Writing novels; whether mysteries, romances, thrillers, fantasies, Sci-fi, or whatever; tends to be a lonely, introspective exercise. I read how-to books on writing, and they recommend reading and going to conferences or getting into writing groups or training sessions. I don’t disagree with the intent of all of that advice; clearly, it worked for those best-selling authors that are giving it. However, when one sits down to write/type/dictate a book, one’s focus becomes wholly turned inside their head. A scene forms, a picture develops, and words pour out onto the working surface. Right words, wrong words, good words, mediocre words, a tale unfolds. Characters take shape and become rounded and full or remain flat and motionless until that vagary breeze lifts them to some action, or a heroic or happenchance occurrence tests their strength and durability. The writer lives in that world, those scenes, until something clicks – then back to the mundane -— all those other people coming out of their reveries.
“Hello — What? Oh, umm, yes, I did finish chapter one.”