Tag: writing

In Search of a Writing Routine

~ Margaret Lucke ~ 4 Comments
Banner showing author Margaret Lucke and some of her books

By Margaret Lucke

“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper.” — E. B. White

The other day a nonwriter friend asked me if I write every day. With regret and some embarrassment I had to admit that despite my desires and good intentions, days (okay, weeks) often slip by without my having written a word. I mean, sure, I jot down grocery lists and dash off responses to emails, but that’s not my friend meant. She was referring to making progress on my current novel.

It’s not hard to come up with reasons not to write. Important and meaningful reasons. Errands need to be run, laundry must be done, good friends deserve a visit, the genius level on the New York Times Spelling Bee game insists on being achieved. But something feels off when I reach bedtime and realize that my protagonist has done nothing all day except sit there and twiddle her thumbs

I do believe in the value of writing routines. I’m convinced that having a good routine ensures a writer will be more productive, more focused, more intelligent, more witty and clever, more successful …

If only I could come up with one.

It’s not that I haven’t tried. In fact I’ve made quite a study of what works for others in the hope that I’d find a routine suited to my habits and temperament. What I’ve discovered is that routines are as varied as writers themselves, though they tend to fall into several categories.

>> The up-before-dawn writer

“Do they know I get up at five o’clock every morning to write 1,000 words before breakfast?” — Margaret Meade

These are the people who set the alarm for 4 or 5 a.m., get up and write for two or three hours, and then go off to report to their day jobs or whatever else places demands on their time. Anthony Trollope, who worked as a civil servant, wrote 46 novels this way. I have several friends who swear by this method and write fine books in the tender hours before sunrise.

>> The grab-bits-and-pieces-of-time writer

“The way you define yourself as a writer is that you write every time you have a free minute. If you didn’t behave that way you would never do anything.” — John Irving

Another friend, before she retired, spent all of her lunch hours at work in the parking lot, where she would sit in her car and write. Mystery writer and attorney Michael Gilbert wrote 23 novels on the train as he commuted from his home in Kent to his law firm’s London office. William Carlos Williams, a physician, scribbled stories and poems on prescription pads in between patients. I admire the way writers who do this can shift gears so quickly from other activities and home in on their writing.

>> The quota-system writer

“All through my career I’ve written 1,000 words a day — even if I’ve got a hangover.” — J.G. Ballard

These are the writers who set a daily goal and refuse to leave their desk until it is accomplished. The goal might be to write for a set number of hours or to achieve a specific page count or word count. This was the principal behind the sadly demised Nanowrimo, or National Novel Writing Month, which challenged writers each year in November to a produce a novel of at least 50,000 words. Producing 1,667 words a day would get you there. Note that the folks behind Nanowrimo didn’t insist that the novel be any good.

>> The ritual writer

“I had a ritual once of lighting a candle and writing by its light and blowing it out when I was done for the night.” — Jack Kerouac

Writers are not necessarily superstitious, but we know that sometimes we must do certain things to draw the muse to our side and appease her when she’s present. This can lead to some peculiar writing routines. Victor Hugo would shed his clothes and instruct his valet to hide them; being nude, he couldn’t leave the house so he might as well write. Charles Dickens carefully arranged certain items on his desk to foster his creativity, among them a vase of fresh flowers and a bronze statuette of dueling toads. Natalie Goldberg often wrote with a cigarette in her mouth; she usually didn’t smoke it but used it as “a prop to help me dream into another world.”

I’ve dabbled in variations from each of these categories, but I haven’t found the perfect routine for me. How about you? What works? I’m open to your suggestions.

Self-Discipline at 5 in the Morning

~ Margaret Lucke ~ 3 Comments

By Margaret Lucke

How do you define self-discipline? To me, it’s the quality that enables you to force yourself to do something you know is good for you when you’d rather do something else.

It’s focusing on business rather than pleasure.

It’s favoring long-term goals (lose five pounds, meet the deadline) over short-term benefits (eat the chocolate, spend the gorgeous afternoon taking a walk).

It’s getting up way too early in the morning, when any normal person would still be tucked up comfortably in bed.

But not everyone agrees with me.

Quite a few years ago, as an aspiring mystery novelist, I attended the late, great Cabrillo Suspense Writers Conference, a wonderful event held annually for a decade at a rustic lodge in the Santa Cruz Mountains. One day I had a conversation over coffee with a fellow writer. At that time he had published two well-received mystery novels, but he was still working long hours at his day job at a local college. Finding time to write was a challenge for me, and I asked him how he managed to do that while dealing all of the other demands in his life.

“It’s simple,” he explained. “Every morning, seven days a week, I get up at 5 o’clock and sit down at his desk to write.”

Seriously? There’s a 5 o’clock in the morning? I thought 5 o’clock automatically meant late afternoon.

I am not a morning person. I’m fine with being awake when it’s dark outside, but only if I’ve approached it from the other end, the gradual fading of daylight into night. But wake up while it’s still dark? Impossible. Until daylight touches my bedroom window, my eyes refuse to open and my brain is on strike. I can’t find the floor at 5 a.m. unless I fall out of bed. There’s no way I can write a coherent sentence.

But I have a high regard for writers, and I’ve known several, who regularly rise before dawn to produce pages. Good pages too, not the gibberish I’d come up with.

I said as much to my coffee companion: “You know, I really admire your self-discipline.”

His response surprised me. “Oh, that’s not self-discipline.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “You just said you make yourself get up every morning when you want to be sleeping and force yourself to sit and write.”

“That’s right.”

“How is that not self-discipline? It sounds like the perfect example to me.”

He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s not self-discipline because I don’t enjoy it.”

What? To me, if he didn’t enjoy it, then his peculiar (to me) habit fit the definition even more. Obviously we had different takes on what self-discipline means. I prodded, but I couldn’t get him to explain his concept any further.

Self-discipline or not, whatever he was doing worked. He went on to considerable success and acclaim as a mystery writer, with almost three dozen novels to his credit and several awards on his shelf. My track record, on the other hand, is considerably shorter.

Maybe I should try setting my alarm clock just a little bit earlier.

Writer… or Robot?

~ janispattersonmysteries ~ 10 Comments

by Janis Patterson

Computers can be wonderful things. You can change or cut lines or paragraphs, move copy around, pretty much do whatever you want to do and yet end up with a clean copy with no tiresome retyping of entire manuscripts. It is a tool without compare, but it is only as good (word-wise) as the person using it.


Or it used to be. Now there is a new plague – or savior, depending on one’s viewpoint – in the machine and people are very divided about it. Just to be very clear, I am on the anti- side.


This new creature is available in many places and formats and names, and all fall under the general umbrella of ‘assisted writing programs’ – in other words, AI programs that can do a lot of the work of writing (like putting the words down) for you in a sort of simulacrum of your writing voice and style.
Doesn’t anyone see the horror of this? These programs not only check spelling (which is good) and grammar (which is all too often not so good) but they actually do varying amounts of the writing, with mechanical ease turning out copy that is more like pre-digested word salad instead of genuine writing.


I see the difference as similar to ordering a house kit (as you used to be able to) with all the lumber pre-cut and numbered, ready to put together according to the directions like a 3-D jigsaw puzzle, and then calling yourself an architect. You’re allowed to do the pretty bits – trim and paint and such, but the actual building is created miles away by a machine. Translate this to writing and you become a technician rather than a writer.


I don’t see why someone who calls themselves a writer or who hopes to become a writer using such a Frankenstein thing. Not only do they have to pay for it, and learn the probably Byzantine command structure, but they get a product that is at best only partially theirs. Instead of all this, why don’t they just learn the rules, learn the craft and learn to really write? It will serve them better longer than a computer program.


There’s a commercial on tv right now for one of these things, and one line strikes me as being particularly egregious – something about if you’re a copywriter and need a dynamite line… Having been a copywriter in one of my many wordsmith incarnations this makes me furious and appalled. In my opinion if you have to have a machine/program/whatever these things are do a great chunk of the writing for you, you aren’t any kind of a writer!


Are some people so desperate to put the word ‘writer’ or ‘author’ after their name that they will cheat with programs like these? I guess so. I personally believe if you can’t do it by yourself you shouldn’t be doing it at all.


Writers should write – not be a technician to a writing program.

Tempus Is A-Fugitin

~ janispattersonmysteries ~ 5 Comments

by Janis Patterson

My late father was not only a professional wordsmith (journalism, teacher, editor, advertising agent, writer) but he was a man who absolutely loved words. He would play with words with the joy of a child playing with toys. As I grew up he passed his love of words and language to me, so much so that with his nimble mind we came very close to creating our own language – much to my mother’s disgust.

And that is how the rather somber and stoic Latin warning “Tempus Fugit” (time passes) was ‘Daddy-ized’ into the warmer and much more lighthearted “tempus is a-fugitin’”.

So what does this cuddly little anecdote have to do with writing? Not much – yet still everything.

As writers words are our tools. Without words we are mute and pretty much useless. I am waiting with grim anticipation for someone to write a novel using nothing but emojis. Hopefully, though, that is not an immediate worry. At least, I hope so.

While there are other ways of communicating, some faster, some purely physical or emotional, some kind of untranslatable, words are and always have been the most dependable… when used properly. Part of the beauty of words is their fluidity on the seas of nuance. Often how a simple word is used either alone or in conjunction with other words can change the meaning in subtle or sometimes not so subtle ways. Also, the time period in which the word is used and even the social class of the speaker can affect the meaning.

Words are the main tool for defining our characters. Unless there is a darn good reason in the story for it, a duchess should not speak the same – word choice, inflections, nuance – as a dockworker. (Properly used, though, such language disparities can be a heck of a good clue, if that’s what your story needs.)

Also, word choice is one of your main weapons in the ongoing fight between show and tell. Now I am the first to say that properly used ‘tell’ is a viable tool in your writer’s workbox – I mean, who wants a step-by-step recitation of your hero’s morning routine before he leaves for work when it adds nothing to the story and the action can be covered in a simple sentence or two. Almost any writing shibboleth can be an asset if used properly.

And that is the word! Properly. Like good dishes, the sharp and the forbidden and unusual can be interesting if used properly. Imagine salsa made with nothing but jalapenos and a splash of water. The idea is horrifying, just as horrifying as would be salsa made with no hot peppers at all. The ideal is balance – each ingredient playing its part to create a harmonious whole.

But… always remember it begins with the words. So you must make friends with words. Play with words. Enjoy words. Don’t be afraid of making up a new word… if you do it understandably and (dare I say it?) properly.

So – your assignment is, go learn six new words this week. The best way is to take a print dictionary, then open to a page at random and with your eyes closed stab somewhere on the page. There’s your word. What does it mean? How does it feel in your mouth? What does it remind you of? Does it evoke any thoughts or memories or fantasies. Play with it as a fascinated child would with a new toy. Enjoy it. Make it yours.

It won’t happen immediately, but as you play as well as work with words your writing will change, become richer, deeper, more … more everything. You own the words. Use them in all their multi-faceted glory.

Now – go grab a word and begin! Never forget that tempus is a-fugitin!

Starting Over Again… Again

~ janispattersonmysteries ~ 10 Comments


by Janis Patterson

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.


The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.


Small wonder we’re all confused.


I am a writer… and that was not a conscious decision. I am the third (or fourth, or perhaps even fifth – the family history is sometimes a little vague) generation of a wordsmith family. Writers, teachers, editors… they festoon the branches of my ancestral tree like sweet fruit. Obviously I didn’t have a chance to be anything else, as words are encoded into my DNA.

At the age of four I wrote – and illustrated and published, using a #2 pencil, typing paper and white sewing cotton to stitch it all together – my first book, of which the entire family was very proud. It was a timeless tale of several children walking home from school through the park where they captured a lion which had escaped from the zoo and still got home in time for dinner. I had a melodramatic imagination even then.


So – you’d think with such a strong genetic disposition and a supportive family by now I’d be on the top of the writing heap, wouldn’t you? Consistently on all the best seller lists, two major book tours a year, lots of tv interviews, maybe even a castle in France… Didn’t work that way. Even with over 60 books to my credit (there are more, but we don’t talk about them) I’m still clinging by my fingernails to the bottom of what used to be called the mid-list.


So what happened? In a word, Life. While I will pit my wordsmithing skills against any and all, Life – sometimes called the blind villain – does happen. After selling my first two novels (New York was all there was in those days) I fell in love and followed a false path that did not end well. When I came back to writing the editors I had known had found other pets and though I still had a good reputation and could of course write very well, I had to forge new relationships.


I sold a few more books, then my father entered the lengthy downward spiral of his final illness. As there was only my mother and me and both my parents were then considered almost elderly, I spent more and more time helping her with his care and writing slipped to a less and less important position in my life. Then when he finally passed away there was another half year of keeping my mother together. They had been a very devoted couple.


My editors had been very kind and understood my problem and tried to work with my situation, but we both knew they had slots to fill and schedules to follow and services to coordinate… and while the door was never closed to me, it swung to a very narrow entrance.


And did I mention that during this long stretch of time I was working a very demanding full-time job?


Time passed. I wrote, made still more new contacts and sold a few books. I still had a good reputation, though by now I was pretty sure whenever my name was mentioned it was prefaced with ‘poor’…


Several years passed in this pleasant semi-stasis. I sold several books, never enough to justify quitting my job, though, and when my job dissolved I went into a series of other, very unusual jobs, not career stuff but some were fun and they kept the lights on. I kept writing, though, because I am a writer.


Then my mother fell suddenly and disastrously ill and my world changed. Writing had to go totally by the wayside. Suddenly I was not just looking after Mother, I was working two jobs, and occasionally a third one as well, because she had something rather exotic and strange, and nothing but experimental medicines would budge it. Experimental medicines are expensive, and most of them were not covered by her insurance. This went on for almost ten years.


During this time, though, fortune did smile on me, because I met my husband and married. Then mother passed away three weeks after the wedding, and I went totally off the rails. It had been just her and me for twenty years. My poor husband deserved better, but he was and is my rock.
Until some five months after Mother’s death, when he was deployed overseas. (He’s an officer in the Navy, thankfully now retired.) When he asked me what I was going to do while he was gone I murmured something vague about getting a job, but he shook his head. All I had ever talked about doing that I really liked was writing, he said, so perhaps I should go back to writing.


Could I? I didn’t know. I thought about it long and hard. The long empty days wore at me, though, and the siren song of words, of creating worlds and populations out of nothing but caffeine and imaginations worked their magic on me. so I dusted off my laptop and began again.


He was gone a year, and when he returned I had sold two books – both to small publishers, as my cred in New York was totally gone. The editors I had known there had either been promoted to the stratosphere, vanished completely or died. Sigh. It was writing.


This was the beginning of the era of self-publishing, and with no little qualms I began to investigate, eventually ending up with my own publishing imprint, a freelance crew with skills that would rival those of any NYC publishing house. I reprinted my old books as they came back to me, did a book or two a year with a wonderful small press and released at least one new book a year.


At last, I thought, things are finally going my way. It’s been a long time, but I’m finally on the way up!
Humph! This past July my husband and I were at a Grand Ball, the conclusion of a convention which we always attend. I was so proud to be wearing the beautiful gold-embroidered dress we bought earlier in Cairo… and just as the dancing started I passed out cold.


Things went downhill from there. EMTs. Ambulance. Emergency room, then straight into surgery for a massive blood clot blocking my renal artery. Barely in recovery when suddenly a team of doctors ran in and snatched me back into the operating theater. Apparently either the clot had split, or there had been two of them. The doctors said nothing, but I heard my nurses whispering amongst themselves that I had died for well over a minute on the table. The writer in me stewed – one of the seminal events of life itself, an event people have discussed for millenia – and it actually happened to me, but I was under deep anesthesia and don’t remember a thing about it!


After a week in the hospital I came home, and moved into my own bed, where I didn’t move for weeks. Writing? I was doing good to eat. And six months later I’m still not up to speed. My own doctor said I was a bit long in the tooth for such extreme things. I told him it wasn’t my choice, and promised to be better. And I have been, sort of. Yes, we did take a Christmas Market tour of Southern Germany, a costly and long awaited trip and I was most definitely not going to deprive the husband, who had looked forward to it for months.


A fascinating but exhausting trip. I probably shouldn’t have gone, but I did and I survived it, even if I had to be wheelchaired off the plane and to the taxi. One small bright spot is if I do a story about it the entire trip is tax deductible. But I haven’t written a word in over six months. There are half-finished projects languishing on my computer which I cannot remember at all.


And so I am back to starting over. Again. Will I do it? That’s a dumb question. Of course I will, whether I choose to or not.


I am a writer.