A few weeks ago, I wrote “The End” on my 85th book. Eighty-five books! That sounds like a number I should by shouting out with the bravado of someone who’s cracked the code of life, productivity, and maybe the Many-Worlds theory of quantum physics. Let me reassure you, that’s not the case. My first book was published in 2005, and I went indie in 2014, so you would think that after two decades as a published author each new story would be a breeze at this point, but nope–every single book I write is a struggle.
It’s not a lack of ideas or skill–I taught formal writing at a college level for several years–it’s that every book I begin starts an impossible set of riddles. My beta readers have learned not to get too attached to anything I’ve written in the first six chapters. They are constantly subject to change, and change they will, as my brain searches for a way to see how I can possibly solve whatever problems I’ve given my characters in a way that doesn’t feel forced. Somewhere in the middle of the process, usually when I’ve rewritten the first six chapters a dozen times, I find myself wondering, What in the name of all things caffeine-powered made me think I could do this again?
I’m not a plotter. Plotters have detailed outlines, color-coded charts, character arcs, and diagrams that resemble FBI crime boards. It’s admirable. Inspirational, even. But it’s not me. If my writing relied on a detailed outline, I would never write a singled word. Every story I write feels like a mystery that needs to be solved, which is both thrilling and terrifying (honestly, mostly terrifying). My process is a journey of discovery, like being handed a map drawn by cats who are high on catnip and distracted by laser toy, and trying to make sense of the chaos to find a way to the end.
And then there’s the muse-kicker…the deadline. Around the 11th hour, panic kicks, and the muse, like the diva she is, makes a grand entrance like a reluctant guest of honor, late for her own party, but now that she’s here, it’s turning into a real rager. And so, the all-nighters begin. After a couple of months of research, thinking about the characters, their lives, what motivates them, and makes them tick, the witch rolls in and starts putting all the threads together like she’s been writing the story the whole time. What was a slow crawl through mud has suddenly become a race down the highest, fastest water slide, and before I know it, I’m binge-writing like an author possessed. Inevitably, I finish, collapse, and spend the next three days recovering from what amounts to a writing hangover–headache that won’t quit, blurred vision, everything hurts.
Do I envy plotters? Absolutely. Do I envy pantsers who seem to glide through their stories without devolving into chaos? Of course. But here’s what I’ve come to understand about my process: it’s messy. It’s hard. It’s thrilling. It’s often accompanied by the sound of me screaming into the void. But, unfortunately, it’s the only thing that works for me.
After years of trying to rewire my brain with courses, craft books, and advice from well-meaning authors, I’ve realized something liberating… I’m not doing it wrong. My struggle isn’t a flaw that can be or needs to be fixed. It’s part of my storytelling journey. Creativity, for me, comes with wrestling, cajoling, and the occasional mental slapfight.
I used to think that by the time I hit my 85th book, the process would feel like second nature. It doesn’t. It never has. And honestly? I’ve made peace with that (well, mostly). Because at the end of the day, I love the stories I write. I love the chaos, the discovery, the thrill of the “Ah-ha!” moment when everything finally clicks and when I write the final line of a book that has nearly defeated me.
So here’s to 85 books. To every meltdown, every whiny phone call I make to my sister and my besties about how I suck, every late-night writing binge, every triumphant “The End.” I’ll keep doing it my way because, for better or worse, it’s the only way my brain knows how to get it done.