I thought I’d talk about my writing process today.  Not that it’s been too active lately.  Since launching this site, I’ve been obsessively hunting down places to get the word out and trying to operationalize every bit of promotional advice I get from fellow writers.  But on a good day, here’s how it works.

Before I start a project, my head is a primordial ocean sloshing around with pre-developed life forms.  One celled themes.  Flagellating premises.  Microscopic construction sites where characters are built by hard-hat enzymes fitting bits of backstory along a helical spine.  Sometimes there’s an idea that has drifted around in the stew, sealed in membrane, protected from the noxious currents of forgetfulness and self-doubt.  It could  be a fixed impression from my childhood or an overheard conversation on the train or some unconscious brain print that evoked a vivid scene.  Locked in on the floating creature, mental synapses fire.  A web of cranial nerves is activated.  It flexes and extends, morphing into a psychic tentacle reaching toward the protozoan form.  The tentacle probes and squeezes, testing for viability.  If the squishiness is right – not too firm, not too mushy, the neural web prepares for the next stage.   Now it stirs in circles around the creature, capturing proteins of inspiration and Technicolor mitochondria in its centrifugal flux.  Flashing white hot with hope and possibility, the neural web warms the pool like a superconductor.  The perfect temperature is achieved.  Nutrients are absorbed.  Beyond the intrapsychic laboratory, the writer smiles.  Eyes glimmer.  He searches for a computer, a note pad, or even a discarded envelope on which to describe the thing that grows inside him.

The creature bloats.  Cells divide.  They arrange like squares on a child’s board game.  Plotlines.  Diversions.  Dead ends.  Simultaneously, a skin envelopes the mutating thing, signifying its wholeness.  But it remains amorphous.  A narrative pollywog.  Intact but undeveloped.  The psychic waters recede, and the creature flops around, marooned in a stark cerebral landscape.

It’s a vulnerable thing and like aquatic spawn only few will survive.  Some will be collected into formaldehyde  jars  and stored for future experimentation.   Others will be harshly judged and left to desiccate or, subconsciously, be cannibalized by heartier beasts.  But for those deemed worthy, the murky waters will flood in again, and the neural web will scour the pool, testing out new nutrients to feed its creation.  And under the right conditions, the creation will learn to swim and become its own entity, unaware of the forces that brought it to life.