I wake up between 7am and 8am. I waddle down to a coffee shop where I don't get coffee. I get tea. I write longhand in a purple Wexford composition book I got at Walgreens in Seattle. I don't usually start writing right away. I can't. I need to wake up. I make tentative attempts, disparate words, the start of a paragraph, or I just stare at the page or look around. This stage usually lasts 15 minutes to an hour.
At some point a sentence will get me excited. The other day it was "You're going to die." Granted, this sentence didn't appear in the final version of what I actually wrote, but it got me going. It got me passionate. It got me writing.
After writing longhand I take a short walk. I get my computer. I go to the cafe Amor Perfecto that I likened to a sex shop the other day. I sample some kind of masterfully prepared coffee. Today it might be aeropress or V60 or Chemex. Maybe I let my hair down and try Syphon.
In Amor Perfecto I sit down and transfer longhand to computer. I start slowly sipping the coffee because I don't want it to kick in quite yet. Coffee is good for getting things done, but it's not good for creativity. It makes you too focused. When you're trying to be creative you want your mind to be light, to fly around the room, to wander like a juvenile border collie at a dog park, going from plant to plant, fence post to fence post, dog's butt to dog's butt, happily sniffing everything before finding something it likes. Which is why I hold off on the coffee until I really need to focus. Coffee is good for meeting deadlines, but not good for creativity.
The third reading is where the magic happens (if there's any magic to be had). I get out the sandpaper, sometimes the hatchet. Steven Kind once said (repeating what an editor told him), "Final draft = rough draft - 10%). For me this usually happens in the third reading. Adjectives and adverbs are cut. Superfluous sentences seem jump off the page and present themselves for culling. "Get me out of here!" they say. "I do nothing for this piece!"
This is often also where I realize a joke isn't funny or that I could add one that is. For example, when I was writing the seagull post the other day I saw the sentence, "This is right about the time your girlfriend meets a guy she'll one day cheat on you with." I thought, "Hmmm, who is this guy she's cheating with? I want to see him. I want to imagine him." So I made him a young buck from Italy who has skin like almonds and forearms like a draft horse. I decide he's from Tuscany. I call him Flavio.
After the third reading I do nothing. I take another walk, go on the internet, check flights to Lima, wonder if the dude I applied with for a job in Brooklyn is going to get back to me. Then I do another sweep for typos and minor tweaks. I perform search engine optimization, add meta tags, decide on a title, and add a photo. The post is almost ready.
Lastly, I go back to my apartment. I make breakfast. When the rice for my rice and garlic and eggs is boiling I open up the computer to take one last look at the post. I read it out loud, since reading out loud is great for catching typos and checking things like pace and flow. Even if I'm in a cafe I read it loud, softly and under my breath as if I were reciting the Lord's Prayer.
The post goes live at 9am PDT. I'm done. I click update to save any last changes, and maybe go through it one more time to check for typos. I sautee the garlic. I glance lovingly at the cactus that sits on my window sill. I share the post on Google Plus, Twitter and Reddit. If I feel like I've written something good, this is where I'm invaded by delusions of grandeur. This is the one! This is the post that's going to get published on Huffington Post and make me famous! I try to be realistic. I fry the eggs. I know in my heart things like blog traffic don't matter. I'm happy I know this.
Then, I go about the rest of my day. I get lunch with a friend. I go skateboarding. And the next morning I wake up between 7am and 8am and waddle down to a cafe to stare at a blank page and not drink coffee.
At some point a sentence will get me excited. The other day it was "You're going to die." Granted, this sentence didn't appear in the final version of what I actually wrote, but it got me going. It got me passionate. It got me writing.
After writing longhand I take a short walk. I get my computer. I go to the cafe Amor Perfecto that I likened to a sex shop the other day. I sample some kind of masterfully prepared coffee. Today it might be aeropress or V60 or Chemex. Maybe I let my hair down and try Syphon.
In Amor Perfecto I sit down and transfer longhand to computer. I start slowly sipping the coffee because I don't want it to kick in quite yet. Coffee is good for getting things done, but it's not good for creativity. It makes you too focused. When you're trying to be creative you want your mind to be light, to fly around the room, to wander like a juvenile border collie at a dog park, going from plant to plant, fence post to fence post, dog's butt to dog's butt, happily sniffing everything before finding something it likes. Which is why I hold off on the coffee until I really need to focus. Coffee is good for meeting deadlines, but not good for creativity.
The third reading is where the magic happens (if there's any magic to be had). I get out the sandpaper, sometimes the hatchet. Steven Kind once said (repeating what an editor told him), "Final draft = rough draft - 10%). For me this usually happens in the third reading. Adjectives and adverbs are cut. Superfluous sentences seem jump off the page and present themselves for culling. "Get me out of here!" they say. "I do nothing for this piece!"
This is often also where I realize a joke isn't funny or that I could add one that is. For example, when I was writing the seagull post the other day I saw the sentence, "This is right about the time your girlfriend meets a guy she'll one day cheat on you with." I thought, "Hmmm, who is this guy she's cheating with? I want to see him. I want to imagine him." So I made him a young buck from Italy who has skin like almonds and forearms like a draft horse. I decide he's from Tuscany. I call him Flavio.
After the third reading I do nothing. I take another walk, go on the internet, check flights to Lima, wonder if the dude I applied with for a job in Brooklyn is going to get back to me. Then I do another sweep for typos and minor tweaks. I perform search engine optimization, add meta tags, decide on a title, and add a photo. The post is almost ready.
Lastly, I go back to my apartment. I make breakfast. When the rice for my rice and garlic and eggs is boiling I open up the computer to take one last look at the post. I read it out loud, since reading out loud is great for catching typos and checking things like pace and flow. Even if I'm in a cafe I read it loud, softly and under my breath as if I were reciting the Lord's Prayer.
The post goes live at 9am PDT. I'm done. I click update to save any last changes, and maybe go through it one more time to check for typos. I sautee the garlic. I glance lovingly at the cactus that sits on my window sill. I share the post on Google Plus, Twitter and Reddit. If I feel like I've written something good, this is where I'm invaded by delusions of grandeur. This is the one! This is the post that's going to get published on Huffington Post and make me famous! I try to be realistic. I fry the eggs. I know in my heart things like blog traffic don't matter. I'm happy I know this.
Then, I go about the rest of my day. I get lunch with a friend. I go skateboarding. And the next morning I wake up between 7am and 8am and waddle down to a cafe to stare at a blank page and not drink coffee.
