I think it has been fairly well documented through history that writers are weirdoes. We are, to put it as kindly as possible, a decidedly eccentric bunch. I thought I was insane and weird…that is until I decided – in my sophomore year of college – to change my major to literature. My study of authors led me to the realization that I wasn’t any less strange than I had thought, but there were plenty of writers far stranger than me. I pride myself on these eccentricities now…or, that is to say, they don’t cause me to cringe in shame anymore. And actually, I think it is due to my weirdness that I am even able to do any writing at all.

I ran across a blog post today titled “The Daily Routines of Famous Writers.” Most of these people are absolutely, delightfully off-the-wall, and I was happy to find some similarities between them and myself.

My favorite was Joan Didion.

“Another thing I need to do, when I’m near the end of the book, is sleep in the same room with it. … Somehow the book doesn’t leave you when you’re asleep right next to it.”

This was so fantastic to read. I do exactly this. Well, I should say, I do one of two things. I either bring the draft into my bedroom and keep it on my bedside table – in case I wake with an idea or can’t sleep and want to read it. Or, I fall asleep while I’m writing. Usually this is not in bed. I can’t write in bed, but apparently I can fall asleep on the floor of my living room with the laptop in front of me.

Last night, I decided the floor seemed like a mighty fine place to do some writing. My stupid couches offer no back support, and the floor seemed good enough. I laid down with a couple pillows to prop me up and was reading over some things I’d written the day before. Then before I knew it, it was 1AM and I was curled up in a ball under an afghan (no memory of grabbing that afghan or covering myself, so I either did it in my sleep or live in the company of extremely kind ghosts) and my laptop was still open by me.

Falling asleep while writing is like having a sleepover with friends as a child. Usually, it’s bedtime and that’s that, but at sleepovers there was talking and joking and games. It was a special treat. I felt like that yesterday. When I fell asleep, my main character was zooming on the highway toward her parents’ home because she suspected some bad people might be out to get them and wanted to make sure they were okay. Writing that was like having an exciting conversation with her. I like my characters to be around me at all times – and they actually are always in my head, bugging me.

When I am reaching the end of a piece of writing, I do like to have it with me at all times. Weird? Heck yes it is. But I own the weirdness.

I also found it interesting that so many of the writers talked about hating writing. I think many of us feel we didn’t choose to be writers, we just kind of are writers. I think this is true of most artists, whether they be musicians or painters or writers or whatever. You’re either artistic or you aren’t, and being artistic isn’t always the easiest thing to deal with.

I love writing, but writing isn’t a practical thing. It takes focus and it takes time and after a day of work I have neither. I chatted with a writer friend the other day about how it feels when you don’t write for a long time. It’s like there’s no release for these ideas and emotions. It’s frustrating and usually we get funky if we have not written for some time.

But there are aspects of writing that I hate. Aspects that will keep me from writing because I get too frustrated. One of these is writing descriptions.

I hate reading lengthy descriptions in books. Hate. I will skip them (yeah, I said it. Dear Every English Professor I have Ever Had – that 10 page description of a single blade of grass in that book that was written somewhere between 1800 and 1900 probably by a woman – DIDN’T READ THAT.)

There are descriptions I love because of the beauty of them, but I tend not to be overly descriptive when I write the first draft of a novel because I end up boring myself, and I don’t want to write something I wouldn’t want to read. Hello self-indulgent-writer-syndrome. However, description must be added, so I go back in a second draft and write it all in.

Example.

Here is how this scene was originally written.

March sat at her usual table in Coffee Co., a small coffee shop in a strip mall that was about halfway between her apartment and her parents’ home. She’d gone there a few times a week for the past three years to chat with the shop owner – Mr. Hwang.

It was late October in Virginia, which meant the weather hadn’t quite decided whether it was autumn or winter. On this particular day, a day that happened to be the three year anniversary of her grandfather’s disappearance, it was much more winter-like. The sun was setting and there was a chilly, misty rain falling. March had her phone on the table in front of her, a picture of she and her grandfather on the screen. They were smiling. She loved that picture and she loved him and she couldn’t remember why.

Every Friday for the past month, when March was through with work, she had gone to her parents’ home for dinner. They pretended it had nothing to do with how depressed March had been for the past three years and how she had gotten especially bad for the past month – since the incident with Dave. March shook her head so she wouldn’t think about that. She had decided that morning that she would focus on Grandpa August for the day. She’d deal with reality later. 

I got feedback that there wasn’t enough description. So, I recently revised it.

March sat at her usual table in Coffee Co., a small coffee shop in a strip mall that was about halfway between her apartment and her parents’ home. She’d gone there a few times a week for the past three years to chat with the shop owner – Mr. Hwang.

The shop was a collection of furniture and knick-knacks from around the world that went together perfectly only because absolutely nothing matched anything else. Mr. Hwang had collected things from his travels and thrown them all together, and there was scarcely a space on the wall that wasn’t covered by something. Each table was a different size and different wood finish, surrounded by chairs of various colors. Each table had its own theme – a country. Mr. Hwang always saved the Korea table for March, because it was his favorite. It was a cozy little place, much like something you’d see in a movie. A fireplace, warm lighting, quite chatter from the patrons enjoying coffee from “I heart NY” mugs and delicate Chinese tea cups.

It was late October in Virginia, which meant the weather hadn’t quite decided whether it was autumn or winter. On this particular day, a day that happened to be the three year anniversary of her grandfather’s disappearance, it was much more winter-like. The sun was setting and there was a chilly, misty rain falling. March had her phone on the table in front of her beside a tiny figurine of a Korean woman with a porcelain face and a pretty little fan in her hand. She was dressed in a colorful robes and had feminine rosy cheeks. On March’s phone screen was a picture of she and her grandfather. They were smiling. She loved that picture and she loved him and she couldn’t remember why.

Every Friday for the past month, when March was through with work, she had gone to her parents’ home for dinner. They pretended it had nothing to do with how depressed March had been for the past three years and how she had gotten especially bad for the past month – since the incident with Dave. March shook her head so she wouldn’t think about that. She had decided that morning that she would focus on Grandpa August for the day. She’d deal with reality later.

I also find that in my life in general I am terribly organized, but in writing I am a complete mess. I write, I throw drafts away, I get frustrated, where did I put that notebook with all the characters’ names?, my whiteboard with all my notes fell off the wall and when I tried – unsuccessfully – to hang it again, half the writing got erased when the board rubbed against my shirt. How old is this character again? I should keep better notes. I forgot about that character for fifty pages but they should have been there all along.

Etc.

Somehow, some way, though, I manage to write almost every day and have produced one complete book.

How?

Heck if I know. I am a mess.