Long Day’s Journey into Process
I have never rushed my work. Most of my novels took 11-12 months to write, and another six months or so of proofreads and edits. A few of the early ones did not even get that far until I set the rough draft aside for two months to let it “rest” in my head.
Though I have self-published my work, I have always been as deliberate as possible when doing so. My name is on the work, after all, I am not about to release sloppy products out there on purpose. Had I been able to afford professional editors more often, I would likely have availed myself of them. I wasn’t going to let a measly thing like budget, however, stand in the way of me sharing my stories with the world at large; I meticulously did it myself.
In the last year or so, what with my mother’s death and a few other less severe life changes, I have not merely been deliberate in writing, I have been virtually inert. As I construct in multiple facets of life a new normal out of the salvageable rubble of the previous longstanding normal, I am gradually writing again. (As I mentioned in a previous post about grief while writing a novel.)
After such a painful and irregular hiatus from consistent production, one might assume I’d be chomping at the proverbial bit to crank out new work. That isn’t the case, and furthermore, I foresee myself embracing the process of longform content creation even more than before. (My days of one novel per yearISH are unlikely to return.)
A bit of process almost every day may or may not result in a finished draft later sooner than my previous pace. Yet I imagine it serves as a reminder of what I am doing, and why.
To sustain the proper esteem for what imagination, creativity and story telling as a whole do for myself and the world (sometimes) I intend to commit to the state of writing, as much as the writing itself. I want to prioritize the engagement with parts of myself connected to the collective subconscious of creativity that everyone from Shakespeare to Shatner has committed themself to in one way or another in pursuit of their version of art.
I always respected this engagement–counted myself fortunate that I possess sufficient abilities to make use of it the way I do. Yet in previous years I saw it perhaps as a sacred vehicle by which I could arrive at a destination of story craft–whereas now I intend to treat it more as a sacred cottage…stationary, familiar, powerful in its own right even if there is eventually a world beyond it.
An aspiration to “stay a while,” if you will, but not dragging my feet and procrastinating on the latest project.
I do this in my theatre life all the time. 90% of being in a production is process, hopefully leading to an exhilarating but brief presentation of the accumulated result to the world. I am an actor that loves to rehearse a lot, and would hate to go on stage with inadequate rehearsal behind me. (Which on occasion I have had to do, and would be happy never to do again….)
Not sure why I have never come to the same conclusion about the process of writing. Perhaps because theatre is communal and I have no choice, while writing is solitary and I can get ahead of myself.
Whatever your passion projects are, I encourage you to join me in a more intentional submersion into process itself.
What is your process?
Art(TISTS) Heal
Doesn’t Matter what kind,.
To be in the proximity of other artists committed to the creative act is a balm unmatched in most other aspects in a creatives life. Healing, life affirming, increasing the depth of field of our spiritual vision.
Last week, I experienced all of the above as I took part in the one-weekend only production run of Taming of the Shrew at a local theatre.
It was the first show without my mother on the earth.
But before that, it was the first tech week without her, first rehearsal process without her, first audition without her. This was four months ago, and thus four months less into a grief process that has yet to reach it’s one year mark.
I wasn’t sure i could, or even wanted to do theatre anymore. After all, even when Mom could not come to the show, we shared the process, and she always stayed up late to hear how an opening went when I got home. She had been, as with all things in life, the central witness of my existence.
That being so, I nonetheless determined that part of the healing process may involve a return to one of the most longstanding creative outlets I have; acting. Shakespeare, particularly.
I went into the audition with no thoughts of who I wanted to play. The show was never a favorite of mine, and in fact I never much cared for it on the whole. But a familiar group was doing Shakespeare ion a familiar place, and this was the way to get back into it.
Right away as I read, the character of Grumio spoke to me for whatever reason. I knew in an instant what i can bring to the role, and how well it would suit my style and personality. The director agrees and gave me the role, and from that moment on just about every rehearsal someone comments on how I was giving so much to the character, confirming the feelings of a perfect match.
Other than some harried scheduling with my part time job and rehearsals, the process went about the same as normal until the last one. Ab semi-open rehearsal pay-what-you-can chance for people to see the show that could not see it on the regular days.
I broke down in front of my director, frightened and uncertain to a degree I was not used to an hour before “opening” the show. I figured it was coming…I was shaky in the car on the way to the theatre.
It had to happen. Many things played a role in my state by then, and it probably came from multiple reasons. But the darker, colder void of a world without Mom, focused like a laser into the microcosm of an audience just cut through me on the night. I knew I could deliver the lines and hit the lights, but suddenly doubted if I would connect, or feel connected to the room, and that is a death to a performance.
My conversation with my director, whom I love, is private. As are the particulars of other conversations and chats with different people to whom I am bonded in and around this community. But just as the breaking down revealed a vulnerability that I an unused to showing in front of even the people I care about most, the aftermath of support, for both my performance and my grief reflected back at me. And the reflection said that despite my inner doubts, I am in fact a real person A person with talent, a person worth of, (and actively in possession of) the love of my colleagues and friends.
I have rarely felt love with so few constrictions or distractions. No performative support, no filters. And, rarest of all, no mask, Rare for even that environment. At least up until now.
Being among fellow actors and creatives was for certain part of the calculus of destiny, (or the guidance of my angels if you will) for this moment in my life. If it had not been artists, not only would I have likely doubted the depth of the support expressed, but I would not have allowed myself the vulnerability in public to begin with.
And wouldn;t you know it, the show went well.
Mom’s death blasted a hole in my castle walls. The use art and the proximity or artists did not merely seal up the whole when I wasn’t looking; they built a whole new hallway or wing in which to put it. All be simply being artists, good people, and there for me all at the same time.
It is not merely that the arts heal, though they do. It is not merely that the creative act itself is a balm, if we can bring ourselves to it , though it is. It is about the people. It is always about the people. The people creating with you, or people nearby creating other things, but nonetheless aware of what I am doing.
I cherish the cards, the words, the gestures and gifts more than any of the people involved could possibly know. But the voluntary folding of my life force into the community of artists, whether or not we are in the process of creating is the profound takeaway from this experience.
And I never would have known it had I not opted to both audition, and not fight fear within me on the moment it occurred.
Can You Be A Non-Fiction Pantser?
In the world of fiction writing, you’ll often encounter the terms “pantser” and “plotter.” have used them myself on this website before. To remind those who may not know, the former refers to someone who prefers to write without a plan or outline, just flying by “the seat of their pants,” hence the term.
As you can imagine the other term refers to those who make outlines or otherwise chart out the nature of their work before they start, so they can follow this as a guide.
You can imagine many writers fall somewhere in-between.
I tend to be on the plotter side of things, though I do not always have an official outline to follow. (My next novel does happen to have an outline to work from however.)
There are not “plots”per se in non-fiction, though certain history books and memoirs can be written according to a quasi-plot. (Think Capote’s In Cold Blood.)
In that sense, one can be a plotter of sorts as a non-fiction author.
But can one be a pantser for non-fiction?
In technical terms, yes. In practical terms, no.
Anything that can be written can of course be written by the seat of one’s pants. Just dive in and type what comes to you about the subject you plan to address. If you have a subject, in which case you are in stream-of-consciousness territory, which one could argue is the only bona fide way to be a non-fiction pantser.
As a rule however, one should have a destination in mind when writing non-fiction of any length. A theme, or a fact, something you know you are working towards, and in the very least a rough idea of the means to get there. This can and does change in the course of writing, but you are not winging it here; you are following map and deciding on a detour.
Sure, one can pants a non-fiction piece and revise it to perfection later on, just as one would the draft of a novel. But unlike a novel, where truths can be scattered in the confusion and brought back into the fold in whatever way a writer chooses, a haphazard approach to the facts of non-fiction written without a plan just dumps mud in the water.
The temptation is to conflate impromptu pants-writing with genius, or passion. The words just pouring out of your brain.
“How astute you are!”
But unless you state in some fashion, “I had no outline at all for the book your are about to read,” nobody is going to know how much you planned ahead for the idea, and how much just came to you. And to mention this would strangle most readers with the utter pretentious of the thought.
And since you are going to be editing and revising your piece multiple times, (you will be, right?) there will be little evidence of your pantsing anyway. We tend to accept that about fiction..the author’s meticulous calculations of craft and prose to conjure an excellent story. But with non-fiction, particularly of the persuasive kind, we treat planning like a numbing agent, when in reality it is the fertilizer that nourishes our work.
I Will Write A Novel Again
That title might sound as mundane and redundant as it does off and confusing. After all, this is the place where I talk about writing, particularly fiction, on as close to weekly basis as I can.
The post immediately previous to this one mentions ideas for fiction, and whether to follow them. Most of the posts deal with advice of various kinds based my experience as an author.
And not long after the start of 2025 I posted my my clear intention to write a space opera as my next longform fiction project.
Why reassert recently established plans? Because my life itself even more recently drastically and forever changed.
My mother died in the hospital a mere two weeks after I published the last post.
Worse, I feel she need not have died at that time, but for some lackluster medical care.
Though I will likely carry that belief for the rest of my own life, along with my grief, I am not here to detail same. I love my mother, and she me, and she died–you require no deep expertise into the intricacies of the human experience to conclude the nature of what I am going through in broad strokes. And if you have experienced such a loss yourself, you know even more.
I am here to say that I have spent the last several months, as Hospice was discussed, (but never achieved), and after Mom died feeling quite far from any creative impulse. Grief, guilt, weakness, depression, ands other related reactions to losing a loved one conspired to disgust me away from even the notion of writing any more fiction, (or performing any more theatre.)
After all, what is the point of creating if in addition to my usual poor readership numbers, even my own mother will be absent, forever form this life, to directly experience it. (Or experience me creating it if nothing else.)
Writing is draining enough in the good times, when few people care about what you have added to the world. When one of the few people that cared about anything you ever did or was is gone in the earthly sense, why break my back adding color to a world that now lack sufficient amounts of light to even see it with my own eyes?
It seemed quite near grotesque; the idea of being so frivolous as to write my little tales of ghosts or space or murder mysteries. The perpetual void of audience indifference I threw all such completed work toward from a distance was nothing compared to the singularity emerging at the center of my galaxy–dense enough to swallow love and dreams themselves.
In short, who fucking cares about writing? About story? About performing and presenting?
That, at long last, brings me to this post, and title of same.
How did everything change? In sincerity, it didn’t. Not entirely. Everything I said above continues to hang over me as I ponder not only the future of my writing, but the future of my life on Earth itself.
The questions are not answered, the depression not lightening, the fear of failing again no dispelled.
Nor do I know the details of writing another novel right now. It may or may not be the space opera I keep running my mouth about. That could be among the sillier, more useless types of story possible in wake of my status.
Then again, a probing, literary exploration of the darkness of human reality in wake of loss and aloneness, (despite being very much where I find myself much of the time) would seem to parallel swallowing dry stale break whole at this point.
Who knows?
The same question applies to how long the next novel will take compared to previous ones; when I will start, if it will be the final novel or if others will follow for the rest of however long my life is; if I will bother promoting it or not; if I will even publish the thing; will i even feel the same about writing the damn thing whatever it is by the time I’m doing it, as oppose to giving up for good once I know what being in author in a post-Mom world feels like, and whether the end product, should it happen, be worth a damn.
And of course, whether it is still in me at all.
Notwithstanding very little movement in my mood and the plethora of unanswered questions, a mere subset of which I lay out above, I set the intention, on this day, to start/write a novel again. And if I can muster even the minutest fraction of an answer as to “why?” the best I can offer is this:
By pure statistics, I could have as much as four decades or more remaining on this planet before I join my mother in whatever plain she now exists. If I am to get anything at all out of those years, even if only a version or tolerable survival of same, I must embrace mindful processes more than results. This is something I have yet to master and may not master by the time I too am just shy of 84.
I’d like to sound more triumphant than that for you. But my Mom died, and believe or not this all is a far and loud cry from where I was weeks ago.
Today, that must suffice for me, and certainly for everyone else.
How to Know If Your Idea is a Good One
You don’t.
Sorry for the whiplash. Maybe I can soften the blow a bit and amend that be saying I myself don’t know if my ideas are good anymore, if ever I did “know.” So I have little advice to offer you on your own ideas.
For me it’s writing stories and nonfiction books, and of course posts like this, among others. For most of my life as a writer, I have only pursued a topic or a story if I felt it was in fact a “good” idea.
That’s not to say I’ve been off chasing marketing trends for my entire writing career. Sure, I’d as guilty of that weakness from time to time–all creatives are. Yet even as a new writer, I only ever pursued an idea if something about it felt like a truly “good” idea.
That was especially true of my novels, and to some extent, still is.
It came time to sell and market my work. And the short version is, nothing works. I have gone broad and specific. Reached out to strangers and/or friends. I try videos, I try promotions. I offer fiction or non-fiction. Twitter, (when I used it) an increasingly abandoned Facebook author page, more recently TikTok and even more recently Blue Sky have all been homes to various promotional campaigns of mine on behalf of my own writing.
The most recent, and one that I am still technically in active promotion for is my Autism memoir: A Fear of Butterflies. Before that, my most recent novel, The Rubble and the Shakespeare. In both of those cases especially I thought further ahead, and made more plans from more different angles than I did the promotion of any previous works.
In essence, by my own standards (and amount of spoons, for you fellow Autistics) I promoted the shit out of both books, starting before they were even published, as is suggested.
For what they were both campaigns, like all the others, failed.
Yes, perhaps I am still woefully inadequate as a self-promoter, despite my improvements over the years. Nevertheless, what I thought were “good” ideas did not catch on, even a little, with any target audiences.
Luck. It takes luck, and as far as promoting, I have had zero good luck at any point in my decade as an author. It is what it is. It sucks ass, but it is still what it is.
So, have all (and I mean ALL) of my ideas been bad ones? Have I never hit on a notion, a story seed, a character moment to a thesis on life in the case of my memoir that measured up as at least a “good” or “imaginative” idea?
Sales numbers say, no, I never have.
Am I willing at this stage to surrender the notion that all of my ideas are just plain bad? Not yet. Doesn’t numb the disappointment, but I have made an all-too-gradual shift in my perception of my own ideas, and by extension, the ideas of others. It’s what I said at the top of this post. In essence, you don’t know if your idea is “good,” only if it’s potent.
The shittiest of ideas have sold. Some of the best languish in obscurity forever. Luck, money and connections shift the odds only so far in one’s favor. On the whole, I now doubt we ever know.
I am converting to a model of idea presence instead of idea quality. If you idea continues to come to you more than a few times, pursue it. Not because that will lead to external success. I am proof it will not. Still, it’s a better metric by which to make creative decisions than “is this any good?”
The times when an idea will not “leave you alone” are about respecting your inner voice, (or the inspiration from elsewhere whispering to you.
To create is to be the artist. A lot of that blows at first. Yet it’s the answer I now give myself when I ponder if the next idea is in fact a good one.
Ty Unglebower 