How a Writing Project Begins

I write to understand things. To understand myself.

Writing is a form of thinking, of clarifying thoughts in your head. It helps you sort ideas, separating the good stuff from the dross. I often wonder if there is a correct way to write. Is there a right way to speak, a perfect order for words? I don’t think there is. There is only a way that works and many that don’t.

There are a lot of ways to say things—the order is up to you. That’s what can be fun about writing. The more you do this, the more you write and therefore think, the clearer the thoughts become.

That doesn’t mean they always come out clear, though. After years of doing this, I still struggle to make sense of the sentences that want to come. I still don’t always understand what shows up on the page.

All good writing is rewriting, they say, and I tend to agree. Which is why my first effort is almost always just to get the words on the page and see where they take me. I don’t so much care which words come first. I just need them to come.

In fiction writing, they call this “pantsing”—that is, flying by the seat of your pants. It can be a little chaotic, but I find doing a mind dump in the early drafting process helps. It calls your bluff on your “big idea” and shows you what raw material you really have.

How to capture these first words? Sometimes, I sit and wait. More often than not, they visit like aliens, the words do, in an extraterrestrial flutter—in perfect harmony—and I am forced to try to capture them. I cannot. Like a lepidopterist, I grab as many as I can with my feeble butterfly net and curse as I watch the rest of the beautiful things fly away.

Oh well. Better luck next time.

When the words do come, I try to find a way to jot down what I can. Not notes, never notes, only sentences, whole and complete and often articulate. I write as much as I can remember from the download, knowing that when I go back and revisit these words later, they will lack the magic they now possess. Most words lose their electricity with time, which is why you rewrite—the good ones remain. They tend to glow in the dark.

But that’s all part of the process and not worth worrying about right now. Now, I just write. Editing comes later. You have to discipline yourself in this process, managing your feelings of self-doubt and grandiosity, keeping both sides of the spectrum in check. This is neither as good nor as bad as you imagine. It is just the beginning.

When do I know I have an idea worthy of a book? I don’t. All my ideas feel important and usually urgent. Some, however, are annoyingly persistent. They revisit like trauma, coming back in disguises, dressed as other ideas; but when I examine them, I find the same ghost of my past. This is when I know I should pay attention.

That’s how it was for my latest writing project. I don’t know if it’s a good idea or the right one or if it will even work. I just know it won’t leave me alone, so I write down what I can to try to get the thing out of my head. I do it to purge what’s inside of me, to get free from this urge so that I can be available for what’s next.

Every idea is precious to the person it comes to. And every idea is a cruel taskmaster: it demands your everything. Every waking moment. Every ounce of energy. Like a child or a jealous lover, it won’t leave you alone. Be aware of this.

You can’t indulge the idea completely, or it’ll take full advantage of you. You’ll run out of money, starve, lose every relationship. You must dance with it, tease this new love in your life a little. “I see you,” you say, “come closer . . . but not too close. Let me just look at you.”

This is how you court the muse—carefully, because she will run roughshod over your life if you let her.

The thing reveals itself to you in pieces. It calls for your allegiance. Be cautious and composed. Hold yourself together. How you wrestle with it determines what, if anything, you will create. The idea needs to see that you are a safe place to land, that you can be trusted. Try to be busy about other things, tending to your previous commitments, but not so busy you cannot hear the call. Keep an ear out. Leave a light on. She will come back to you soon.

Eventually, the thing with wings comes and stays. It’s late at night or early in the morning or just after a long walk or a big cup of coffee and you have nothing to do, so you start writing. And you cannot stop. The ideas just keep coming. It’s not one big idea, but many.

You realize there is a lot that needs to be said here. The words are now writing themselves—this is a good sign, a sign to follow. Name the thing if it will let you. Give it a title, something playful you will change later. Call it “Michelangelo” or “The Truth About Cats.” Let the name remind you of what it is and what it means to you.

Save it as a file on your computer, someplace you can easily return to with minimal distraction. Promise to come back soon. Don’t abandon your newfound love after a single tryst. Devote yourself to this new quest.

For me, this is how it starts—not exactly practical but true.

Ideas haunt us until we agree to partner with them, to bring them into existence. The work requires commitment. You have to engage with it, for months if not years. You are married for this time, and there is no other. It is that serious.

After you have made your commitment, set a schedule. If not every day, try to touch the project at least once a week, for a good stretch of time—an hour or two, maybe three. The work will benefit from depth as much as consistency. Touch it often and tenderly, but not anxiously. It’s okay to let it breathe, to take the project on dates, as it were, and learn to long for it.

But for now, you have begun.

Today, I have a file on my computer, a single Word document with a title page and a rough outline. Now I open it, reread what I wrote over the weekend, trying not to fix anything and just acquainting myself, then pick up where I left off.

It doesn’t feel like much at this point, and that’s because it’s not. But everything inside of me has changed. What was timid and insecure is now resolute. This book will be made. The idea will be born. And I am available for it, ready to raise it to adulthood. I am demonstrating to the muse that I am ready for the adventure. I am ready for the words.

And soon, I know, more will come.

P.S. This Part 1 of my series on the writing process. See here for the full summary of that experiment and how I’m documenting the journey of writing my sixth book. Later this week, I’ll share with paid subscribers the behind-the-scenes story on how I got the book deal and give you a peek into that process. To not miss that, be sure you’re subscribed.