I was at Notre Dame the same time as Nicholas Sparks. And while I didn’t break any track records nor receive a full ride based on my ability to outrun or out jump others as he had, we did attend a handful of classes together. I mention this because every night between the hours of nine and midnight, I hammer out three pages minimum of an historical romance set during the tempestuous and stormy years of the Wild West. It was to my mind, a great time to be a woman with a bent towards adventure.
Just like Nicholas Sparks, I don’t believe in outlines or too much research. It can bog you down. But I do believe in ritual as a way to coax the forces, or whatever you want to call it, to favor me. For instance, whenever I start a new chapter I wear my lucky underwear and socks. Don’t know how these articles of clothes became imbued with the aura of luck but there you have it. I’m stuck with it. I used to go to the gym after dinner and work up a sweat between the hours of nine and ten. Since I’ve taken up writing, I’ve packed on a few pounds and so my lucky underwear pinches my man parts. The socks are red wool — great in the winter but a source of blisters come summer. I could use another lucky object, preferably something a bit more comfortable to help me steer this unwieldy novel safely to harbor.
My wife believes that I should consider writing in another genre, say detective novels or fantasy. But if, like they say, fiction is a supermarket, then I want to be in the aisle with the most shoppers. (Title provided by: Tim Duch)
Used to be Harry’s favorite thing was to head to the bar right after work, order himself a tall one, take out his notebook and start writing. He liked sitting at the end of the bar, at the periphery of the action. That was his sweet spot. There was enough conversation and general noise to work against, but not so much that it drowned out his thoughts.