Invariably, every writer gets to the point where they run out of interesting things to say on their blog, and so they decide to write an article on how the creative writing process works for them. You might think this is to explain to non-writers how this works, but it’s not. The writer is putting these things down to say, “This is how it should go.” We do it at that point because the process isn’t working. This vital document then serves as a map to backtrack our steps, to see what we’ve missed.
Since I haven’t written anything new in a little while, I’m trying to shake some ideas loose. I don’t always write the same way with every story, but this is my typical day, when I’m in the mood to write:
At the first crack of late mid-afternoon, I rise sharp and edgy as a bent plastic butter knife, a defective unit from China. Stumbling to my computer, I drop into my oversized office chair and stare blankly at the screen, waiting for the words to come. No words come, and the screen stays blank until I remember the power button.
Ah! Illumination comes, but the light still brings no recognition of the squiggly lines and pretty colors. A dangerous trek across the flat and deceptively safe looking ten feet is made into the kitchen to microwave hot water for tea. I will return to my chair and stare at the screen until the water gets cold. Then, remembering the water, I trek across the room again to reheat it. I repeat this process two to three times before ending up with lukewarm tea.
The lines and squiggles now look like words as I sip my tea, but the subtleties of sentence structure elude me. When I can recognize the symbol for my browser, I open it and visit porn sites using a stolen credit card number.
Two hours of strenuous fapping later, I wake from my nap and warm up the other half of my now cold tea. Next I fire up the trusty word processor. Then I fire up the bong. Then, while holding my breath, I write BONG over and over until I giggle out my hit. I’m not sure why this amuses me. It just does…or maybe it does after the pot kicks in.
Nothing creative is coming to me yet, so I start thumping my head on my desk. I stop when I get an idea, or when I get dizzy. Sometimes, I go too far and given myself a concussion. But it’s okay, because concussions build character. Or was it amnesia? I can never remember. Never mind, it’s a question for the vulcanologists to sort out.
By then, I’m ready for my second breakfast tea, served with dry bread and mineral water. The food messes with my delicate stoner balance, and I huff the bong until I can’t feel the top of my head. I let my fingers shake for a little while, and then I drink the other half of my lukewarm tea, crack my knuckles, and say, “All right, motherfuckers! No more fucking around with these fucking distractions! I’m going to fucking write something now, and it’s going to be fucking brilliant!”
So, I start writing for almost an hour. I’m a blazing flurry of typing activity, a genius inspired by the greatest muses. Then I look up, realize that I’ve been typing with my browser open, and I’m just looking at tits.
Chagrined by this defeat, I sulk while I make elevensies tea, served with bread and a smidge of scaly, year-old peanut butter. I actually have my tea hot, as my brain is finally coming back on line enough for me to connect the ding of the microwave with some distantly vague memory of putting the cup in to boil water.
I get the word processor up in the desktop, and I type test, just to make sure I haven’t forgotten and switched back to my booby browser. I haven’t, so I start to write again.
I like to write in stages, working on certain parts and later going back in to flesh out the finer details with later passes. The first pass, I just want to make sure I’m getting all the cuss words, the blood, and the sex. I can worry about the plot in the second revision, possibly even the third. Physical descriptions in the first draft are typically very stereotypical. Few people know that originally, Wendy Stoffel was an 18-year-old, blonde, virginal co-ed who vowed to stop wearing panties, and Jobe was part horse. Heh. I loved that first draft.
After spewing steady filth for an hour or two, I make brunch, a moldy tuna sandwich. I huff the bong more, and that and the salmonella make my writing output more…abstract. For the next half hour, I will have to look up after typing every word, and somehow deduce from the previous words what fxg;qontic was supposed to be before it reached my fingers and activated a massive brain-fart feedback loop.
I continue to write in this way until hubby gets home. Hubby rubs my back and listens to me whine about how no one appreciates my genius. Then he smacks me around and says “shut up, biyatch!”
Then we have dinner, and hubby watches TV. I scowl at the TV, pointing out obvious flaws in every show until hubby smacks me again. Chastised, I return to my computer with a fresh cup of tea. I then huff the bong until I can’t feel anything. Then I write until the keyboard blurs, and I stagger off to bed, muttering about, “damn words.” I collapse into fevered dreams of breasts with mouths where nipples should be, all of whom tell me, “Hey, Zoe, there are better hobbies, you know.” This leads to me chasing the talking boobies to the Bennie Hill theme song until I wake up.
Yes, it’s a dull and mundane process. I’m sure many writers have a similar schedule, which is why I avoid those crazy motherfuckers as much as I can.
... I write dark fiction in a variety of genres. My blog contains my rants and rambles, and some short fiction that can only be found here.
I can be pretty fucking offensive, so viewer discretion is advised.