Hey, I have a question for you novelists out there. Do you write your books scene-by-scene, in order, or do you jump around? I don’t seem to be able to jump around. I’ll have scenes in my mind that I know I will eventually get to, but I don’t write them until the story has progressed to them. A few times I’ve sat down to write a future scene because I’m stuck where I’m at, but then I find myself trudging through the muck of “the present.” On a few occasions I have written those future scenes, but by the time the story progresses to them, they no longer work.

What do other writers do?

School ended last week and so I’m back to writing every day. The first two days weren’t very good. I’m still having trouble with this new novel; it doesn’t seem to flow as easily as my others did. When I’m not writing, I don’t seem to think about it much.

Anyway, I think I’ve decided on a pattern that will help me continue to write daily. One day I spit out what I need to get out: describe a specific event, introduce a new character, etc. This can be done as well or as poorly as necessary just to keep the story moving. So far, my first day on a new scene has been miserable. I get out what I need, but the writing is clunky, the characters are flat, and I feel like a total failure. But then I find myself re-thinking the scene. Ah… I could have done this better, oh, this character should wait and appear after this… and so on. The next day is clean up day. I improve the scene and feel good about it: a scene well-written in two days. Then I’m back to a garbage day. Today is a garbage day for me. Knowing that really takes the pressure off. I’ll get out what needs to happen and then I can focus on improvement.

I never believed in writer’s block. I always felt that it was the result of a lack of discipline. A writer should sit down and write and eventually he/she will work through it. I’ve come to think that perhaps writer’s blocks is something a little different.

Let me explain to you my boxes metaphor. I think of my mind as a big open space with a few boxes floating around. The big open space is where I live most of my life. When my head is in the here and now (at work, with my family, doing ordinary chores, etc.) I am in the big open space.

There is a box for my reading life. When I sit and open a book, I move into one of the boxes floating in my big open space. I’m in a different world, a fun place to be. I can go in and out of that box whenever I want.

There is a box for my writing life. If I sit down at my computer, I go into that box and stay there until I leave the computer. I can go into that box in a day-dream sort of way at other times in my day as well. I go there to meet with my characters, sort out what’s happening with them, what they think and feel about the plot, tour their landscapes, etc.

Lately, I find I don’t have access to that box. I’ll step inside, start to think about what is happening with the story, but then I’m suddenly outside the box. I’m not thinking about what’s happening with the story. So, I go back in and like a mirror trick I find myself outside the box again. I can’t seem to focus on the story or the characters or anything. I sit down at the computer and type (I’m disciplined), but everything is flat. I’m only writing what I remember from being in the box–I’m not actually in the box.

How has this happened?

There is another box floating around that has its door open, and I can’t seem to get it closed. It is the box where I keep all the unpleasantness of life: world poverty, wars, communities not willing to pay for public education, divisive government, global warming, etc. That box used to work quite well. It had a strong door that I opened when I wanted to be a good citizen, knowledgeable about what was happening in the world and my community. I would go into that box when I listened to or read the news or when I talked politics with friends; however, I could leave and close the door when the news was too painful, so that it would not interfere with my everyday life–my big open space.

Now the door to that box is open. I can’t shut it. I’m plagued by the ignorance and selfishness of mankind. We are a cancer upon the earth. Unable to shut that box, I’ve tried desperately to get inside my writing box so I can be productive, do something “happy” and maybe when I come back out, the pains-of-the-world box will have a working door again. But my writing box won’t let me in.

Which brings me back to discipline. Should I force myself in front of the computer more often? If I write flat, then I write flat. If I just stare at the screen trying to access the box, will I eventually gain admittance?

Comments? Ideas?

Andy sent The Stolen Goldin Violin to the printer yesterday. I don’t know what sort of backlog the printer has, but hopefully we will have hard copies of our book in hand soon. I’m so excited I can hardly sit still! Now I’m jumping around!! Woo Hoo!!!