and Bethany Atazadeh on YouTube. But!!! The one thing that really stuck with me was from Clive Barker—that it takes eight rewrites for dialogue to flow effortlessly. That, my friend, is a far-off and distant dream, but someday it will take me only eight rewrites! When I first came across that advice, I reared back in horror. Eight! It seemed impossible. It isn’t. I just had to concentrate on the sentence in front of me.

What’s the best advice you’ve been given?

The next phase was creating an outline. I’m not sure if I qualify as a planner or a pantser. A hybrid, perhaps? I write out everything I know will happen in the story on bits of paper. I swap things around until the order makes sense to me. I type that order up and, as I write, rearrange, add, or subtract as needed. Sometimes two chapters fuse into one. Sometimes one splits into two. Sometimes I realize that the order of events is impossible, cut out a chunk, break it into bite-sized pieces, and feed it back in. I’m Dr. Frankenstein!

A typical schedule for me would involve reviewing what I wrote the previous day, doing some light editing, writing a chapter—perhaps starting a second—and then brainstorming what comes next. I generally keep the planning to three or four lines. I like doing that in a spiral notebook. It cuts down on the mad tangents and keeps me organized. On paper, I get to play; on the computer, I’m all business.

When I write, I open the book, the outline, my sandbox—where I keep the beast I’m working on until I know it works, and a document whose name shifts with the tide. In that ever-changing space, I keep things that might be useful—ideas that haven’t worked yet and bits that likely never will. Occasionally, other documents come into play—the biographies of my characters, recipes, menus, sports schedules, art projects—but they only get day passes.

Time away from writing is important, but I find I don’t like taking weekends off. Until I do.  Every day, I watch the news, read, do crafts, garden, cook, and step away from my beloved computer at regular intervals. It’s not only necessary; it’s work. My best ideas come from unrelated activities, like watching what the James A. Webb telescope has uncovered. With this pattern, I’m happy and productive for about three weeks. Then it hits—ennui, writer’s block, a headache, what have you. If I take one day off every week, it generally prevents these small traumas. Two days, and the danger of not writing for three months solid grows exponentially.

What inspires you? I’ve always been a daydreamer, but deep conversations, good books, fresh produce or a good meal, and home decorating shows get me fired up. I’ll admit to being picky, though. If you hadn’t already figured it out, I’m a fan of Ilona Andrews and Home Town.

When writer’s block is inevitable, I’ve found that it means I need to go back and change something. Sometimes, it only takes changing four sentences for a chapter to change its trajectory completely. Talking out a problem has helped, too. Coo is brilliant for pointing out the obvious next step when I get tunnel vision.

I’ve tried writing with music, hoping that a certain genre would result in a specific style of prose. It doesn’t work for me. It’s distracting. Quiet is good. Small, cozy writing spaces are good. A tumbler with water on hand is brilliant. Sometimes I forget to take a break or eat, so a timer is especially helpful. I hate alarms, so mine sounds like a thunderstorm.

What’s an ideal work environment for you? Quiet or chaos? I like visual interest and only the sounds of my family moving around the house. Maybe a cat purring nearby.

Well, my glass is empty, and I’ve talked your ear off long enough. My process will keep evolving, but some things never change: writing is messy, maddening, and full of surprises. It’s an adventure—whether you’re the one writing or the one reading. Here’s to more afternoons on the porch, trading stories—like when a hard turn led to something unexpectedly wonderful. Has life surprised you like that?