Imagine a crisp, misty morning in the mountains. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee. It’s chilly, even in the summertime, so you can throw on a long-sleeved shirt with a flannel over it and feel perfectly justified.
Maybe you’re tired from the night before. The last thing you want to do is sit down at the computer and peck out a thousand words on that novel and then lock in for another eight-hour jag at the day job.
That’s why the notebook and pen are sitting there. They go along perfectly with the coffee, and the morning mist, and the chill damp air. Once you feel the tip of the pen skating along the page you’ve somehow tricked yourself into writing again. You magnificent son of a bitch!
You remember what’s always there, what you’ve somehow blinded yourself to seeing every morning: that everything you ever needed was right in front of you.
All the best ideas came delivered, free. You just had leave your mental door open for them. Every plot hole was sealed because you were willing to look at it. Every last-minute save glided effortlessly from your gnarled hands. You are a genius. Don’t deny it.
The life-saving magic you experience comes from those morning pages. Three pages of nonsense, complaints, lists, character details once or never used, names and places, modifiers, tirades for or against modifiers, notes from books, stray thoughts, minority reports, scribbles, shorthand notes…
It’s all there. Three pages. About twenty to twenty-five minutes. Have more time? Maybe more pages. Some days you need more, but never fewer that that all-important three. Scribble them out before your inner critic wakes up and starts demanding some sense out of you. With practice, you can keep him quiet for longer and longer spans.
Then do it again tomorrow.
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