When I began my writing hobby, I wondered about the mechanics of how real authors worked. I figured real authors (famous ones, for whom writing was their day job) just sat at their keyboards producing electronic reams of high-quality prose, stealing glances out the window across the acreage of their vast estates. Or maybe some of them lounged by the side of their Olympic pool with a voice recorder in hand, speaking the words that one of their staff would later type up in a manuscript. Perhaps some of the older, less techno-savvy of these authors still used their favorite typewriter (remember those?), or wrote on paper with a diamond-studded fountain pen. Again, the task of typing all those magical, money-making lines into a word processor would fall to a minion.
The daily routine of a real author, I imagined, would go something like this. Noon: wake up. Afternoon: Do something to get in the writing mood, such as scuba diving, skiing, hunting bear, skydiving, or piloting your private jet to some city for lunch or dinner with famous editor or agent. After dinner: intimate party with one hundred celebrity friends. Midnight: write until four a.m. Sleep. Repeat every day.
Such imaginings did my psyche no good at all. Inevitably I would compare my own situation to that of my fantasy author and find that I fell somewhat short. I lacked not only the vast estate and Olympic pool, but even the diamond-studded pen and private jet. Most of all, I lacked the long stretches of time available to famous writers.
Somehow I would have to make due with a computer located in a small downstairs den, a plastic ballpoint pen, and the short, irregular snatches of time I could steal from my day job and family obligations.
How should I make best use of these scanty resources? Should I carve out an hour of each day and declare it my writing hour? Sit down at the computer and do nothing else but write during that time? Such a strategy would have the advantage of forming a habit, establishing a mental boundary that would keep other activities out and ensure a fixed routine. The act of sitting down every day to write at the same time, in the same setting, would ensure a steady flow of output.
That approach might work for some, and how I wish it worked for me. But my muse would have none of it. I’d sit down at the beginning of my writing hour and think, “Now, be creative.” But nothing happened. Apparently my carefully arranged writing hour was inconvenient for my muse, damn her. So a wasted sixty minutes ensued in which a few words got typed, the delete and backspace keys saw much action, and nothing of consequence resulted. In frustration I retired for bed, first taking my customary nighttime shower. Don’t you know—it was then the stupid muse decided to visit, with me naked and soaking wet, without a computer in sight.
In time, I came to realize that writing—for me—would mean adapting my schedule to that of my muse. I’d have to be ready for her appearance at any time of day. I formed the habit of carrying a writing pad in my briefcase to and from work or when going on errands. I put a voice recorder in the car, and another writing pad on the nightstand. Yes, it means extra work since I write by hand first, then type the same words into my computer’s word processor. But I find the typing process serves as a first edit along the way to a finished draft.
As a story progresses, I hand-write several pages, then type them up and print them out. By stapling blank pages to the back, I can then use my (and my muse’s) available time to edit what I’ve done before and add to it. Then type and print some more, etc. and edit the result until the story’s done. It may seem cumbersome, but it works for me.
Those last four words are the main point. If a writer you would be, then you’ll have to work out the mechanics of the process for yourself. I wish you luck, says–
Poseidon’s Scribe
