The Writing Notebook

I am always interested in finding out how others write. I like to find out how they produce their ideas, how they transfer them to the page, and how they transform those pages into short stories, poetry, articles, novels, or whatever. As a beginning writer, I haven't yet developed a firm process for doing this yet. The method I use right now primarily revolves around my writing notebook.

My writing notebook is basically whatever kind of notebook I have lying around at the moment. Sometimes I use a 3-ring binder with blank paper stuck in; sometimes I go out and buy a spiral or composition notebook. I make a promise to myself that I will only use this notebook for creative writing, not for taking notes, writing messages, or making grocery lists. This is sacred paper.

What I do with my empty abyss of paper then is simple: I fill it with words. I freewrite. If I am by myself, I start by putting down whatever pops into my head. If I am in a public place, such as the library, cafeteria, or the student union, I record what happens in front of me. Sometimes I choose to detail one specific person, sometimes I focus on setting the scene by displaying the actions of several people. I don't worry about getting everything perfectly true to life, I just write what I feel.

Basically, what this method allows me to do is to accumulate settings, characters, actions, and plot details to deal with later. If a plot or character immediately comes to mind when I'm freewriting, I'll just flip the page or draw a line across the page and start writing it.

I'm the type of person that has difficulty getting into the creative mood, but I've found using my writer's notebook really helps me get there. I hope that I can discover more ways to help my creative juices flow even more.

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The Bad Dream

Here's a piece I just wrote, I thought the idea seemed interesting. I'm afraid it might be a bit too cheesy, though. I might expand it a little, but right now I must get back to watching "7 Nights of Hitchcock" on AMC.

          I begged to wake up from a bad dream.
          Before me was a maze of cubicles. The flashing red of the fire alarms didn't give me much light. The only voice I could hear was the sound of the alarm, ordering me to immediately exit the building.
          I heard another vague sound, in the distance. With a the suddenness and ferocity of a tiger, it sped up to meet me. I glanced over my shoulder, to see that the building was collapsing in on itself. And it was coming toward me.
          My mind went to slow motion. I forced my body to turn and my legs to run. I knew that I could not make it, but running gave an intense feeling of action in what I knew to be my last moment on earth. The red EXIT sign grew larger in my eyes, and the roar behind me grew ever louder.
          I reached the last cubicle in the row, and I ventured one last look behind me.
          As I did, my feet were ripped off the floor. In what seemed like years, my knees cracked against the concrete, and my whole frame hurled toward the floor. The last thing I remember is my vision becoming blurry, and then nothing.

          My alarm rudely awoke me.
          Beep, beep, beep saturated the air, always in neat groups of three. I rolled over, tapping the snooze button.
          I fluffed up the pillow, and slammed my head back towards the bed. My eyes were wide awake by this point; the light that trickled in between the mini blinds would not allow them to close.
          Thirty minutes later, I was standing at the bus stop three stories below my apartment. It was only seven thirty, and I wondered to myself why they scheduled classes this early. Seems like that would fall under “cruel and unusual punishment”.
          On the bus, I flipped open my laptop. The bus ride wasn't long, but I tried to get in a bit of writing anytime I could. I navigated to the Word document entitled “thriller.doc” and double clicked it.
          I begged to wake up from a bad dream.
          Oh, dear. What was I thinking? I had to remind myself not to write late at night.
          Before me was a maze of cubicles.
          How cliché could I get? I abruptly closed the file, right clicked it, and selected Delete. No one should ever read trash like that.

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Mornings Don't Like Writers

I have come to the conclusion that mornings don't like writers.
Or perhaps it's that I don't like mornings. Either way, it still sucks for me.

Well, my interesting little tale begins this morning, when I had the horror of rolling over in my bed, glancing at my alarm clock and discovering that it was 8:17. Now this would not seem very bad, except that my first class begins at 8:30. I blinked twice, thinking to myself, "It can't be 8:17! I set my alarm for 7:00!"
Being the intelligent and resourceful person that I am, I promptly checked to make sure my alarm was set. It was set perfectly, except for the simple fact that it was set for 7:00 PM, rather than 7:00 AM. Sometimes I think army time would be a convenient thing to have.

So, I lunged forward out of bed, threw on my clothing, checked my hair in the mirror (I can go to class unwashed, hungry, and breath smelling like rotten eggs, but my hair must look good), and rushed off to run up the mountain (and it is a mountain when you are running up it only 10 minutes after you've woken up), making it to World Civilization in record time. I was, in fact, promptly on time for class.

I went to all of my classes, and then (taking the bus) came back to Pomfret (my residence hall), and cleansed myself, and brushed my teeth. So here I am, having an early lunch, for my breakfast consisted of a 16 oz Dr. Pepper, whose entire purpose in life was to keep me awake.

Why am I describing this in a blog about writing, you ask?
The fact is, I don't really know. It just seemed like an interesting thing to write about.

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Excerpt

Here's an excerpt from a short story I'm working on. (NOTE: Work in Progress)

          Across town, Harry Mancini was going about his business. He was, in fact, a paperboy.
          He was funny to watch; a slightly overweight, middle aged man on a bicycle will not fail to elicit laughter.
          He had been fired from his job as a janitor for being late one too many times. Tossing papers onto stranger's lawns seemed the only thing available to a failed custodian without a college degree.
          As a he rounded 6th street and entered the upper class “Maple Hill” subdivision, he noticed something strange at number 8. He pedaled his bike to the curb and lumbered off, letting the cycle fall to the ground. He wasn't sure, but it looked like there was a boot sticking out of the rhododendrons. He went forward slowly, and noticed another boot right beside it.
          As he reached the flowers, he could now see what lay behind them: an elderly man sprawled out on the ground, looking as pale as a ghost. He quickly checked his pulse, and then, not knowing what to do, he went around to the wide porch and rang the doorbell.
          The door opened to a housewife in her late forties, rollers still in her hair.
          “Yes?” she demanded, eyes wide.
          “I, um...” the newspaper deliverer tried to utter.
          “Well, I don't have all day!”
          “I found a dead guy in your flowers, ma'am.”
          “You what?”
          The coffee cup fell from her hand and shattered on the tile floor below.

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