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This weekend, I’ll be involved in a panel discussion at the Rochester Children and Teens Book Festival. We’ll be answering questions about, I gather, how the sausage is made.
I don’t know the extent that they still teach it this way anymore, but there was a time when the “Writing Process” was explained as a five-step linear sequence: 1) Prewriting; 2) Drafting; 3) Revising; 4) Editing; and 5) Publishing.
Surely that’s well-intentioned and generally kind of correct. That is, when you cut up the cadaver. But when you are in it? Actually writing? I find it all a little unrecognizable, like a kid I went to school with but can’t remember his name. Familiar but . . . not.
Over the years, I’ve meant to put together a “real” writing process guide. It would include Dithering and Self-Loathing. And the shape would be circular, not the tidy straight line the school-taught process implies. As writers, we are constantly circling back.
At least, that’s my way. The fact is that we’ve all got to find our own path. There’s no single way. No right and no wrong.
For me, Thinking is the biggest part of it. All that heavy lifting that happens away from the page. Days and weeks and months of thinking, daydreaming. Mental doodles. I’ll have productive weeks where I don’t write a word. It took me a long time to learn that lesson, and it involved beating myself up repeatedly for years. After all, I had nothing to show for it. But I’ve slowly learned that’s my way. That’s how it works . . . for me.
I’m posting today, primarily, to share this 4-page sequence from an upcoming book: Bigfoot and Dodo: Funny Business (Simon & Schuster, May 2027). This is a young graphic novel (112 pages) co-authored with the hilarious Audrey Vernick and illustrated by Joelle Dreidemy. In the story, Bigfoot and Dodo are hired by a famous writer who believes his house is haunted. It is disturbing his ability to write and, ack, he’s got a deadline. Our heroes are on the case! While Bigfoot is up in the attic experiencing adventures of her own, Dodo and the Famous Author, Mr. Peabert, have this discussion about his creative process:
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NOTE: These pages are not final, though the finished book will surely look very much like this (two-color printing).
Audrey and I are very fond of this sequence. To us, it feels spookily, eerily, uncomfortably true.
Good luck, fellow writers. It’s a nutty process and the only way out is through.
In the past, when I’ve taught writing for Gotham Writers, I found myself saying, “The mountain will teach you.”
That is, I compared it to skiing. Yes, you can take lessons with an “expert” on the bunny slope. Learn how to stop. Learn how to slow down. Learn how to get up after you fall. But eventually, you’ve got to get on that ski lift and ride to the top of the mountain. How do you really learn how to ski? The mountain will teach you. No one can do it for you. Whoosh. You are on your own.
Break a leg!
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I want to talk about writing today. Let’s begin by looking at this famous image of John F. Kennedy, which I came across & posted yesterday in connection with a quote:
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As writers, we need to try to see people and convey that in words. I’m not great at this by any means. It requires effort, a struggle, as it doesn’t often come naturally in my writing. But as writers, we must try to notice things, mannerisms, telling details. Why? To help the reader see. And also: as a way into character.
Look around: People are everywhere. Ask yourself, how would I describe that posture? The woman in the coffee shop. The kid on the slide. How do it quickly, efficiently, in a sentence or two?
Back to the Kennedy image. It could be, simply:
He stands with arms crossed, neck bent, head down.
Or a little more:
He stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. He is reflective, feeling deeply.
Yuck, okay, the voice feels wrong — I might be trying to avoid the “lost in thought” cliche — or, say:
Arlo stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. This is the Arlo I love. When he is quiet and reflective. I long to know what is in his heart.
Or that last bit in the 3rd person:
Esme longs to know what is in his heart.
Or inject more story into it:
Arlo stands with arms criss-crossed, neck bent, head down. This is classic Arlo. A performance. He is such a fraud. I can’t wait to hear what utter bullshit he’ll say next.
Or, okay:
He tucks his hands beneath his crossed arms, stands quietly, head down, considering.
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And on and on and on, endlessly. There are a million options, a million ways to get at it. Or to paint it, if you will.
Try to do that today. Watch people closely. Notice how they hold themselves. At first, try to strictly describe only what you see: the ankles crossed, the fingers touching a necklace, the mouth a thin line of disapproval, etc.
The truly amazing thing is how entire characters, entire world views, can grow out of this simple practice. The posture is a seed that flowers into a fully-formed, “living” character.
For example, say, this:
The way Anna fidgets with the bracelet on her thin, right wrist. The bracelet was her mother’s, a gift before the cancer took her away. It was a year ago but feels like yesterday. Anna reaches for it when she feels nervous, or insecure, or just bored and lonely. A habit of the heart. It seems to help. She remembers the love that is gone and, almost magically, the love that persists.
I just made that up. Beginning with an image of a physical act.
Now it’s your turn.
Go deeper, if you wish. But mostly, as an exercise, try to describe what you see. A sentence or two. The crossed ankles. The twirling of the hair. The setting of the shoulders. The forward-leaning walk, arms swinging. It all begins & ends with the seeing.
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Don’t miss my newest middle-grade novel, Shaken. Now also available on Audible, read by Caitlyn Davis.
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I recently wrote a throwaway post on Facebook that got a surprising amount of attention. It was about soaking dishes. Yeah, wild, I know. I wrote a sentence that owed something, perhaps, to a specific moment in William Steig’s Doctor De Soto picture book.
I say “perhaps” because it’s hard to pin down where influences end and ideas originate. It spins in a circle, consciously and unconsciously. Who knows.
What I had written was: “I’m a pot and pan soaker. So was my father, and his father before him. It’s always been that way with my family.”
It made me remember De Soto and look up the scene:
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Forgive the blur. The good doctor informs his wife, “Once I start a job, I finish it. My father was the same way.”
So, sure, he does it far more economically & elegantly than I managed to on social media. In my defense, he’s William Steig writing a book and I’m only James Preller blasting out a few thoughts on Facebook.
Here’s the full text from the page in case the blur is too hard to read:
That night the De Sotos lay awake worrying. “Should we let him in tomorrow?” Mrs. De Soto wondered.
“Once I start a job,” said the dentist firmly, “I finish it. My father was the same way.”
“But we must do something to protect ourselves,” said his wife. They talked and talked until they formed a plan. “I think it will work,” said Doctor De Soto. A minute later he was snoring.
One comment before the main thing:
I’m as opposed to adverbs as the next guy, probably more, but “firmly” sure does a lot of good work in that phrase, said the dentist firmly.
A clear signal. There would be no debate. This strikes me as that rare thing: a good adverb.
Something interesting happens on this page, where “scene” meets “summary.”
We are in a scene from the beginning, of course, announced by those two words: That night. It’s a variation on the “one day” trope of so many picture books: things are always so until . . . one day something happens. Story begins with scene.
We find ourselves with the De Sotos, flies on the lavender wallpaper, listening to them discuss the mortal danger of treating the fox’s toothache. Then comes that great sentence:
They talked and talked until they formed a plan.
The camera doesn’t move to a new perspective, it just pulls back and suddenly there’s a great distance. We are transported to the land of summary: They talked and talked until they formed a plan.
I wonder how Steig arrived at this sentence. Did he try to write out that full conversation in early drafts? Did he wrestle with it for days, weeks? Did he worry about the length, the slowness, the slog? This was intended, after all, for a 32-page picture book. There wasn’t time to waste. It could be that Steig immediately went to summary, instinctively knowing that he had to keep the plot moving forward.
So there’s this: Summary allows the writer to play with time.
The writer can make time move quickly, cross decades in a single sentence, or can slow it down to a drip, drip . . . drip. Even slower than real time.
In my current work-in-progress, a middle-grade novel tentatively titled Shaken (Macmillan, 2024), I decided to make a leap of four months from one chapter to the next. Those four months occur in the gap between those two chapters, the way that in a comic or graphic novel there’s a sliver of time in the spaces between each panel. This leap required a sentence or two of summary. Time passed. Winter turned to Spring. That kind of thing (but not those words).
Aside: Do you ever notice, btw, how very young children are unable to summarize when they recount, say, a movie they just watched? it’s always: and then, and then, and then, and then, etc. The art of summary is really about prioritizing. Recognizing what’s significant and what isn’t. Elmore Leonard’s great rule for writing: “Try to leave out the parts that readers tend to skip.”
Let me make up an example on the spot:
He spent the summer working on the cabin, rising early and laboring until dark, while the loneliness filled up inside him. One September day, there was a knock on the door . . .
Summary –> Scene. The storyteller (and his listeners, one assumes) is not interested in all those dull empty days of summer. That part is boring. Let’s skip it. So the storyteller makes time fly by, an entire summer in a sentence.
Then there’s a knock at the door.
Time slows to a crawl.
He pauses, uncrosses his legs. Puts down the novel — Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men — spine up on the end table. He gazes out the window. The last light of evening had long ago died. A faint drone of tree frogs pressed against the panes. Who could it be at this hour? Should he rise to answer it? He coughs, and waits.
Anyway, yeah, it’s cool how Steig pulls that off in the middle of a scene — a sentence of summary, omitting at least an hour of discussion — before he returns us right back to that same “moment” (without ever moving the camera; the focus just gets tighter).
He ends the page with another great understated sentence.
A minute later he was snoring.
A minute has passed in the distance from a period to the capital letter of the next sentence. A minute later. And lo, the good doctor is asleep! Resolved and at peace. Troubled no more. The plan has been set and he needs his rest.
I’d turn the page, right?
Wouldn’t you?
What is the plan, anyway?
Steig didn’t tell us. He withholds. That’s actually another technique worthy of discussion. The vital importance of being clear, and answering questions for the reader as soon as possible (to avoid confusion), but also to recognize the value of not answering every question.
How those unanswered questions can prod the reader to do the single best thing that any reader can ever do — turn the page.
William Steig was a writer who knew what he was doing.
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Stephanie Affinito — lover of books, writing, teaching, journals, podcasts, and long walks on the beach — asked me five questions after our podcast interview. (For that, just bounce on this link, and the miracle of the interwebs will take you there.)
Stephanie asked:
Where do you do your best writing?What are your favorite writing tools? (pens, notebook, software, etc.)Do you have any special writing routines or rituals?What inspires your writing?What advice do you give to others who hope to one day write something of their own?
Here’s how I answered:
I suppose it’s my disposition to remove any of the preciousness or magic out of the writing process. For me, it’s been called “going to work” since I went freelance in 1990. Let me back up. The important thing, regardless of your physical surroundings, is to get yourself in the proper headspace to write. The right frame of mind (and the time required to produce anything of length). Now, granted, everyone is different and there may well be various rituals or strategies to help you get there, in place, so to write. It might be an office, a chair, a particular pen, a bottle of gin. We can scribble on napkins or jab sentences into the “Notes” feature of our phones. But to write at length requires, simply, a place where you can be free from distractions. Focus is everything. Concentration is king. And at every turn the world conspires against those things. To write well, I think you need to turn the world off and allow yourself the time and space to go deep inside your head. What inspires my writing? Oh, gosh. Everything and anything. But I do seem to need to be inspired — moved to write — — in order to get anything worthwhile done. I’ve never been very good at cranking out 1,000 words on any given afternoon. Whereas for others, that’s exactly the process. They write by writing. And I’ve gone through all the self-loathing that comes with falling short at the job. What I’ve learned — and this translates into my advice for any writer — is to read widely with care & attention and to write often. The obvious stuff. But after a while, you will begin to learn about yourself, the things that work for you. We are all different. For example, I’ve come to accept that I seem to need a lot of time percolating. Ruminating. Dithering might be another word for it. Working things out in my head over time. And it’s as if a certain kind of creative pressure slowly builds and builds until, one day, it’s time. I’m ready to write. As a writer, you might be completely different. You might be analytical, methodical. You might like to write out extended character profiles, elaborate backstories, fill pages and pages in notebooks. But ultimately, the task comes down to just you and a blank page. Nothing gets written until you sit down in front of that blank page. You need to get yourself there on a regular basis, one way or other. What else? Oh, please, forgive yourself. Be patient with yourself. Try your best. Work hard, but also take time off. Exercise. Enjoy walks. Read books. Meet with friends. Fill yourself up. And always return to that blank page. Just you & the silence of your thoughts, your feelings, and the time & space to think & feel them. Good luck.
Addendum: I did not write this in my original answer to Stephanie, but all my references to the “blank page” reminded me of a tip that I actually practice. At the end of the day, around the time you are ready to push away from the desk, leave a little something unwritten. That is, don’t finish the chapter. Don’t end the scene. Leave it off in the middle if possible, maybe with a few clear notes. Then the next day, you can pick right up where you left off — i.e., it’s not a blank page! — rather than having to start all over again at the bottom of the hill.
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Etcetera, etcetera . . .
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