MACHINE - MAP - NATURE - PICTURE - RANDOM - WORD

March 15, 2018

     While I am always fascinated by writers' accounts of their writing habits (Faulkner in his rundown shed, Proust in his cork-lined bedroom), talking about my own process bores me to tears. It’s right up there with watching paint dry. (Note to self: avoid clichés). Still, it behooves me (did I just use that odd word?) to give an account of an activity that engages so much of my time.

     An essential part of my daily writing ritual is setting up my tools: a well-worn dictionary and thesaurus, extra-fine black ink pens, #2 pencils sharpened to within an inch of their lives, tablets of college-ruled white paper (no margins), folders containing the novel’s outline and notes, print copies of completed chapters, and a hand mirror. I check it periodically to be sure I haven’t disappeared, a hazard of an overactive imagination.

     Longhand is the only way I can write. There’s something about the movement of my hand, the flow of ink...

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