Category: writers notebook (Page 1 of 6)

In the spirit of Stephen King’s advice to finish a draft in the “length of a season,” I’m trying to finish my children’s adventure fantasy, Shards of Stolen Breath, before January 1, 2026. As such, I made a pact with myself last week to write for seven days, an hour-long chunk each day, to see what I could get accomplished.

I followed several procedures, namely, keeping the writing time flexible (to account for my unpredictable schedules), counting down the hour in twenty-minute chunks (to keep myself more accountable and not get lost in the weeds of distraction), and using the “skeleton scene” method of writing down scene ideas on note cards immediately before writing the draft. I also made a commitment to not focus on the number of words written but on the time spent in the chair.

It’s been seven days (the length of my pact to myself), and I’ve learned a few things about myself, my abilities, my inabilities, and what I need to work on going forward.

First, what worked.

Skeleton scenes were excellent. They gave me a road map but a loose one. When I started each writing session, I had a few previous cards to look at and gather ideas from, but I also had the option to sketch new scene ideas on new cards. Both sets of cards–previous ideas and new ideas–put me at ease and let me know that when the timer starts, I’m not committed to furiously rushing into the manuscript. Instead, I can think a bit, daydream a bit, let my imagination awaken, before writing. Even though I wasn’t focused on word counts, I ended up writing about 1,000 words per hour. This is a great pace for me, and it was almost effortless, which is what I want.

Storytelling should be a flow-state activity, and using the skeleton scenes to spur my imagination put me into that flow state.

The other thing that worked was the twenty-twenty-twenty timer regime. There were a few times when I got off track in my twenty-minute chunks, but the buzzing of the timer reminded me of what I should be doing, and thus, I refocused for the next twenty minutes.

Finally, I think focusing on time and not words helped me feel less anxious. It reduced the pressure and made my writing time feel more like leisure and less like work.

However, the caveat to this is that I couldn’t quite manage to ignore the pressure of writing more words. With a deadline of January 1–and an ability to do basic math–I know how many words I should be writing each week, and the fact that I did NOT manage to hit those words means I’m in danger of not achieving my “length of a season” goal.

Maybe the problem is in setting such a goal in the first place, but I wanted to experiment with writing more urgently (with a little more fire in the belly, so to speak), and the six-week time frame felt appropriately pressured without being too much.

But now, on the other side of seven days, I’m wondering if it is too much. I like the idea of finishing this novel by the end of midwinter, but maybe that’s not possible.

What is the “length of a season” anyway? If I’m following a four-season year, then that’s roughly three months per season. I’ve already written about 10,000 words of Shards, but I have many more words to go. Perhaps I should give myself two months to finish instead of one and some change?

This seven-day pact has definitely taught me that I can comfortably get about 500-600 words written each day–without limiting or straining my other responsibilities–so perhaps my season for Shards needs to extend into January. Even if I were to finish mid-February, that’s still setting me up to begin a new project in the spring and finish it before June.

But in order to do that, I’ll need to bump my words up from 500-600 per day to closer to 1,000.

The other lesson I learned from my pact is that I tend to stall out after 500 words. I never quite made my one-hour chunk any of the days. I’m curious to know why that is and what I might do about it. Is it a matter of needing a break? Splitting up the writing time into two different sessions? Or do I need to find a new tactic to get my spark back and finish the session?

Skeleton scenes worked well for getting me started, but perhaps there is another tactic for pushing me into my second set of 500 words.

Or maybe I need to recommit to focusing on my time in the chair and not bother about words at all.

Or maybe I need to use that second half of BIC (“butt in chair”) time to do other creative work. Maybe it’s time to do a writing exercise or creative daydreaming.

These are questions and experiments for another day (another seven-day pact?).

Now for what didn’t work.

I was not able to keep my pact for two of the seven days. Both Wednesday and Friday were traveling days (to see family for Thanksgiving), and I found myself completely unable to get anything done other than morning pages on those two days. I don’t know if it would’ve helped to schedule my writing time in the morning before departing, but the mornings were busy with packing, so I don’t think so.

Trying to write in the evening after a long day of travel proved too much. I’m not very happy about my failure here, but I did learn that perhaps I’m just not able to do much on a travel day. The stress of traveling is too heavy for creative work.

Going forward, on these kinds of days, I should be content with writer’s notebook time in the morning and focus on other ways to connect with my creativity later in the day. On both traveling days, for instance, we listened to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire while we drove, and that was a good way for me to stay connected to fantasy fiction and be inspired. Perhaps on these sorts of days, that’s all I can ask of myself.

In some ways, despite failing to stick to the pact for all seven days, I’m glad that I had those two “missed” days because they allowed me to see that my creative work is never going to fit perfectly into each day; instead, I can enjoy the creative, imaginative moments that do crop up without worrying too much about perfect adherence to the “plan.”

I certainly wrote a lot this past week, and that’s mostly because of my tactics and commitment to the pact. I also learned about what works and doesn’t work for my creative life, and I’ve got new questions to explore, new experiments to try. (Namely, how to keep my energy and focus going for the full hour.)

I’m not sure how useful this information is to others, but perhaps some of these tactics could help a writer who struggles with critical voice and distractions. Maybe skeleton scenes or the twenty-twenty-twenty timer method could help. Maybe the focus on time in the chair instead of words written could help. Maybe the flexible scheduling (doing it day-of and being open to changing it once the day gets going) could help. In a lot of ways, all of my tactics were designed to take the pressure off. If I feel pressured–if the writing feels like a “job” or an “obligation”–then I shut down. My tactics for this experiment allowed me to feel at ease without sacrificing my commitment to my art and getting the novel written.

I know that I’ll continue to experiment and tweak these tactics as I go. I’m thinking for my next experiment, I’ll do a second seven-day pact but try to address that 500-word lull spot I always run into. Maybe the answer is to try a writing exercise. Step out of the manuscript for a bit and see where it goes. I can always add it into the draft later (if it works out).

Artists need to balance flexibility with commitment and habits. I’m learning every day how I work best, while remaining open to change and flux. Ultimately, the storytelling I did last week was fun, fruitful, and energizing. Couldn’t ask for more from this seven-day commitment!

“Part of the work is figuring out how to work.”

(Kevin Nguyen, from Counter Craft interview, April 8, 2025)

I’m abandoning old ways of thinking and doing. For too long I’ve clung to “identities” (think: Plotter versus Discovery Writer) and methods (“Writing into the Dark”) that are gumming up the works of my actual, functioning brain and the way I process and express my ideas.

I’m not abandoning certain aspects of these methods and identities, but I am abandoning the framework that makes me think in these terms. That framework often works as an inner monologue as I sit down to write, telling me how I should be doing things before I’ve actually started doing them.

Inner Monologue: “If I’m a discovery writer, then I shouldn’t ever make any kind of outline before I start writing. If I follow a writing into the dark methodology, then I shouldn’t ever plan ahead before I start writing.”

And also, the inner monologue has some things to say about speed and word count quotas and all the rest: “To be a real writer, I need to hit a certain word count each day/week/month/year. I need to be more disciplined. I need to apply Butt to Chair.”

On the whole, these inner voices DO reflect something important about my process. I do tend to get bored if I’m writing from an outline, so I prefer to discover as I go. I do tend to write by “cycling” instead of burping shitty words onto the page with the promise that I’ll “go back and fix them” later. I hate “revision” in the traditional way we mean it. It’s tedious, I get confused and frustrated, and in the end, I don’t think the writing is any better. So I like to “revise as I go,” i.e.: cycle through the previous sessions words and tweak or change things.

It’s not that I’m abandoning these techniques and methods.

But I need to abandon the thinking behind them. That I must adhere to a “method” at all. It’s almost like I’ve created an ideology for myself and must fit everything into that ideology. That’s what I need to abandon.

I making this a conscious thing because I’ve started to notice that my creative voice often has A LOT to say, a lot to express, but instead of just letting the words fly upon the page, I start my writing sessions by doing my “method.” I follow the cycling procedure like a ritual at church. And sometimes that cycling procedure IS what my voice wants.

But sometimes it isn’t.

Sometimes I have a line or an image that’s sticking in my brain, and I need to write that first. I need to follow that thread. It might connect to what I wrote yesterday, it might not, it might take me some time to see the connection, it might never connect (meaning it might be for a different story).

I am really good at putting words on the page. I really love putting words on the page. I can write in my notebook and fill three pages often in less than twenty minutes. I can write a paragraph or two in minutes. When I stop worrying or don’t “care” if the words are “important,” then I can write at the drop of a hat. No block whatsoever.

So if I’m good at it and love doing it, why is it so hard for me to put words on the page when it’s time to “write my fiction”?

It’s because I’m trying too hard to follow a method, to fit an identity. I’m looking at what works for others and trying on their shoes, almost in the way a child tries on her parent’s shoes and walks around comically with giant clown feet. I can walk, but it’s awkward. It works until it doesn’t, until I trip on the cat’s tail and fall.

Writing is easy for me. It’s only when I say, “Alright, time to stop fiddling around and write that FICTION,” does my hand freeze up. Because now I’m caught in the methods, in the process I’ve prescribed for myself.

But what if each new time I sit to write I acknowledge that it IS a new time, that what worked yesterday might not work today, and that trying to adhere to something that worked yesterday might be more of a fly trap than a way forward?

The only way forward is, well, forward. To do the work that is in front of me at this moment in time, not the work of yesterday or last week. What worked yesterday might not work today. Part of the work is seeing where my Creative Voice wants to go today. But that means letting go of systems or ideologies about how to do the work.

I’m not arguing against discipline. Or methods or procedures. There’s a great section in Bayles and Orland’s Art and Fear where they talk about Chopin and his Mazurkas as the way he gets his work done. Something about the Mazurka as a form allows Chopin to do his work. It’s an entry-point, a doorway that allows him to enter into his work and get things done. So having those doorways is good. I’ve got a few of them (my writer’s notebook and morning pages, for instance), and they often take me into my work. Cycling does too. Sometimes.

But sometimes the morning pages don’t take me into my work. Sometimes the cycling system fails. And what I’ve been trying to do is conform myself to the system in order to create, instead of saying, “Okay, today the system failed. Now what? Well, I want to write this line about a woman jumping down a manhole to chase a giant worm.”

Instead of pushing that woman and her giant worm to the side, maybe I should roll with it. Ride that worm. Who cares if it’s not part of my “normal” process? Who cares if it’s not part of my current work-in-progress? Maybe it will be. I don’t know. But I’ve been trying to tell my Creative Voice, “No, don’t play over there. Play over here. With these toys,” and that’s looking like a pretty destructive thing to do. Creative Voice sulks and doesn’t play at all.

So which is worse, following a random tangent but still getting words written or trying to follow the system and getting nothing written?

And yet, in saying all this to myself, am I just creating another system?

Yes.

Which means, there may be times when I will force myself to cycle and write the next line, even if the heat isn’t in me at the moment, even if I have visions of subterranean worms riding the sewer waves, even then, I will cycle through and push those words out and tell Creative Voice to be patient, it will get fun again.

Because there is no system. There are many systems and none.

There is each new day at the desk, each new embodiment of myself at that desk, each new moment where maybe I’m a bit hungrier today than I was yesterday, or I’d just read something that stuck in my craw last night, or I had a funky dream, or something came out in my morning pages and I like it and I’m gonna follow its thread, or I don’t feel like typing so I’m going to handwrite a few lines of dialogue, or I’m going to skeleton-scene something that just popped into my head even though I’m not sure I’ll use it in the story…

Each new day means figuring out how to work. Yes, there are systems and Mazurkas to help us, but sometimes they don’t help us and we have to figure out something else. Sometimes we don’t have to “figure” at all; we just have to do. The old Bradburian saying about jumping off the cliff and building one’s wings on the way down.

Each day is a new invention of the self and the work and the process. One system, many systems, no system.

Whatever gets the art out.