(As first shared via Writer Unboxed)

The blank page of a new chapter stared at me like a grizzled gunslinger holding a hand over his six-shooter. My fingers trembled over the keyboard. Never had I wanted to help my in-laws with their printer issues more in my life. Or go to Costco. Anything but start my Pomodoro timer and leap into the unknown.

I have similar mornings more than I’d like to admit, but a month ago, as I reached forty-something thousand words in my WIP, I ground to a halt, and there was nothing funny about it.

Having exhausted myself tackling two complicated books last year, I tried to make this one easier by shooting for 90,000 words, keeping it to one POV, and writing a tale that wouldn’t require as much research. That way, I wouldn’t have to prepare and could spit out a winner without having to descend too deep into the literary cave where demons dine on writers’ brains.

And yet, there had been nothing easy about it, and that broke my heart.

What about Grisham? He probably wrote his last bestseller on a recliner while watching the news. No plot, no problem. And Emily St. John Mandel? I bet she doesn’t even have to edit; perfect sentences simply flow from her fingers. Then there’s me, prying words out like rotten molars.

I can’t speak for all writers, but I’m twenty years in, and it’s not getting easier. I get nowhere without getting my hands dirty. My attempt at phoning one in backfired epically. My WIP now has four POVs, including two unreliable narrators, and will likely surpass 130,000 words. That’s what I get for trying to outsmart the system.

Why do I do this to myself? Because I’m a writer, which is defined as a human who likes to torture themselves on the daily to create a product destined to elicit devastating reviews that will tear their heart out of their chest and stomp on it.

For those of us who are not Stephen King, this novel-writing thing can be a grind, and there is no more challenging part than writing the first draft. I had to dive deep into my bag of tricks to find a way forward. Thankfully, one thing I still have intact after being the victim of fourteen novels is resilience. I’m like a warrior hobbling off the battlefield with only the hilt of his sword.

Being a craft junkie, I revisited some of my favorite wisdom that I’ve collected over the years. One that set me back on track was from Cal Newport:

“Grand achievement is based on the steady accumulation of modest results over time.”

I cherish that idea.

There’s another quote that I ponder while I’m in hell being shot at by evil robots chanting “You’re wasting your time, you worthless piece of…”—er, I mean, while I’m in the early stages. Shannon Hale said:

“I’m writing a first draft and reminding myself that I’m simply shoveling sand into a box, so that later I can build castles.”

I need that one tattooed onto my face.

First drafts should be fun. We must play in our sandboxes like the wondrous children we once were. Sometimes, during a sprint, as I’m wrestling a writhing behemoth, I’ll intentionally insert something silly to remind myself that first drafts are for my eyes only. In the middle of a passage, I’ll write: Booby, Booby, Doo, where are you? Or, if I’m not yet “seeing” my protag’s dress, I might type: she wore a boring red dress that was so red that the president declared it was a new red that was redder than any red in the history of red. (Now that’s talent.) It’s fun to encounter those Easter eggs during the rewrites.

Okay, I’m sitting on 176 pages of lukewarm prose and peering down the barrel of a deadline. I’ve cried and been berated by the little boy inside of me. I’ve allowed the fear of producing nothing more than slop machine-gun me with doubt.

But I see the light! I’m reminded for the billionth time that it’s okay my early draft is warthog ugly. There’s no other way to get to the good stuff. As Fredrick Backman says:

“Chaos, chaos, chaos, book.”

Here’s my best effort at capturing my process, though it’s constantly evolving. I brainstorm, free-write, and scribble out ideas for a while, then eke out an outline using Scrivener’s corkboard feature. Once I foolishly think I’m ready, I dive in, slaughtering the English language with my word salad. I might make it halfway before I run off the tracks. Then I return to my outline, rework it with knowledge gained from this salad-shooter shit show, and try again, deleting wildly, rewriting entire chapters, but hopefully getting further this time. Each attempt makes the story more vivid in my mind.

If we approach early drafts with a carefree mindset, they can be a land of discovery. I love sprinting to a timer, as it sets me free. If I can help it, I don’t stop typing, often hitting a thousand words in twenty-five minutes. They’re mostly gobbledygook, but something wonderful happens. My left brain—the washed-up Oxford English professor in highwater trousers who questions everything—goes quiet, letting my right brain soar, often spitting out something that surprises me.

For example, I had a character with a muffled external goal. After a quarter-life crisis triggered by a failed book launch, she moves to Bologna to rediscover the happier version of herself that studied there in her teens. I’m the king of vague external goals, but I was having a hard time figuring out what she was doing all day on this journey of self-rediscovery. One-hundred pages in, during a mad finger dance, it hit me. She’s trying to do everything but tackle another book, but the urge to write keeps niggling at her. Eventually, she’ll cave and attempt a second book in secret, like an alcoholic knocking back shots of Smirnoff in the closet. It was only in taking a stab at mashing keys did this idea reveal itself. Hey, even though I had jumped the gun earlier this year and tried to write without a clear path, I still made progress.

When I backed up to start again, I did something I’ve meant to do for a long time: get organized. I started an Excel sheet called “The Brain.” The intent was to create the sheet of all sheets that captures everything I’ve learned; a tool that could be used as a template to prepare for each of my future books, ideally turning first-draft bloodbaths into Ritz-Carlton bubble baths.

The upper cells are dedicated to the title, premise, theme, etc. Color-coded columns for every arc-worthy character prompt me for short bios, Enneagram type, mentor figure, enemy, A-to-B shifts, a verb that captures their essence, internal and external goals and needs, and on and on. Further down in the same columns are beat sheets, which feature my version of the hero’s journey. There’s a section with notes to myself, such as reminders to include all six senses and add urgency. There’s also a to-do list, with tasks like work through Parker and Stone’s But, Therefore formula. I’ve even added my favorite quotes to a section at the bottom. For a guy who hates Excel, it’s a slightly impressive sheet.

Excluding the current book, which is moving in the right direction again, thanks for asking, I’ve always dedicated a ton of time to prep work and outlining, and it just works for me. Going forward, I plan on filling out every cell in “The Brain” before I start typing. Some of it doesn’t come easy, either, especially figuring out the latter beats. It requires full immersion into the story world without a keyboard in sight.

Writers love to debate plotting vs. pantsing. I plot by pantsing in my head first. This sort of journey of discovery is just as fun as typing to figure out what happens. I spend countless hours drifting off, slipping into my characters’ skin, and following their arcs all the way to the finale. It feels freeing to accept and confess that I’m one who requires deep prep work beforehand, especially since I write on deadline. I can’t afford to go in the wrong direction for too long.

I’ll leave you with this, a concept this over-caffeinated, insecure overachiever known to define his self-worth by his daily wordcount must beat into his own head. Amidst those soul-sucking, brick-wall moments during drafting, give yourself a break and remember to trust in the process. Allow yourself the joy of the incubation period. Writing isn’t always typing. Write by walking, strolling, watching Shrinking, daydreaming, Yoga-ing. Or by creating your version of “The Brain.” Then take another stab with no expectations. Once your inner voice tells you that you’ve lost control, step back to recalibrate again. Most of all, keep it fun. A few steps forward every day will take you to the grandest of heights.

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