I was chatting with a writing friend this morning. Well, he’s a friend who is also a writer and was a pro editor working for one of the major publishers. He’d called to ask for help with a non-writing problem but we always talk of writing, editing, publishing, and books when we encounter one another in any venue.

I told him that the new novel is going fast. It seems and feels like an easy write. We chatted about the merits of fast or easy writing and and slow, meticulous writing. After hanging up and writing today, I realized how I’d misinterpreted my own writing process on the new book.

Yes, it is fast writing, but before I type out the words, there’s huge chunks of long, deep thoughts about where it’s at and where it’s going. As I began today, I wrestled with direction, because about a dozen volunteer plotpoints and character arcs have bloomed in my mind. I write fast because they have strong roots and I’m eager to cover them all. The session writing quickly turns immersive and intense. Regret washes through me when it’s over. So much remains to be written, it feels unfair that I must stop.

But, that’s the writing life.