Where to begin? That’s right, at the end. Huh!?
Begin with the finished work of another author whom you admire. If you love them
read everything they wrote - poems, articles. essays, memoirs, stories, grocery lists.
But whatever you do, read, read, read.
My process begins with studying how. How did Neil Gaiman make a cast of characters flow with ease? How did Ernest Hemingway create dialogue that makes you feel like you’re in a Parisian cafe listening in on a conversation? How did Chris Claremont make stories that leave you with a heavy heart? Once I understand how these and other accomplished authors got their ideas across on the page I pull out a pen and paper (I’m
Gen X) or my laptop and I begin.
If I want to get the ideas out quickly I create a list of how the story will play out. In the mix I introduce my characters, give a quick rundown about who they are, what they do, when will a specific scene take place, how characters/scenes interact, why should my readers care? Does it sound like journalism? A little. But isn’t that what every writer is?
Whether we’re doing creative writing or we’re creating a new galaxy, we’re reporting. We’re the primary witness, the first person on the scene, we’re the detective opening drawers and tasting the coffee. The writer is the master of a new universe. So when I’m tapping away at the keys or scrawling across wide ruled paper I’m answering: who, what, when, where, why and how.
Then comes the good part. I fill in the blanks of the bones I laid down in the list. Here’s where I flourish. I expand on descriptions, I listen to the dialogue of my characters, I mold and craft the story until I’m happy. Confession: I’m never completely happy with my work. Until the words are ripped from my itchy fingers I will edit ad infinitum. Editing is the final step. I edit once, walk away. Twice, look over at the manuscript biting my nails still worried about the explosion on page seven. Thrice, I read, pretending the whole time I’ve never seen this work of fiction that I haven’t been churning over in my mind while I drive or wash dishes.
In the end deadlines call and I must release the work that I think is grossly unfinished to the universe. But I know that I’ve processed the work, albeit in my shaky anxious way, until I feel (semi-) confident that my words are ready to be read.
