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Writing a book is hard work. When you’re in the thick of things, everything feels like a challenge. You’re constantly doubting yourself. Thought like “This sucks!” “People won’t understand this” and “I don’t think I’ll ever finish” constantly creep into your head. And it’s not like you can just tell yourself to get out of your own head because that’s where you have to go to access your idea.

When I write, I try to do little things to constantly frame my mindset so that I’ve got a positive focus during the process. Spending months outlining so that I’ve got a clear vision for the idea before I start page one is the first thing I do. Not going back to do rewrites while I’m still completing the first draft was another.

Another key is my use of time allotment when I write.

I only write one page at a time, and I allot myself an hour to get it done. So, in a given day, if I have to write four pages, I’ve blocked out four hours during the day to do so.

But, as I mentioned in recent posts, with rare exceptions, only the first page takes me anywhere near that long. As I start chugging along putting the idea down on paper, the average time it takes me to write a page is roughly a half an hour. And when I really hit my stride, the average dips even further.

This is such a psychological boost for me. On a given day, if I’m only writing one page, and I do my writing first thing in the morning, it’s an AMAZING feeling to know that I’ve already met my goal and still have the whole day ahead of me. As for days in which I write my max, four pages, having these four victories throughout the day in which I’ve finished them with half the time I allotted myself to spare fuels my confidence and keeps me hungry to want to do it again.

Each time I write a page using this method, my mind gets positive reinforcement not just from meeting my goal for that hour, but in seeing how much time remains in the hour I budgeted. When that happens again and again, my mindset starts to become overwhelming positively. After all, I keep writing a page in half the time, which is my average on any project, but because I budgeted an hour for it, my mind can’t help but think the writing is going very well.

Success breeds success.

Every time I earn these little victories, I get a little rush, and am eagerly looking forward to the next hour I’ve blocked out for writing. Each day I meet my writing goal reminds me that I can do this, and encourages me to keep at it until I’ve seen it through.

Every writer has doubts about their work. You’re not alone. So if you’ve ever thought about writing a story yourself but haven’t been able to see an idea through, try this method  to keep yourself in the right mindset to keep going until you’re done.

Finishing a book is a major accomplishment that no one can ever take away from you. If this trick helps you achieve that goal, that I’m thrilled I was able to lend a helping hand in your triumph.

“Look at them go!”

Bruce shifted his attention to the pond in the middle of the park. Clusters of kids who had hopped off the yellow school buses were doing their level best to corner some of the ducks along the shoreline of the pond, while their friends offered bits of sandwiches from their lunches. The kids were always discouraged when the ducks retreated back into the safety of the water, until they spotted another waddling out of the pond they could focus their attention on.

“This might be the one, Nancy.”

Bruce held his breath as he watched. This duck appeared to be eyeing the clump of bread, tilting its head to the side as though suspicious, but willing to chance its life for a morsel of human food. One of the kids grew restless and made to push the duck toward the bread. The entire mob of elementary school kids jumped back when it honked and flapped its wings at them before charging back into the water.

“Ohhh! Shouldn’t have rushed it,” Nancy remarked. “Thanks for talking me into doing this, Kyle.”

The cluster of kids were turning on their saboteur. Anxious over the prospect of being labeled unpopular, the child who had tried to speed the duck along pointed out another one venturing out of the pond. The group quickly abandoned their quarrel, rushing to the other side of the pond.

“After the brutal winter we had, I’ve been waiting for a day like this for almost two months,” Kyle replied, before taking a bite of his sandwich and washing it down with a soda.

The latest duck to step out of the pond onto solid ground noticed the oncoming battalion of screaming kids and waddled back into the water. The kids let out a collective groan.

“I know,” Nancy agreed. “I feel like I’ve been cooped up inside for months. I’ve either been confined to my apartment or that damn office.”

As Bruce tracked the packs of kids trying to sneak up on another duck, his eyes caught a smaller band of teachers. They, like the kids, were also ignoring the ‘Don’t Feed the Ducks’ signs posted all over the park. They also barely afforded the kids a moment’s glance.

They were all watching him.

“Speaking of that damn office,” Kyle began reluctantly. “We probably better get back. Our lunch hour is almost up.”

Bruce squirmed in his seat. When Kyle and Nancy rose from the nearby picnic table, his eyes immediately flew to them. It was euphoric breaking eye contact with those teachers.

“Alright,” Nancy sighed. “It’d be great not having to go back to that office ever again.” She paused to take one last look at the park. “It’d be wonderful to spend the rest of my life out here in the park.”

A slight breeze swept after them as they trudged away. Bruce had mistakenly taken that moment to sip on today’s whisky, and had to slam his fist down on last week’s crumpled newspapers to keep them from blowing away. They were right. Winter had been brutal. And even though it was warm today, it was still bitterly cold at night. The park bench did little provide warmth on its own.

Spend the rest of your life at the park? Yeah right. I’d give anything to be indoors again.

Last month, I wrote about how it might take me close to an hour to write the first page of a new story, because of how crucial it is to get an idea off on the right foot. The importance of being successful here ripples through the rest of the first draft.

Once I’ve gotten myself acclimated to my writing process, something truly amazing starts to happen. The time it takes me to write a page begins to drop dramatically. If it took me an hour to write that first page, the average time it takes me to type a page when I hit my stride is halved.

There are numerous reasons my efficiency shifts so mightily. By taking the time during page one to set the tone for how the story should read and feel, for each subsequent page, I only have to make sure I’m adhering to what I already decided. The characters I spent time fleshing out in the outlining stage really come to life to me at this point when I finally allow them to talk and interact with the world I’ve created. It’s at this point that I truly understand them, and the decisions I had them make when I was fleshing out the idea start to make sense and fit who they are.

Not every page is written quickly. There are still times where as I’m writing, I realize I’ve gotten off track from the tone and path I’ve established all the way back on page one. But because I took the time to lay that foundation, I recognize when I’ve strayed right away. Instances where I feel “Nope, that character wouldn’t do that,” stick out immediately, allowing me to hone my focus on correcting this. Once I’ve remedied this, it’s back to following the notes I plotted out months ago, fleshing out what’s between each bulleted point.

It’s a beautiful thing each time you’ve written a page you’re satisfied with for the current draft. The cherry on top is seeing how naturally it’s coming to you as you plod along. Maybe it still takes you longer to write. Maybe you can craft a page quicker than I ever could. But for me, my pace is generally around a half hour. And sometimes, when I’m really in the swing of things, that number shrinks even more.

“…and I know I’m probably overreacting, but Andrew’s just had one ailment after another this year.”

“Uh-huh,” Dr. Addams said as he adjusted his stethoscope across the boy’s back.

“I feel fine, mom,” the boy with the chipmunk cheeks said.

“Well, you say that, but that rash hasn’t gone away for a few days now,” she went on.

“He probably just had a reaction to something he came in contact with,” Dr. Addams said absently as he inspected the boy’s irritated skin.

“Oh my, do you think it’s serious? I just…I don’t know what caused it, if whatever he came in contact with has to be removed. Should…should it be something maybe you come to the house for? To determine if I need to toss it.”

She sensed his pause, and quickly threw in, “I know it’s more than you normally do for your patients. I could make it worth your while by cooking you dinner.”

Dr. Addams wore his best smile. “Looking at the disbursement of the rash all around the stomach, I’d say that he had an allergic reaction to something he ate in the past few days.” Her face sank at the diagnosis. “Andrew, have you had meals at any restaurants recently?” The boy shook his head, oblivious to his mother’s frown plummeting any further. “Have you eaten anything new in the past few days?”Another shake of the head.

“No, just the usual mac and cheese mom ma—”

“You must have been trading lunches with your friends,” his mother interjected. “This is why you need to eat the lunches I prepare for you.”

“I didn’t trade with—”

“So what should I do about Andrew’s reaction?” she asked, shifting her attention to Dr. Addams again.

“I’m going to write a prescription for some pills to take. He’ll take three a day for three days, then we’ll ween him down to two pills, then one. That should clear it up,” he said, writing up the scrip and heading for the door without another word.

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Addams,” she said graciously as he opened the door. She was still talking, but he missed the rest. Even if he had stayed in the room, he wouldn’t have heard a word she said. His mind was already back in the break room.

The story had broken last night. When they broadcasted that animal’s mugshot, he felt he had aged a decade in a heartbeat. He had secretly hoped they would finally catch that monster, but he had doubted the day would ever actually come. The Congressman had been too well connected to be caught.

His nausea grew as the news stations discovered and shared every grisly detail. When they mentioned a girl with him, he counted himself lucky that the couch had been right behind him to cushion his collapse. He hadn’t been as lucky with his aim when they’d revealed she was dead. When the news anchor stated what the Congressman had tried to do with the corpse, he found most of his vomit had sprayed everywhere but the toilet he’d rushed to.

Addams had thought forcing himself to work his shift would’ve helped. He had believed the patients would’ve served as a great distraction from the constant updates that were coming in. As soon as he closed the door to conduct his first examination of the day, he realized not keeping his eyes glued to the latest developments was even worse. Instead of being restricted to what had happened, Addams’ mind entertained everything that maniac could have done to her.

“Doctor,” Nurse Raskin called from the doorway of the breakroom.

He ignored her. The news anchor was still teasing releasing the identity of the deceased woman found in the hotel room with the disgraced Congressman.

“Dr. Addams, you have a patient,” she insisted.

He could feel his forehead moisten under a thin film of perspiration. They’d been teasing the reveal since the top of the hour. He’d been rushing in and out of exam rooms to get back here as quickly as possible.

“Dr. Addams!”

The screen finally cut away to a photo of the woman. In the split second the cutaway took, his mind raced into overdrive. It’d been weeks since he’d seen her. He had no idea what she’d done when she’d left. Did she call the number? Did she go back to Reginald?

“It’s her.”

Last week I talked about finding the time to fit writing into my day and balancing it with the rest of my life. But what happens when something comes up that threatens my routine. Maybe on a day I’ve set for myself to write 4 pages, I’ve got work all day, and then plans with friends, or a family function. How do I balance my writing goals with the rest of my life obligations?

Simple. I rearrange my writing to fit my life.

My daily writing goals are just that. Goals. There’s nothing set in stone that says I have to write four pages on a day that’s already loaded with something else. It’s just a benchmark I give myself to keep myself productive and so I don’t lose momentum with my storytelling. If I see that one of my longer writing days lands on a day already jam packed with something else, I look at the days surrounding it to see what my schedule looks like then. If my next day is relatively empty, I write the four pages on that day, and try to fit in the one page on my hectic day.

I do my best to accommodate the rest of my life while I’m hunkering down and crafting a story. If I’m still on my pace to write ten pages in four days, I don’t lose sleep over it if I have to juggle my writing schedule a bit to get there.

And in instances where I come up a little short…I don’t lose sleep there either. I take a look at the big picture, and focus on the positives. If after writing 50 pages in 20 days, if I only write 6 in the next 4 because life threw a lot at me for a couple days, I’m not going to be distraught about it. I’m going to look at the fact that I still have 50 something more pages written then I did 3 weeks ago, and I’ve still got some time to go in my first month of writing a new story. I’m still going to be proud of what I’ve accomplished so far, and that usually sustains my momentum to want to keep going and see it through to the end.  I don’t dwell on minor setbacks if the overall process has been enjoyable.

That’s why writers write. It’s enjoyable.

“Don’t,” she said, raising a halting hand as he reached into his pocket.

“I’m not going for my wallet,” he reassured her. It gnawed at him that she thought for a second he ever would with her. “At least…I’m not reaching for money.”

She slowly withdrew her hand, but still scrutinized him with her black, swollen eyes. Her examination made him nervous, and he fumbled to open it. A woman at his church had been posting a flier on the bulletin board last month, and given him a card when he’d asked for one. He’d kept it secure until Candi arrived, knowing she’d be back eventually.

“What’s this?” she asked when he handed her the card.

“It’s the number for a battered woman’s shelter,” Dr. Addams said. “They hold no judgment. Just say my name and they’ll take you in. They might not have a bed for you right away, but they promised they’d keep you comfortable until they do.”

“I don’t…I can’t do that,” she stammered.

“Why not?”

“Daddy would never let me!”

He could feel his face growing hot by the second. He wasn’t a violent man, but he felt an explosion coming. What threatened to bring it on wasn’t how quickly she dismissed the assistance. She blurted out her profession of love like it was the most obvious fact in the world. but was willingly turning a blind eye on what was the most obvious thing in the world to him.

“Because he loves you?” he challenged.

“That’s right,” she insisted.

Addams could see she was still holding to the lie she told herself. That Reginald, or whatever his name was loved and cared for her the same way she did for him. And she’d keep on believing that lie, even if it put her in an early grave. The only way to stop this, the only way to save her, Addams realized, was to do what Reginald and that monster were doing to her.

He’d have to hurt her.

He might not use his fists, or string her along emotionally, but Addams believed he’d hurt her worse than the other men in her life ever did. Because he wasn’t slapping her around, or stringing her along. He was forcing her to see her life as the shambles it really was.

“Do you really believe, deep down, that that’s true?”

Her eyes widened from the shock of being asked such a brash question. She made to rise from the exam table, but he shifted his weight to give up the impression he was barring her from leaving. His stomach turned itself inside out, but he stood his ground. He’d hate himself forever, but this was what she responded to, and if it saved her life, he was up to the task.

Addams forced himself to meet her gaze until her silence had gone on long enough to be considered a surrender.

“You need to start thinking about yourself. Because he won’t. What do you think’s going to happen to you when you’re not his top earner anymore? When you can’t earn your keep? You think that animal Congressman is going to take care of you? Give you a place to call your own? Provide for you?”

He snorted. “He’s too busy gearing up to run for President.”

She snuck a quick glance at the card in his outstretched hand, then gave it a long study with her one good eye. He held his breath, praying she’d see it as the life preserver it was, and that she’d take it.

“It’d just be worse for me when I go back,” she sighed. “Daddy will pull my best Johns from me.”

“Good!” he exclaimed. “That means you’ll be done—” 

“Except ‘the animal’ as you call him,” she said gravely. “He’ll be my punishment.” Her voice plummeted several octaves. “And he’ll have a lot of pent up frustration if I make him wait to be with me again.”

Dr. Addams opened his mouth, and swiftly clamped it shut, understanding the predicament she was in. The number on that card could save her life, but only if she committed to it. There could be no backslide. The two men in her life would sadistically use her up until they killed her. He started to lower his arm with the card and stopped himself.

Don’t stop now!

Her good eye shot from the card to him, then back to the card. He didn’t care how tired his arm was getting, he’d hold it up forever until she took it. She had to. Her eye met his again, and although they didn’t speak a word, as they stood there, with the other reflected in their eyes, their gaze did all the speaking for them.

I can’t take that.

It’s your ticket to freedom.

Daddy will kill me if he finds it on me.

Not if you’ve already arranged to leave.

I’ll throw it into the first trashcan I see.

No. You won’t.

How’re you so sure?

Because that’ll be an admission you’ll never escape this hell.

Why are you doing this? You don’t even know my real name.

It doesn’t matter to me.

But why are you so nice to me?

For the same reason you always know I won’t turn you away after what that animal has done to you.

But why?

You know why.

Her good eye slowly dropped to the card. Addams felt like he held it for another eternity, but still refused to lower his arm, no matter how much it was cramping. He nearly exhaled a deep sigh when she finally took it and stuffed it in her purse.

She eased past him, hobbling toward the door. He turned to watch her go. When she opened the door, she stopped to turn back to him. Something was clearly on the tip of her tongue, but she opted to swallow it.

Everything that had been needed to said had already been said. Now it never need to be spoken aloud.