Before I ever had the opportunity to write for a living, I used to romanticize the process of being a writer. We have all seen those creatives sitting in Starbucks, confidently typing away on their laptops for hours and days like they already know that they are working on the great American novel. They also seemed to know and appreciate that we – the other coffee shop patrons – knew that they were the gifted writing Brahmans.
I could not help but feel some resentment. Jealousy. I envied these bastards. While I was standing at a crowded window counter, glancing at my watch, gulping down my scalding, high-test and high-priced coffee so that I could pump sufficient levels of caffeine into my bloodstream in order to prime the mental furnace burning through legal issues and problems waiting for me back at the office, these artists were sitting comfortably at their squatter’s table, nursing a coffee that was so long cold that a star coagulated on its surface, while tapping away their messages from the literary gods.
And these weren’t starving artists. Most were Nepo babies cosplaying Parisian-based Expats. God bless them. I wanted to be Hemingway, too.
But my writing fantasy goes even further. I always pictured how the British writer James Barrie was portrayed by Johnny Depp in Finding Neverland.
https://youtu.be/M5_AOB9eCDM?si=o8b7QEkmy9VGivwN
Sitting alone on a park bench, small leather notebook in his lap, drawing creative inspiration from the everyday people and images around him, scribbling away in the notebook as his imagination led him to new literary heights.
That is the perfect way to live out one’s days.
But, you see, I never had the luxury of free time necessary to be able to go through so many layers of creative output. I had a demanding profession and family to feed and raise. I couldn’t start by taking notes about a potential story in a journal. Then hand-writing the novel in the leather journal, before hand-editing it there, before finally transcribing that draft onto a computer screen. Just picturing the process and the time it would demand of me is giving me an anxiety attack. I have always had other shit that needed my constant attention.
No one who is not independently wealthy, with an extremely forgiving and patient significant other and possibly a nanny for their perfect children who are otherwise capable of raising themselves without parental influence and guidance, could possibly pull that off.
Bottom line. Writing is a solo and completely selfish endeavor.
So, when I finally realized that my western relocation from Boogietown to Berthoud carved a couple of non-allocated new hours from my sleep schedule here in NoCo, I could not squander any of it as a performance piece of being a struggling writer in search of his muse.
I had to write. No outlines, no warmups, no notes, no writer’s block, no excuses, period. From imagination through fingertips to a printable version on a screen. Two hours each early morning.
However, my one caveat is that I will not begin a new novel unless my imagination has so overwhelmed my conscious state with a new story that I am compelled to sit down and spill it out or lose my mind.
I banged out The Wise Ass, An Alien Appeal, Kissing My Ass Goodbye and Finding Jimmy Moran in three chronologically contiguous years in just that fashion.
Now along the way, I also gathered together a group of wonderful readers who, over time, evolved into my selected inner circle, who were willing to become part of the creative experience and read my daily output for story, context and editorial purposes. This was extremely selfless on their parts and will forever be appreciated. It also freed me from the agony of reading my own work, which, to this day, I hate to do.
Over time, these readers have gotten to know me and my writing so well that they know when my stories are working and will tell me point blank if they are not. This is invaluable.
But after four novels I wanted to see if I could try it another way. I found an unused leatherbound writer’s journal that had been left behind by my son, Luke, who has penned two wonderful novels – Lebanon Red and Bullet Proof – (3) Instagram – which I highly recommend. I guess he writes the same way I do. Fingertips to screen.
I knew I was ready to write the final installment of The Claire Saga – Where The Ley Lines Meet.
Now I recently found this leather-bound journal in the bottom of my file cabinet when I was clearing out some old legal files.
It appears that I jotted down a line of dialogue between Claire and Jimmy on the inside of its front cover and then started handwriting what could be considered an outline to WTLLM.
Looking back at these few pages confirms two things. First, I don’t know if that line of dialogue ever made it into WTLLM, because I haven’t read the final version of the novel. I hope it did. Second, I realize that my penmanship is so terrible that even I can only read it in context. From what I can tell, I’m pretty sure there is enough here to suggest how the novel turned out.
But I’m also convinced that I never actually looked at the journal again while I was writing WTLLM. I didn’t have time and I would have found transcribing my hieroglyphics frustrating.
When I sat down to finally write WTLLM, I banged it out the same way as the prior four novels. Every morning for a few hours, I set scenes and characters on the screen and then let them loose on the pages that followed.
When I finally retired from law, I didn’t surrender to the decadent writer’s journey that could easily fill my now relatively free days with nothing to show for it. I sat down and banged out Free R.A.D.I.C.A.L. and Spark of Faith using my tried-and-true process. My inner circle was there every step of the way.
I’m glad I found that leather bound journal. I’m going to leave it on my desk as a reminder of what not to do if I want to write. But who knows, should my final body work support a posthumous and valuable writer’s reputation JRRT and/or Hemingway would be proud of, maybe that one leather journal will have collector’s value. Whichever of my family finds it wins. Stay tuned.
Well, here we are, my fine five readers, at another wonderful Hump Day.
Tie up those skates and attack the hill with all the work energy you can muster. Get the project done. And when you reach Wednesday’s peak, wave at Friday, hiding in Thursday’s shadow. The Halloween weekend is so close you can taste the candy.
And no matter what else we get up to, make today a great one!
