“The Way I Write — Not That I Recommend It.”

No writer’s method is right for everybody, but every writer does something that a person new to the craft would find helpful. With that in mind, I have assembled some rules to write by. They work for me. Maybe one of them will work for you.

Originally written for The Providence Journal, I call this 10-point essay: “The Way I Write — Not That I Recommend It.”

1. Have low standards.

Real low. The lower, the better. I come to fiction from journalism, so I have none of the poetic notions of writing. I don’t believe in a muse who sprinkles the dust of inspiration at odd moments. I am the muse. Inspiration is what happens after I sit down to write. I don’t believe in fictional characters surprising me and taking over my story. I am the characters. That’s not romantic. But on the plus side, I don’t believe in writer’s block. In journalism, there’s no time for it. When it’s time to write, you sit down and type.

Daily journalism is a great teacher; it forces writers to write within limitations — you might have two hours to write a news story, and it cannot be longer than, say, 20 or 30 inches of type. If you want to eat this week, you do it.

In fiction, the limitation is not time or length, but standards. People get blocked when they can’t think of anything good enough to write.

No problem.

Just lower the standards.

Still can’t write?

Go lower.

At some point, before you reach finger painting, you’ll write something. Then go back later and fix it.

2. Use the subconscious.

I envy people who sit down and draw up an entire outline for a novel. I’ve tried, but I physically can’t do it.

I never know what’s going to happen in a novel because I figure it out as a go. I don’t recommend this method — I do it because I have no choice. The little advanced plotting I do is recorded in pencil in a notebook, right before bed. That way, my subconscious can churn the ideas overnight, and in the morning I can just sit down and type. In theory, anyway.

3. Edit along the way.

I’m a slow writer. I type with two fingers. I type at the speed I think; any additional typing speed would be wasted capacity. But I also edit myself as I go, and I cannot move to the next paragraph until the one I’m working on is in acceptable shape.

4. Stop touching that!

My battle cry for fiction writing is this: Make it longer! The enemy of creation is tinkering. I do not allow myself to re-read any part of the manuscript that is more than 24 hours old. Otherwise, I would start every day re-reading from the beginning, and making tiny improvements here and there. Then I’d have one perfect chapter, and no story. One of the fun parts of finishing a first draft is the pleasure of scrolling to the top and beginning to tinker.

5. Use the creative power of caffeine.

Two hundred milligrams, minimum. I will not debate this.

6. Combine goofing off with hysterical effort.

Writing a novel takes me 10 months. That’s 5 months of tapping at it casually, with deadline a hazy date in the future. And then 5 months of tearing my hair by the handfuls, sweating through my shirt, and promising myself that this would be the LAST TIME I do it this way.

7. Either very quiet, or very noisy.

I write in silence most of the time, except when I put on some brain-blasting rock music. My latest book, LOOT THE MOON, was created to AC/DC's "For Those About to Rock" album. Working in a newsroom blunts your sensitivity to noise. You can have a gunfight around me while I’m writing and I might not notice.

8. Set measurable goals based on production.

I set goals in words, not in time. Whether it’s 400 words a day or 1,500, remember the battle cry: Make it longer!

9. Be careful about who sees your work.

I don’t let anyone see the manuscript until I’ve finished my second draft. I know many writers who like to get feedback as they go. There’s no one right way to write, of course — but be careful. Envy is an ugly filter. And even those who sincerely want to help will peck your work to bits, which will drain your enthusiasm for the carcass they hand back to you.

10. Endure the 2/3rd crisis.

About two-thirds of the way through any manuscript, you will become convinced that the story just won’t work. Ideas for other books seem more attractive. You’ll wish you were working on some other manuscript. You’ll wish your hometown would be destroyed by a missile so you won’t have to finish your draft. This is very distracting. The 2/3rd crisis is why so many unfinished manuscripts fill shoeboxes in closets all over the globe. It must be confronted head-on. Admit you’re in the crisis. Then get back to battle. Make it longer! You can fix it later.

This is the way I write, not that I recommend it.