Where to write when the world hates you writing.

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I’ve been writing for the past 2 years on my iPhone. That’s right.  The first draft of my upcoming novel will have been entirely crafted on a screen no larger than my cheek. Why is this important?  It’s not. What is important is it allowed me to find my groove, to find the right atmosphere to work in. And most importantly, it allowed me to be creative.

To step back, I wrote my first novel, Dregs of the Culver Waste, on a crappy laptop in my underwear, entirely at night, entirely alone.

And you know what… it sucked.

Not the novel – at least I don’t think so – but being alone. Being alone all the time, no sun, no life, no energy. And worst of all… the hemroids. Christ, if there’s ever a draw back to being a writer, it’s that.

But isn’t that the process of a lonely writer? Find a dark cave and tap away in solitary confinement until the book is done?

Hell no.

It took me 16 years to figure that out.  And do you know why I went wrong for so long?

Because I listened to other people.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my 38 years, it’s to be very selective when taking advice. Experiment with your own ideas and desires before you stick yourself in a rut of someone else’s design.

I can’t tell you how many times I went against the grain in my other career as a videographer/editor and came out on top.

So my advice to you is simple: ignore my advice. Do it you’re own way and see what happens first.  If you’re a writer, write anywhere and everywhere until you find your groove. You dig typing in strip clubs?  Awesome.  It’ll be an expensive process, but if it works, hats off to you. Gas station bathroom? It’s free, so why not?  Apple Watch? Marble tablet?  A two hundred year old antique typewriter? Speak and Spell? Who really cares in the end. The romance of writing lies in the story, not the device upon which it was written. As long as the book gets done, work anywhere and on anything.

I’m free falling from 10,000 feet even as we speak.  That’s right.  And in a few minutes I’ll be sitting in the back row of some flop house carving the final draft of my next novel into a cigarette-burned tabletop.

As long as it gets the job done, who cares where or when you write, or on what device.

Just pick your own damn poison, wherever the hell you may be, and write me an awesome story.

 

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