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I read a post today on a writer's process and liked it enough to want to explain more of my own. Each writer has his/her own process and I share mine in the hope it may help a new writer find their process through examination of mine and others.
When I was young- I wrote in the wee hours and often pulled all night writing binges, but writing for me now happens in the morning. I like to be awake for the opening bell on wall-street and in Las Vegas that means six o'clock in the morning. Step one is to brew coffee and open the various writing pages on the computer. I read the material from the previous day while the coffee brews. I make edits and revisions and take notes about where the story will go for the day, including bookmarking websites of the casinos I may visit. Once I finish making notes, I put together the playlist for the day depending on casino, setting and characters. A key note of importance for me is to avoid playing DJ with the songs. It distracts when a song doesn't fit the scene being written and you must stop to find another. Avoiding controllable interruptions makes it easier to deal with the ones NOT in your control. I let the playlist run on shuffle while I do the morning chores. The monotonous nature of chores allows my brain to chew on the story and the music and do whatever it is happens up there... After the morning chores, I write for 3-4 hours. I try to take 5-10 minute breaks to stretch, though admittedly sometimes this doesn't happen. I don't have word or page goals, but rather try to move the story in some way or in the very least write the best scene I can that day. On off days, I revise the morning writing after closing bell or one o'clock Las Vegas time. No matter what I'm working on, I stop and take stock of my progress. On work days, I skip this part to get ready for the shift. I write a summary of the day that will act as a bookmark for when I'm waiting for coffee to brew the next morning. In the evenings, I read and make notes for the next day. I like to have a picture of the settings I'll use in my mind before bed- it gives the brain a chance to dream about it. And it seems many stories are found in dreams. That and while showering. I hope you enjoyed this post about my writing routine. How does it differ from your own process? From Vegas, Stephen John Moran READ PART II - MY FICTIONAL WORLD Today in Boston, runners take to the course of the Boston Marathon, one year after the horrific attacks. As you go about your day, take a moment to remember those lost. At Fenway, they are ready.  Here is a video of last evening's moving tribute to the tragedy. THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF BERNADETTE CYNTHIA HEALY PART 6 I show my bus pass and climb onto the bus without having to pay for a ticket. Thankfully it isn't busy so I don't have to fight my way through a crowd of people and I sit down towards the middle.
The bus curves the streets of London, meandering between the commuters who are no doubt counting down the hours until their weekend begins. I appreciate the sentiment despite missing the long hours I worked for Jonathon, especially when we first opened the firm. It was just the two of us working together. We specialised in property and family law, I advocated the pro bono cases because I couldn't stand the thought of justice being for the rich. Jonathon had a relatively sound business plan to balance my idealistic one and because of our more lucrative clients we were able to help some people who were in need, and I know I've forced this issue with Keith. I don't want the firm to lose its morality just because the older generation have moved onwards, or upwards. I reach my bus stop and climb down the single step on to the curb. It's a beautiful spring morning, and I relish the feeling of the sun on my face. The bus drives away and leaves me to continue the last few hundred metres of my journey by foot. I enjoy the walk, I haven't ventured this far away from home or the office in months, and it's pleasant to notice the few changes; some misspelt graffiti, a different variety of flowers are beginning to bloom and a few houses seem to have gone on sale. Walking down a short street on a familiar route, no one takes any notice of me. I open the gate and, close it as instructed by the sign. There are a few other people in the graveyard with me, paying their respects. I continue walking down the perimeter of the graveyard, until I arrive at a crypt. I read the inscriptions. Mrs Edith Susan Crowe 1889-1957 Beloved mother and wife Mr Hugh Benedict Crowe 1886-1958 Beloved father and husband My father had made it quite clear that living without my mother was intolerable, and no one had been surprised when he'd died within months of my mother's death. The experience my parent's had lived through were incredible, though they always said their greatest achievement was having me, mainly because I was such a surprise, but also because I could be a handful. I visit their crypt as often as I can, bringing both Polly and Jack here when they were children. One time, when Polly was a teenager, we'd bumped into each other at this very spot, neither of us knowing the other had plans to visit the tombstones. We'd spent a wonderful afternoon together, and it solidified our relationship as a mother and a daughter, even though she would always be her father's favourite. It helps to clear my mind as I sit on a bench opposite their tomb. I have that woman's letter in the pocket of my coat and I plan to reread it, along with the Last Will and Testament and the information about her brother. I have already made up my mind; I know I'm going to do as asked and look for Bernadette Cynthia Healy's sibling, but I want to do it to clear my conscience, to be the better person that she accuses me of, and not to satisfy her curiosity. I open the letter, the sunshine warming my skin as I turn it over and read it for the fifth time, knowing it won't get any easier. Jonathon was the love of my life and I envied every second you were able to spend with your husband, because it meant that I was in the side lines. Silently I agree with her. In the side lines she belonged, and because I stayed with my husband I forced Bernadette Cynthia Healy to always be number two, to my first place. Of course, the fact I'd had to fight for my position left a bitter taste in my mouth, but coming second wasn't an option. Jonathon and I may have had our differences but we were meant to be together, we were soul mates. I can't help but still feel some sort of antipathy towards this woman, even though she no longer plagues the earth with her presence. That she had the nerve to write this letter only a few days after Jonathan's funeral irritates me, though I cannot quite put my finger on why. I try to ignore the more emotional paragraphs of the letter and focus on the information she's supplied me about her brother. Goodness knows how accurate the information is, and if it's over a decade old I'm not sure how useful it will be. I don't blame her anonymous brother for not getting in touch with his sister; maybe he had some sort of inkling as to what kind of woman she'd turn out to be. It seems I have a brother who was born the year I was evacuated. That makes him either 63 or 64. I pick up the smaller envelope that has sat, unopened, within the Last Will and Testament and unseal the back of it. Inside I'm greeted by the handsome face of a young man. On the back of the photo is a date, a name and a school. At least Bernadette Cynthia Healy knew what she was doing. This is amazingly funny. Simply incredible. These two run around the world together like their teenagers again.  THE LIBRARY I've never met anyone of my kind before now. I didn't think it was even a possibility. My entire focus has always been on self-preservation. Engaging in social activities with a young woman getting unwanted press attention can't be good for my chances of remaining free. But, I feel drawn to her. Serial killers that are published authors can't be common.
Waiting in a library for a writer seems fitting. Her collection of books tends toward classic, organized by author in a haphazard way. Plath next to Austen, Shakespeare sharing space with Stephen King. To one side, there are two rows of books with blank covers and spines. I reach into my pocket for a pen, intending to make a note to ask about the mystery books when I hear the oak doors swing open. A man nearing old age, wearing a gray suit adorned with a lavender tie enters and stops at attention a few feet from me. "Welcome to Holden Farms West," the man says, making a stiff bow. "Thanks," I say, looking around the library. My eyes lock on a wet-bar near the wall, but I don't see a refrigerator. "Can I get a beer?" The man tilts his head to the side, studying me. Does he think I'm telling a joke? Get my fucking beer. "I shall see to your request. She will join you in a few minutes. First, Saul will check you for weapons." A giant gropes me in a thorough fashion and finds I have no weapons. I have no need for them today. He pushes me toward the old man and disappears into a hidden panel in the wall. "Woah, James Bond around here," I say, but the old man doesn't seem amused. He makes another bow before attempting to take leave of me. I hold up my hand to stop him. "Tell me a bit about her. What can I expect? And will she be meeting me alone or can I expect her husband as well?" Without a moment of hesitation he answers me, "I wouldn't mention her husband if you value living." With a small bow and no explanation of his cryptic statement he makes a quick exit and shuts the door. I think on his words and walk to the wet-bar to grab a bottle of gin. Shaking up a martini, I sit on a stool and sip the drink, waiting for Ella. I will introduce a new narrator to the blog this weekend. There is a third person POV story with this narrator as lead character posted on the site, PARABLE, but a first person POV story introducing this character will be posted.
The character, James, is a writer from New York City that arrives in Las Vegas and offers to be Ella's PR man. Saul, (Ella's bodyguard) investigates the newcomer, which brings us to the beginning of James' story-line. The first story will be after his arrival in Las Vegas and the poetry reading Ella gives at UNLV. James is an old character come back to life. It seems he slept for decades, almost literally. Then one day he began to write again. Read the first story soon. Enjoy your holiday weekend, whatever your plans. From Vegas, Stephen John Moran The Morning news - with neil degrasse tyson - the zip line on fremont street, #vegas and music4/18/2014 We start with an epic rant by Neil DeGrasse Tyson on race, women in science and how to shoplift. Yes, the astrophysicist gives advice on how become a better shoplifter. The epic answer starts at 1:01:30. Sorry it doesn't automatically start at that point. It's worth finding that clip though! Next, we have a picture and a possible adventure. The next time you are in Vegas, head to Fremont St in Downtown and ride the ZIPLINE.  And the last bit is on Music. I woke this morning with sore fingers from playing a few hours of guitar, a feeling I haven't known in a few years. The playing did not come easy, at all. I forgot how to play it seems and even basic scales that I've practiced countless times were a chore. It might be a while before I can actually play my own music, because right now my forearm gets sore after playing for fifteen minutes.
I'll update about the music when I can play again. From Las Vegas, Stephen John Moran |
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