Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
My sloppy and unscientific observations draw me to a bottom line that five minutes of writing in my head requires thirty to forty minutes of intense typing to put the scene into the ‘puter.
Your results may vary. Also, this only applies to this manuscript in progress. Also, beverages might play a role in the outcome. Like beer, wine, coffee.
Deeper study is needed for more insightful results. Donations are requested. Like beer, wine, coffee. Maybe a wedge of pie.
He was busy typing at the coffee shop when a young woman approached. He’d been observing her as part of everyone in his orbit, just tracking people and their behavior, wary of anyone becoming a threat. Call it habit or training, it remained as a leftover from his military career.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but I have what probably will sound like a strange question.”
“Why are you bothering me?” he bellowed. No, not really; instead, he said, still typing, “Yes?”
“I need to go back out to my car because I forgot something, but I want to save this table.”
“So?” he roared. “What’s this to do with me, you puny human?” But he didn’t do that. He just tilted his head and typed.
“So I was wondering if I might borrow your hat to put on this table to save it.”
“How dare you disturb me with such insolence. No, you may not have my hat,” he retorted. “Don’t touch it.”
In reality, he kept typing, nodded once, and answered, “Yes, go ahead.”
He was still typing when she returned ten minutes later. Moving his hat from the saved table to his location, she said, “Thank you.”
Continuing to type, he replied, “You’re welcome.”
Then she went off to a different table.
He stopped table and watched, wondering, why did she change tables?
Was it something he said?
I dreamed again I was in my home. It’s the third dream in the series. I’m my current age, appearance, and so on. I’m aware that my house, with its yard, has been lifted from the earth and is traveling through space. Like before, I have a cutaway scene where I see this.
As in the prior dreams, my windows are open. Space’s darkness is beyond their screens. Unlike the previously experienced dreams about this, I’m unconcerned, because I know there’s some kind of protection around the house and yard. We are safe, traveling through space.
I’m at my desk, typing on my computer. I’m aware this time that a man is present. Off to my right, he’s not a shadow but is in like a shadowy orb. I don’t know who he is. He doesn’t bother me; he just seems to be a present to know. I also understand that he’s not grounded but hovering in the air. I think about speaking to him, but I don’t. I just continue typing.
Dream end.
As an aspiring fiction writer, his typing, spelling, grammar, and punctuation skills were terrible. His output would be prodigious if he could improve those.
I called to make an appointment. Speaking with the agent, I heard her typing fast. Her keyboard’s clickety-clack sounded like a train going by, reminding me of all those moments of sitting in a car behind the red and white boom barrier, bells ringing, red lights flashing, waiting for a train to pass.
My writing is done through typing, so this might might sound odd. Sometimes, when the words are speeding through me and I’m in the scene, I close my eyes as I type, because I don’t need to see the words. Weirdly, the words are a distraction, and get in my way. With my eyes closed, I jump into a fast rhythm.
A problem only develops when I open my eyes and discover I have one or both hands incorrectly positioned on the keyboard. It’s first funny, but then aggravating, because I was streaming, and I don’t really know what I was typing.
Yeah, just happened a short time ago, when I decided to rewrite several pages. Hoo, boy. Gulp some coffee and begin again. That’s all I can do.
I ran into a friend who is also a writer. She and I, along with a few others, used to meet for drinks and conversation. All writers, we talked about what we were writing and our writing processes, and complained about the non-writers and our struggles with them. Non-writers are rarely interested in our WIPs and processes. I can appreciate that. I’ve gone into eyes-glazing-over mode when others have gone into explanations about their processes about things like making soap or quilting.
Our outings were wonderfully healthy and happy times. Everyone in the group moved, though, leaving us to find other avenues or go without. I turned to posts like these to help me cope.
When we encountered each other on the street, we resumed our writing relationship, spending fifteen minutes catching up. Both had elsewhere to go, though, so we had to cut the encounter short.
One thing she revealed was that she’d begun using a typewriter to write. She’d slowly stopped writing as much as she used to write, and thought that part of her issue was that she found herself editing as she wrote when she used a computer. That process curtailed her productivity. Typing the work in progress, at this point essentially defining the concept, helped her because she held tangible evidence in her hand each day.
It was an interesting issue and approach. I can relate. Sometimes, when the writing way becomes denser, as it has in the current chapter in progress, tangible progress seems elusive. I type, think, edit, revise, and repeat. It’s not as much fun, but I discover that I still achieve about fifteen hundred words a day. That’s not an amazing amount, but it’s tangible progress.
Once in a while, I’ve returned to writing in a notebook. I consider that much rawer and intense. I’ve done so when I feel like I’m stuck. I usually felt stuck when multiple paths to pursue were available, paralyzing me with indecision and doubt.
In the end, I applaud her typing effort. Whatever it takes to goad yourself to keep writing, you know?
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Michael Seidel, writer 