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Whenever I sit down to write any kind of story, one thing inevitably occurs. I make mistakes. No matter how extensive I outline my latest idea, or how much I thought about what I’m going to say, it’s never perfect when I first put it on the page.

And that’s okay. But it does bring up an important question. When do I start rewrites?

Different authors take different approaches to this. Some will keep chugging along until they’re done with the current draft, then when they’re ready for revisions, they’ll go back and make all the corrections they’ve spotted that need to be made before they start the revision process all over again. Others won’t move on from a chapter, or even a page, until they’ve reworked it to the point of perfection.

My method is a hybrid of the two. Or really, it’s mostly one, with a dash of the other.

When I sit down to write a draft of a story, particularly the first draft, I believe in keeping up the momentum of my writing. No matter how detailed I’ve been in the outlining process, it’s a tremendous feat for anyone to actually start composing their thoughts into a coherent story. Even though I’ve been doing this for decades, I’m deeply concerned if I brought my process to a complete stop to go back and fix something in an earlier chapter because I just realized it was wrong or thought of something better to say, I wouldn’t be able to get the train back on the tracks. I feel that this need for immediate perfection during your first go at composing a story is why so many authors don’t finish articulating their idea, essentially giving themselves writer’s block.

I do my best to cut down on the number of times I’m going to have to face this “Do I rewrite this” dilemma. One method I use is that extensive month’s long outlining process. I do my best to refine my plot, characters, and actions so that the formation and direction I want the story to take is crystal clear in my head. But bullet points don’t make a novel, so connecting all these ideas of what needs to be in a given chapter is still challenging, which is why I’m meticulous when I’m constructing the first draft. Numerous times, I’m holding down on the backspace key for an entire paragraph because I’m already editing my thoughts as I’m actually putting words to paper, screening out bad ideas and/or bad composition to eliminate the need for futures notes.

After finally settling on what makes the first draft, if I notice a mistake…err, let me start over. Because it’s not an if at all, it’s a when. And it’s not really a when, either. Rather, it’s every time I catch a mistake, the same notebook I’ve been using to outline the story now gets a new entry under the title “Notes & Revisions” and I mark down the chapter the latest edit is going to need to be made in, along with a shorthand of the change I’m going to want to make.

Now, in last week’s entry, I stated that I spent the most time writing page one of a new story, believing I need to get this right because the whole story is going to be built off of this foundation. Wouldn’t this suggest that I do backtrack and make revisions during my first draft of an idea?

Yes, it does. Which is where the dash of the other method comes in.

Sometimes, even after doing my best to sift out all the errors before they become part of the story, I’ll notice a couple paragraphs later that I’ve led myself down the wrong path. It might be difficult to comprehend how this could happen, after it’s been on my mind for months, after I’ve run my idea through the ringer again and again, and as I’m micromanaging what I actually type, that this could still happen. But it does. A lot. And the reason is, no matter how many screening processes I set up for myself, whether it’s one more, five more, or hundreds more, sometimes, you’re just not going to know something’s wrong until you actually sit it there on the page. Only then will you go “Oh! No, that doesn’t work, it needs to be this!”

When that happens, I see how far back I’d have to go to make the correction. Because if I’ve written five pages before I noticed the mistake, that fear of derailing my momentum comes into play, and I opt to just make a note of the change that needs to be made when I sit down to do my first round of revisions. But if it’s something that was just typed a paragraph or two before, something I can literally see on the page I’m currently typing, I go back and made the mistake.

So that’s my rule for rewrites. If it’s within the current page I’m working on, I’ll make the quick edit. But if it’s anything longer than that, while I’ll pivot the way I’m telling the story so that it reflects the change I need to make as though I’ve already made it, for the current draft, I’ll merely make a note of it until I’m ready to revisit that part of the story in the next draft.

“Where does it hurt tonight?” he asked.

Dr. Addams hadn’t even noticed that the sister had slipped past him. Whenever he saw Candi, everything else just faded away.

“The bump on my head is the worst of it,” Candi answered.

He was captivated by her, unable to imagine anyone lovelier. It didn’t matter that one of her eyes was nearly swollen shut. Or the dried blood caked around the nostrils of a nose whose bridge still hadn’t healed from the last time she’d needed fixing.

Dr. Addams probed the back of her noggin. It didn’t take long to find the knot she was referring to. As he gently applied pressure to it, he found it would’ve been harder for his hand not to land on it.

“Not your throat?” he inquired.

The years had not been kind, but beauty like hers couldn’t be beaten out of her. As much as life tried. As much as that animal tried.

“I mean, it’sa ‘lil sore, but I don’t really notice it.” She winced when she forced a smile.

He wasn’t so sure he agreed. And there were plenty of visits to choose from. That animal seemed to be trying to one up what he did to her. But what was just as sickening was that her pimp kept sending her back for more.

“Smile for me.”

He felt bad asking her to do so. She’d seen him enough times to know the drill. He wasn’t looking to cheer her up. He had to see if any of her teeth had been cracked again.

It was at this point in the examination he found his mind drifting to how he would treat her. She’d never leave the house in this state. He treat her right. He’d treat her with kindness. Like a princess. He couldn’t imagine any other way. He couldn’t comprehend how that animal could do this to her once, let alone again and again.

“It looks worse than it is,” she said to fill the silence, and he wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince him, or herself.

“It looks worse than ever.”

Candi dropped her head, and he flinched at the thought of rebuking her. Even this he found was too harsh a treatment for her. Even though she needed to hear it. Even though it might lead to the change she needed to make in her life.

Even though it might save her life.

“I’m sorry,” he offered.

“It’s okay, Doc,” she said, again forcing a smile. Her anguish didn’t look nearly so bad this time. “I know you’re right.”

It wasn’t much, but it was the opening he’d been hoping for for the past few months. He wasn’t no time pouncing on it–

“Candi…”

–before chickening out while she stared at him expectantly.

“…Is there anywhere else he hurt you?”

She nodded, rising from the examining table with a grimace, disrobing. The skimpy nature of her wardrobe made it possible to do so without aggravating any of her other bruises. One of the bite marks on her breast looked like it had drawn blood. Her cheeks were crimson down to her thighs. She favored her shoulder where it had been twisted too far back.

That was new.

She still looked breathtaking. But seeing her so marred by that monster was too much. He should’ve been able to gaze at her naked body objectively, like he’d done with countless patients.

“Candi,” he started again with enough determination to see it through this time. “I’d like to revisit the conversation we’ve been having for some time now.”

I think a big reason why so many people who have an idea for stories never sit down to write it or never actually finish it is in part because of a fear they’re not doing it right. The idea may be ingenious, but they may still never put pen to paper because they’re worried they might screw it up by not knowing how to craft a book.

There is a bit of mysticism to writing, because it’s something that can’t be taught with absolute principles, like math. I’ve learned that every writer has their own process for how they go about composing a story, many of which can be unique.

 So this week, I’m going to go over what works for me. Who knows? Maybe when someone sees how I write, they’ll think “That’s all it takes?” and start telling their own story.

When I first get an idea for a new story, I start to brainstorm, thinking about all the possible scenarios and paths this one idea can take me. I’m putting the idea through the ringer to see if it holds water, and can actually withstand the length of a story. If it’s passed this, I start going into the outlining process, assembling all these ideas into a loose plot, formulating the characters that would find themselves in a story like this, making sure their motivations are clear and consistent throughout the book, and so on. This process typically takes months, because I’m laying the foundation for the idea.

Once that’s done, we get to the actual writing.

As I wrote in last week’s entry, on my first day of writing a new story, I only write one page. This is done for a couple reasons. The first is because I know a story of any length is going to be a massive undertaking, and I want to give myself an early win by setting an easy goal to start off with. The second, which is going to seem like it contradicts the first, is that starting to write a story is anything but easy, and it takes me quite a while to write that first page. And it’s a draft!

Page one usually takes me the longest to write. I have the story outlined, and I’ve been thinking about the opening the most during the outlining process because it’s the first thing I’m going to have to do, and yet, it might still take me double the time to write this one page than any other page the rest of the book. The reason for this is the first page sets the tone for the rest of the story. While I know I’m going to revise the story constantly, I don’t want to just throw something together for the first page as a placeholder because each subsequent page is going to be built off of what I do here. It’s critical that I achieve the feel I want, because otherwise the rest of the book is going to feel off, and it’s going to lead to massive revisions in every other draft.

That’s why I spend so long on page one of the first draft. Investing more time here in the initial stage saves me a mountain of time for the rest of the writing process.

Next week, I’ll go into the effects this step has on all subsequent pages.

“Thank you, N—”

“She’s in exam room eleven,” Nurse Raskin said as she turned and marched back the way she’d come.

Dr. Addams let the abrupt departure slide. Just as he had the last time. And the time before that. Nurse Raskin, and the rest of the staff, had grown tired of voicing their disapproval of her visits, settling for freezing him out socially (and professionally).

“Ow, Andrew,” the mother yelped behind him. “You’re squeezing too tight.”

“Sorry mom,” the boy said. “That nurse scares me.”

Dr. Addams turned back to the two of them. After Raskin’s announcement, he’d forgotten they were still there.

“Can I let you in on a secret?” he told the boy, looking around like he was about to confide something major to him. “Sometimes, she scares me too.”

Once again, the boy fought to keep a smile from bursting through his face.

The mother didn’t share that same restraint. Her guffaw bellowed down the hallway, loud enough to be heard at the front desk and waiting room. She slapped his arm repeatedly, and this time he was sure it was no accident she kept hitting his bicep.

“A doctor and a sense of humor,” she observed. “Now, about that dinner,” she said, attempting a smooth transition.

“What dinner?” he asked.

Her eyes went wide, and he could tell she was replaying the entire visit in her head, up until Nurse Raskin had interrupted. He expected her eyes to bulge out of their sockets with embarrassment when she realized she hadn’t actually hinted at having him over and tipped her hand.

“Well…it’s just…uh…” she stammered. As painful as it was to watch, he knew it was tougher for her, grasping for words.

“I appreciate the offer to have me over for dinner for treating Andy,” he offered her a lifeline. Her face broke out with relief, but he cut her off before she could officially extend the invitation, “But they have me working most of the late shifts. I’m afraid I don’t get out of here until eight or nine.”

It wasn’t even a lie. The entire practice despised his visitor so much they were willing to make him suffer until he turned her away. It didn’t matter that he was one of the founding members of the practice, that he’d worked with most of the staff for over a decade, or that all told, he was a pretty good practitioner. They all asked him “as his friend” to send her away, but there was nothing friendly about their requests. Or their actions.

All he was doing was refusing to turn away a patient who was hurting.

The mother fumbled to come up with some alternative, another invitation that he’d be able to make, but he excused himself before she could. He was only delaying the inevitable. The ailments little Andy was experiencing had increased dramatically since her divorce.

The door to room eleven was ajar as he approached it. One of the nuns who made the rounds, consoling those who’d lost loved ones and handing out pamphlets to battered women, was already inside. That was rare. Even the sisters tended to stay away from his favorite patient.

“You’d be surprised at the results prayer can yield,” the sister said. “When we humble ourselves before God, we always find Jesus is a powerful force to have in your corner.”

She chuckled. “Baby, I guarantee I spend more time on my knees than you.” She waved a hand across her face. “Look how far it’s got me.”

He couldn’t help snorting in amusement, drawing the attention of both of them. “Doc!” she exclaimed.

Even through her lumpy, purple face, she looked gorgeous.

When people first found out I was publishing a book, I got many congratulations, and a fair amount of people who said they either could never write a book or didn’t even know where to begin.  This week’s blog is meant to go over how I write. Who knows? Maybe when they see how I do it, they’ll think to themselves “That looks pretty easy. I think I can do that too.” I hope so. I love reading new ideas.

When I write, I go very slow. I’m sure you’ve picked that up already after reading my extensive outlining process. It doesn’t end there though. When I finally sit down to actually write my story idea, on the first day, I only write one page.

I do this because this is one of the hardest steps of the writing process. Actually starting it. For that reason, I give it the respect it deserves, and devote all of my writing efforts for that day to fulfilling this one task.

Given the amount of outlining that I’ve done prior to sitting down to write page one, it may seem like this is actually an easy task when you get right down to it. It’s not. It still proves to be a challenge every time. I may have had this idea kicking around in my head for a while before I started to map out how I want the story to take shape, and I may have already spent at least two months outlining what I want in the story, how I want it structured (and I could keep going on and on), but this is the first time I’m seeing the words put down on a blank canvass. This is the first time I’m actually composing the words, and reading the story myself, and seeing how it makes me feel.

On the latest story I’ve written, even with an outline to rely on, it took me almost an hour just to write one page.

From there, it’s about building on my initial success. The next day, I’ll challenge myself to write two pages. I’ve already accomplished one of the toughest tasks in the process: beginning. Now it’s about proving to myself that I can guide the story where it needs to go. These pages still take some time to write, but not as long as it takes to write that opening page. The following day I push myself write three. And after that four.

Can you guess how many pages I strive for after that?

If you guessed five…

…you’d be wrong.

After writing ten pages in four days, I feel I’ve proven to myself that I can meet my writing goals for my next story. I’ve already started, and increased my writing quotas for four consecutive days. By this point, the story is also well under way, I’ve found that I can guide the story where I’ve wanted it to go, and I’ve settled on a style and structure for the book. Now it’s all about maintaining this routine.

So on that fifth day, I go back to writing just a single page. I’ve just pushed myself four days in a row, and spent between two to three hours on the fourth day fitting in writing with the rest of my responsibilities for the day. It’s a nice little reward, allowing myself a bit of a break, only having to write for around a half hour that day. After all, it’s not about writing the book as fast as possible, but writing it as best as I can.

But that fifth day doesn’t just act as a break. It acts as the start of the process all over again, because the next day I write two pages, the day after three…

I start getting into a rhythm with my writing. I’ve developed a four day routine so I can fit in my goals with whatever else is also going on in my life. If I miss my goal one day, that’s fine. I’ve got a new challenge to tackle the next day. And the more I keep it up, the more my daily wins overwhelm any minor setbacks.

So, if you’re an aspiring writer, after reading how I tackle my writing, what do you think? Are you ready to take that scary first step towards writing a book yourself?

“Open your mouth and say ‘Ahh,’” Dr. Addams instructed.

The boy with the chipmunk cheeks obeyed after another coughing fit. He’d never seen the boy this glum before, even when he’d been peppered with chicken pox last year.

“Wait, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I meant to say, stick out your tongue the way you would when your teacher’s not looking, then say ‘Ahh.’”

The boy with the chipmunk cheeks tried to focus on sticking out his tongue without smiling.

“Or maybe when a girl you like passes by but doesn’t smile at you.”

That did the trick.

“Andrew, do you have a girlfriend?” his mother teased as she saddled up beside the boy with the chipmunk cheeks. She was noticeably more relaxed than when she first came in. She had also noticeably added eyeliner and some blush for this visit[D1] .

“Mooooom,” Andrew groaned around the tongue depressor.

“Hold still for just a little longer,” Dr. Addams directed.

“Listen to Dr. Addams,” the mother ordered. “He’s going to make you feel all better again.”

She seemed to lean a bit closer to the doctor as she spoke, and Dr. Addams wafted the strong scent of vanilla. That was new as well. Lately she’d been sticking with a fresh coat of vibrant lipstick anytime she or her son had an appointment.

“I don’t think we’re looking at anything too bad,” Dr. Addams said, standing upright. “You can close your mouth now, Andy,” he told the boy with the chipmunk cheeks, before turning his attention to the mother. “Looks like nothing more than a sore throat. Some cough syrup for a few days should clear it right up.”

“Oh, thank god,” she exclaimed. Dr. Addams was pretty sure she knew it was nothing serious. If it had been, he doubted she would’ve taken the time to doll herself up before coming in.

“You excited that school’s almost out?” he turned back to the boy, who nodded. “You probably don’t want to start your summer vacation being sick.” The boy’s nodding grew more vigorous. “I think you’ll be able to enjoy the start of your freedom with all your friends.”

“Oh, I know Andy will love that,” the mother said, stroking her son’s hair. “I was so nervous about this cough. I was worried it might be contagious.”

Dr. Addams shook his head. “It’s better to be on the safe side, but I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about here,” he said as he removed his gloves.

“If you’re confident about it, then I’m confident too,” she said. “After all, you must encounter countless patients everyday. I’m sure you’re sometimes concerned about catching something and getting Mrs. Addams sick.

The emphasis on ‘Mrs.’ Caused his eyes to drop down to his bare fingers. He was sure she had already noticed they were unadorned with jewelry of any kind.

“I’m not married,” he said with a politely forced smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, although the sly grin that broke out on her face suggested she was anything but. “I just assumed you didn’t wear a band while you were seeing patients because it might tear the gloves or something.”

She laughed it off like it was an innocent misunderstanding. Some harmless blunder. Bu the resting of her hand on his bicep seemed nothing short of pre-meditated.

“Well, I can’t thank you enough for curing Andy again. We’ve been in here a lot this past year,” she went on.

Dr. Addams shrugged. “Think nothing of it. Some kids just have that one year where they catch everything under the sun. Andrew looks to have drawn the short straw.”

“Well, I know Andrew’s in good hands when he’s with you.” Her top teeth were stained from gnawing at her bottom lip. Judging by her eyes, she appeared to be working up her courage.

“Dr. Addams,” Nurse Raskin’s voice cut in from the doorway behind him. He waited to turn before breathing a sigh of relief.

“She’s back.”

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