What the Intuitive Process of Writing a Novel Looks Like

If you keep going, you’ll make it through.

Now that I’m rounding the bend on revisions of my novel, The Gentle History, I’m able to see the whole process of writing it from the vantage point of finished (which is still some months in the future, but I feel it coming). Everyone’s process is different, but I thought I’d outline mine as a reference for intuitive writers starting their own novel-writing journey or who are struggling along the way.

Intuitive writers often fail to finish projects, because we need a different kind of process than the rational one that dominates most writing advice. Any kind of conceptual approach, such as outlining, coming up with plot points, doing extensive character sheets, etc. can stymie us. For intuitive writers, form is an emergent property of content. We have to write without much idea of where we’re headed, charting our own path through, and it can be frustrating and lonely. But if you keep working and trusting, you’ll get there. Here’s how it happened for me.

The Spark

It was 2018, and I was coming off a two-year period of burnout in which I couldn’t write at all. It was so bad I’d resigned myself to not being a writer anymore—in fact, I was beginning to doubt I’d ever been one. Then one day I was reading a book and a passage reminded me of an incident in my childhood where I passed out in a kiddie pool and almost drowned. I idly wondered if perhaps I had drowned, and my entire life after that has been a dream. It would certainly explain why I was so miserable all the time! Instantly, I knew this would be my next writing project: a novel about a woman who discovers she drowned as a child.

The Start

I knew at this point that I was an intuitive writer, so I didn’t waste much time planning. I opened up a Scrivener file and started writing. Along with the spark had come some basic ideas about story direction. My main character, Mara, was and American living in Australia with her husband, who was pursuing a master’s degree there (something I did in my own life). Mara, trying to find something for herself while her husband spends long hours on campus, becomes obsessed with finding the Australian lifeguard who saved her life at summer camp when she was a child.

Guess what my finished novel doesn’t include? Australia, the husband, a master’s degree. Yep, all that stuff ended up being trashed along the way as I continued to write and the story emerged along the way. The intuitive writing style is not efficient, but it’s inspired.

A New Character Makes Herself Known

One day I was writing and a new voice came through my fingers. Somewhere along the way Mara, now transposed to my own childhood neighborhood, switched her obsession to a woman who used to live in a nearby abandoned “haunted house,” where neighborhood kids went for secret trysts. As I wrote about Mara’s investigations into this woman’s life, that woman emerged as a character with a voice. Her name is Esme, and she lived in the haunted house decades before Mara was even born. Now my novel had two POVs in entirely different time periods. Yikes! But you’ve got to go where intuition leads you.

Things Start Filling Out

From this point forward, things began to get a little clearer. I knew that Mara and Esme meant something to each other, that their stories intertwined, but I wasn’t sure how. Was this a mystery, where Mara figures out what happened to Esme? Or was it more like the novel The Hours, where the connection between the different timelines is meaningful yet tenuous? I wrote it both ways, some scenes one way, some another, whatever felt right in the moment when I sat down to do my work.

This is what is called the murky middle, where you feel like you’re lost in a swamp. You go back and forth, find yourself where you started, try again, backtrack, get stuck, give it all up, sob uncontrollably, think horrible things about other writers who seem to know what they’re doing, recommit, get stuck again… This goes on for a while. All I can say is keep going, keep all your writing, and don’t try to fix everything by editing. Your goal here is to finish a draft.

The 60,000 Word Stall

I wrote two drafts of The Gentle History that I couldn’t take past 60,000 words (a novel is around 80,000 words). I just couldn’t see my way through to the end. The problem at this point was that the story wasn’t formed enough to create its own momentum toward a resolution. This is the most difficult challenge intuitive writers face. We won’t fully understand our story or characters, and thus the plot, until very late in the process, in the final stages of revision (this is where I am now on this project). Trust me, it’s worth the wait when you do finally experience things coming together, but getting to that point is an exercise in deep self-trust. Keep going.

What I finally did at this stage was force an ending, and I think this was the key moment of the project. I wanted a fully finished draft, and I intuitively understood that I wouldn’t be able to move forward if I didn’t make some kind of choice about how to resolve my story. So I settled on the ending that was most present in my mind—it also happened to be the craziest ending, but I chose once again to trust myself—and took an entire summer to get that final 1/4 written. Finally, in draft three, I had a completed novel. I’d been working on The Gentle History for three years.

From Editing to Revision

At this point I thought I’d done the hard part. Because it was hard! I was wrong. As I began the editing phase, which I thought was a simple matter of making what I had better, I realized that the hard work was still ahead. What I needed to do wasn’t editing, but revision: essentially a complete rewrite. I’d never been in this stage of novel writing before, so I learned as I went, putting full faith in myself and my intuition to guide me.

What this has looked like for me is multiple passes that deepen both character and story. It’s very much like the writing process but more focused and intentional. Sometimes I’m editing passages and rearranging scenes, and sometimes I’m substantially revising or writing whole new scenes. I delete a lot—killing my darlings, as they say. It feels a bit like peeling off layers of onion, going deeper each time. Along the way I’ve been adding details that anchor each character in their respective time periods, and with an eye toward selling the manuscript, I’ve been working on making their stories more topical. I’m working on honing the language during this stage, too, though I’m not yet at the point of refined line editing.

The result of revisions has been that the story continues to change, and I’ve gone back and forth on what I want for it. This is frustrating, but I do believe that the story’s final form will emerge as a result of revisions (I can feel this crystallization occurring as I go along). I am currently in draft six. I expect I’ll go through at least one more before I’m ready to start querying, though drafts are moving faster as I go and my timeline is now reckoned in months, not years!

Finishing

I’m entering the final stages of revision, and I’m expecting the next step to be line edits, where I go through each sentence and delete extraneous words, rephrase/rewrite for greater clarity and effect, and continue to deepen the meaning. Much of these more fine-tuned revisions involve what I see as making the novel more self-referential, increasing the links between sections so there is a feeling of resonance as the reader progresses. This is highly refined work that requires a deep understanding of the story and characters, which is something that only happens after you’ve spent much time with your manuscript. I have now been working on this novel for almost four years, and I feel myself nearing the end of the project (though it’s likely, depending on how my path to publication goes, that I still have a number of drafts ahead).

What’s Coming Next

There is more to all of this than what I write here; I wanted to provide a synopsis of the experience. I’m hoping to write an ebook guide that gets into the weeds of how to do revisions on a novel next year (2023). So stay tuned for that, and if you have any questions about any part of the process, contact me! It will help me understand what other people are struggling with, so that I can make sure to address that in my ebook.

In Which I Rage-Write About Writer’s Block Being a Real Thing

Please stop saying it doesn’t exist!

Special note: This was written after hearing a well-known and successful public creative say writer’s block doesn’t exist. I had an angry reaction to that opinion, and this essay was what came out. It’s full of strong feeling, and I’m publishing it as I wrote it because I think it makes an important statement. It is not meant to be some kind of hot take, nor is it meant to impugn on a personal level that specific person or other people who say stuff like this (that’s why I don’t name them). Ultimately I want to give them the benefit of the doubt, that they are simply trying to help people when they say writer’s block isn’t real. And I’m sure that does help some people. But not me, and in this essay I tell you why. For an extended and more benevolent version of this essay, listen to my podcast episode on dealing with writer’s block.

Over the years I’ve heard a number of writers and other creatives deny the existence of writer’s block. I think it’s wild people would do this. It’s demonstrably false, or put another way, there’s a preponderance of evidence that it does exist: most writers have at one time or another experienced a block, even if it’s for a short period of time. So why do we still have people going on record saying shit like this? Let’s break it down.

First, a definition of writer’s block, because it’s widely misunderstood. A mistake people make is that it means you can’t write a word. More likely it manifests as a feeling of having to force the writing, feeling uninspired and finding no joy in it, and dreading having to do it. Eventually this will lead to being unable to write. I’ve experienced this in both short and longer bursts. If you learn to identify it early, you can manage your block so that its duration is shorter. The causes are usually our own fears and insecurities about our writing, but sometimes other factors are involved: mental or physical illness, exhaustion or burnout, time-management challenges. And sometimes it’s a sign that writing just isn’t your thing, or that you’re writing novels when you should be doing screenplays.

I’ve heard people say writer’s block isn’t real because its origins are often psychological: “Writer’s block doesn’t exist, it’s just your fears and insecurities getting in the way.” This is akin to saying mental health challenges don’t actually exist because they’re psychological. Writer’s block is often a mental health challenge (mine is of this type). And this kind of statement is also offensive to people who struggle with brain chemistry-related depression who are blocked. To the people saying this kind of thing: stop right now. Your mental health privilege needs to be checked.

You’ll also hear people who deny writer’s block say stuff like, “I don’t allow myself to get writer’s block.” Okay, good for you. Again, check your mental health (or other) privilege. Choose your words more wisely, have some compassion for those who struggle. Your personal reality doesn’t elide the truth of other people’s lived experiences.

I get it that many people who say writer’s block is a myth are trying to help. And it may help a minority. But mostly it sounds shockingly misguided and patronizing. And I think many people who say this kind of thing are actually getting a dopamine hit from it: it reminds them how well they’re doing with their own writing, how they’ve “conquered” their own fears and insecurities and “mastered” self-discipline. In a culture that sees hard work as a moral virtue (and writing regularly is hard work), they get to feel very good about themselves, even hold themselves up generously as an example of what “anyone” can do if they put their mind to it and simply refuse to allow writer’s block to happen.

If you are one of the majority of writers who struggles with blocks, please understand that it’s totally normal and it’s real. There’s no need to deny the existence of writer’s block in order to deal with it. In fact, accepting that it happens, that it isn’t an implication of moral weakness or inherent laziness, will help you move through these periods faster. It’s okay to feel insecure about your writing, to fear failure. If you are struggling with mental health issues that hold you back, you have my compassion and understanding: me too. Sometimes we just need a break, that’s the honest truth. I find that taking short periods away from writing every month or so helps me maintain my enthusiasm over time.

If you are experiencing a longer period of writer’s block, my deepest sympathies. After I finished my PhD, my burnout was so severe I couldn’t write much of anything for two years. I endeavored, I made strides, but I couldn’t write. To those of you who maintain writer’s block isn’t real or crow about how you don’t “allow” it to happen to you, here’s what that sounds like to me: an invalidation of those heartbreaking two years of my life, of the struggle I encountered finding my way back to writing, and of the challenges I still face in managing my mental health while pursuing my creative dreams. Do you really want to imply that I am delusional when I have writer’s block, that I’m experiencing some kind of hysteria, or that I am simply lazy, that I lack the character necessary to be a “real” writer? Please attempt some kindness and compassion. The world certainly needs more of it, and you sound like an asshole.

At a Creative Impasse? Here's How to Use It to Move You Forward

A creative impasse just means it’s time to regroup.

I need to come clean about something. I’ve really been struggling with my fiction lately. I’m working on a novel, and am nearing the end of draft #2. Lately I’ve been feeling more and more resistance to sitting down to write. Some resistance is normal, and I’m good at working through it. But this is reaching a level where I feel like I’m forcing things. And as I’m always saying, I don’t force things. To me, forcing it is a signal that I need to consider not doing the thing. And so I’ve slowed down on my fiction writing. And that makes me feel bad, and even resentful toward my writing. And then I want to write even less. Vicious cycle, am I right?

I’m used to this cycle, sadly. It happens every time I try to finish a novel draft. I just can’t seem to get it done. I peter out somewhere around the middle or a little past. I start to struggle more with writing, and feel less and less enthused, until I’m forcing things to the degree that I kind of just give up in despair. I haven’t been able to finish a novel since I finished my first, some fifteen years ago. Yikes.

What am I doing wrong? Why do I always find myself at this impasse? Maybe you’ve experienced something like this in your own creative practice.

Last night, after I decided yet again that I wasn’t going to force myself to write, and was feeling guilty about being a bad writer who can’t stay committed to her craft, I’d finally had enough of feeling terrible about all this. Feeling terrible sucks. I don’t want to do it anymore. What if I stubbornly and willfully refuse to see this impasse as a bad thing, and pretend it’s marvelous instead? Like, eff you, impasse, but wait, come back, because I’m going to embrace you whether you like it or not! That’s more like it.

Here’s what the impasse tells you:

• It’s time to take a break and let things percolate.

• It’s time to find a new direction, and it’s gotta be an enjoyable one.

An impasse just means it’s time to regroup. That’s all. Creative work needs to be enjoyable for the most part – using that dopamine connection is how you can create motivation for consistent practice – and if it stops being (mostly) fun, that’s your sign that something needs to change. For me, it seems to be a sign that I’ve taken the story as far as I can in the current iteration of my novel. In each draft I get a little further, so it makes sense that my impasse signals the need to start a new one. Draft #3, here I come! First I’ll do some percolation activities, like assessing my story and analyzing its themes and character arcs, but then I’ll start in with the writing again. And hopefully draft #3 will take me a bit further.

The most important thing to remember when you are at an impasse is to not give up. It’s not a sign that something’s wrong, or you’ve lost your passion, or the project is a failure! Sleep on it. Go do something else for awhile. And then sit down and think a bit about it. If you start feeling stuck or anxious again, repeat all this until space opens up in front of you for whatever the next step in the project is. It will happen! Trust that it will, and enjoy your impasse while it lasts, because soon enough you’ll be back in the saddle.

Toward a Methodology of Discovery Writing: What Does Discovery Writing Look Like?

Envisioning a methodological structure to discovery writing can help us feel more confident about process.

One of my 2021 projects is to develop a methodology of discovery writing, as there’s not much out there about how to do it. Discovery writing has the potential to be a powerful technique for intuitive writers, and it was only after I started working on intentionally developing my discovery writing skills that I felt like I came into my own as a writer. As I work toward understanding discovery writing through doing it, I’m simultaneously conducting a survey of the research literature on it, and I’m sharing what I learn here on this blog. In my last post in this series I discussed the difference between “classical” and “romantic” writers, and which is more likely to find value in discovery writing (you can find all my posts on discovery writing here). Today I will be discussing what discovery writing actually looks like in a broad sense, as having a picture in your mind of what discovery writing “looks” like can help you feel more confident in the process.

The act of doing discovery writing can feel unstructured, and the result of it can also seem to lack structure – for example, intuitive writers who use the technique often struggle with conceptual aspects of writing projects, like plot. Discovery writers often struggle to trust their process because it feels so…undisciplined and unbounded. It requires a relinquishing of control over process that is very difficult for people socialized into rational/analytical approaches to, well, everything (as we all are in modern societies). Having a mental picture of the discovery writing process, a view-from-above of how it’s done, can give the writer a sense of methodological structure. This may not be necessary for some discovery writers, but speaking for myself, I have historically lacked confidence in my writing method because it doesn’t look like the “preferred” rational approach to writing: the linear, conceptual style espoused by most writing advice resources. Most resources out there on discovery writing present it simply as a technique, rather than its own methodology on par with rational methodologies.

Discovery writing is more than just the writing part of it. It is actually a mediation between writing and mental processing. Picture it as a spiral. Neither writing nor processing comes first, or rather, either can, but for the sake of this visioning, let’s say you write first. You create a scene. Then you mentally process what you’ve written. This can happen consciously, but is usually unconscious. Then you write again, then you process, and so on. You are constantly going in and out of a flow state in which the writing occurs (I will be exploring both processing and the flow state in future posts). This processing isn’t an intentional thing – it happens at any time throughout the day and generally can’t be forced. It can happen while we’re sleeping or in the shower. Processing results in a better understanding of your characters and story, and whether or not you are consciously aware of that better understanding, it is what comes out the next time you sit down to write. So the two main parts of discovery writing are writing and processing, which are iterative and mutually constituting.

The challenging part is the mediation between the two. While some writers may be able to sit down and let their processed stuff come out just like that, I’ve always struggled with a feeling of resistance. It’s difficult to enter the flow state of discovery writing, when you lose conscious awareness of your surroundings and the passage of time. This is the state in which writers feel that the words are writing themselves, and it is the very essence of discovery writing. It feels great to be in that flow state, but getting there is deeply challenging for anyone who has difficultly relinquishing control and feels distrustful of letting the subconscious take over. Which is probably most of us. What is needed is a buffer zone between regular life and discovery writing time. This is where “writingrealm” and “fictionworld” come in.

I came across these terms in an article* by the Dr. Charlotte Doyle, a scholar of psychology and the creative writing process. She interviewed five fiction writers on process, and noticed striking similarities between them. All described entering a kind of cognitive mode prior to writing. So they would leave regular life and enter this cognitive space, the writingrealm, before entering writing time, i.e. fictionworld. Doyle calls writingrealm a “distinctive sphere of experience.” It is defined by three very specific feelings. They are: solitariness and singularity; a self-conscious sense of self-as-writer; and a purposeful, yet receptive, will-to-write. Note that these are feelings. While some writers may only be able to feel solitary in a space where they are alone, other writers feel that sense of singularity, of being-alone, in a coffee shop. The sense of the self-as-writer is that deep-seated feeling of inhabiting the identity of writer, of you and writer being one and the same. The will-to-write must be both purposeful and receptive, because the purposefulness is only meant to take you to the moment of beginning to write. From there, you must enter a zone of receptivity.

I find that when I am feeling resistance toward entering fictionworld, the discovery writing flow state, it helps immensely to first enter writingrealm. For me, this is both a physical space and time - my office at night, with just one dim bulb on over my chair - and a mental space and time - the feeling of solitariness, singularity, being-alone and intention+receptivity. Envisioning this as a buffer zone, a sort of green room to the main stage of discovery writing, mentally prepares me for that stepping-off-the-cliff feeling of letting go and merging into the stream of discovery writing flow. Give it a try, and see how it works for you! In the next installment of this series, I’ll be taking a look at fictionworld, so stay tuned!

*Doyle, Charlotte L, 1998. “The Writer Tells: The Creative Process in the Writing of Literary Fiction.” Creativity Research Journal 11 (1): 29-37. https://doi.org/10.1207/s15326934crj1101_4 (I unfortunately haven’t been able to find an open access version of this article).

Toward a Methodology of Discovery Writing: What is Writing For?

Figuring out why you write can point you toward your method.

In December last year I wrote a post about discovery writing that got a positive response. I realized it’s a topic people want to read more about. There isn’t much good information out there about discovery writing, and I’d like to change that. One of my projects for 2021 is to create a collection of resources on my blog about discovery writing and its practice: a methodology of discovery writing (find all my posts on discovery writing here).

The most common advice available on discovery writing amounts to “just sit down and write whatever comes into your head.” That’s not really helpful, is it? There’s obviously more to it than that, but no one seems to know exactly what discovery writing is, how it operates, and what type of writer it serves. Discovery writing isn’t, and cannot be, a free-for-all where you vomit your brain effluvia onto the page. You may have heard of “morning pages,” a common discovery writing practice in this vein recommended by Julia Cameron. I love Julia Cameron’s work (seriously, check it out if you haven’t already), but I absolutely loathe morning pages. I am not a morning person. Nor do I enjoy writing to no purpose at any other time of day. Morning pages can be a great discovery writing technique if they work for you, but for me they result in the most depressing, useless crap you’ve ever read. Plus, they don’t in and of themselves constitute a methodology of discovery writing. As far as I know, such a methodology doesn’t exist.

Developing one requires an understanding of the underlying functions of writing itself. For this I had to turn to the academic literature, and while I’ve made only a preliminary survey, I have enough to begin. Today I’m focusing on the central question informing different writing processes: What is writing for? That is to say, what is its purpose? Your answer to this to some extent dictates your writing process, and is thus the first step in creating a methodology.

Most people would agree that writing serves two major functions. The first is as a method of communication; the second, a mode of self-expression. The first is the “classical” view of writing: you have an idea of what you wish to say, and you formulate the expression of that through a process of knowledge retrieval and in accordance with the style constraints of your genre. The second is the “romantic” view of writing: you cannot know what you are writing until it is actually written, because the act of writing itself is where the meaning creation occurs. This type of writing is knowledge-constituting and recursive.* Classical writing is logic-driven, whereas romantic, or discovery, writing is intuitive. The former is a way of communicating knowledge, the latter a method of understanding the self, i.e. of being and becoming the self in the world.

It’s because of this last point that discovery writing is particularly attractive to INFPs, of which I am one, because we understand the world through understanding our own emotional responses to it. If your answer to the question I pose – What is writing for? – is that it’s only secondarily a method of communication, but primarily a way for you to understand the world and what it means to you, you are a discovery writer at heart. The discovery part of discovery writing is only in part what you end up putting on the page. It’s also yourself that you are discovering through writing, and in so doing, you are constituting a meaningful world.

The difference here is one of causality. In the classical view, writing is an effect of knowledge, and the causal arrow is linear. In discovery writing, knowledge and writing are mutually causal: the arrow is circular and iterative. The problem with seeing knowledge and writing as separate and linked only linearly, is that we cannot possibly represent our complex thoughts completely through writing. If you’ve ever felt that you just can’t seem to get onto the page what you see in your head, it’s because that’s true: you can’t. However, discovery writing can get you closer because it allows you greater access to your subconscious and is itself part of the process of knowledge generation.

For those of you out there who are discovery writers or want to learn more about it, come along with me this year as I learn more about it myself!

*Information for this section comes from Galbraith, D. (2009), “Writing as Discovery,” British Journal of Educational Psychology 1: 5-26, available here.

What Is Discovery Writing, Anyway?

If you’re struggling to connect with your creativity as a writer, discovery writing may be worth a try.

This post is part of a series on the methodology of discovery writing.

Intuitive writers, often known as “pantsers,” face some unique challenges. Most writing advice is created by and for rational writers, aka plotters, and intuitive writers can struggle for years, if not decades, trying to follow it without much success. One reason for this unfortunate situation is that most intuitive writers don’t know that’s what they are. They may know they’re pantsers, but still tend to see themselves as just a different kind of rational writer because that’s the only choice they’re presented with. The idea that some writers are different in fundamental ways that have to do with how their brains function is still new. With few exceptions (Lauren Sapala’s work being one), the world of intuitive writing still lacks the wealth of resources you can find for rational writers with a simple google search of “writing advice.”         

I’m going to share a writing technique I use as an intuitive writer, called discovery writing. But first, how do you know if you are an intuitive writer? Well, if a rational writing style doesn’t work for you, that’s a giveaway. Here are some challenges intuitive writers typically struggle with:

• Conceptualizing a plot

• Writing within a linear cause-and-effect structure (feedback for intuitive writers often sounds like, “But nothing changes in this scene”)

• Using outlines, plot tables, or other highly organized methodologies (while these help rational writers access their creativity, they have the opposite effect on intuitive writers)

• Finishing longer projects (this is more a function of trying and failing at rational writing techniques than anything else, but intuitive writing can take longer in general)

Another sign that you may be an intuitive writer is if you have shelves of writing advice books that haven’t worked for you.

If any of the above struggles have made you feel like you’re not a good writer, you are probably an intuitive writer to some degree. Rest assured, you are a good writer. You’ve just been using a writing methodology that doesn’t suit you. Discovery writing may be worth trying. Discovery writing isn’t a clearly defined methodology – something I’d like to change. Today I’m going to discuss some of its general characteristics, but stay tuned for future posts about specific techniques.

So what is discovery writing? It’s an exploratory method that can feel, at first, like you’re wasting time because it’s so different from what we’re taught process looks like. It’s a technique that allows your subconscious to take hold of your writing to the extent that you let go of outcome, which is very uncomfortable. However, the technique is a natural fit for intuitive writers, who usually already have well-developed skills in terms of connecting to the subconscious. The greatest challenge to learning discovery writing is that it entails the unlearning of conventional writing techniques. It also requires a deep trust in your individual process that takes time to develop. It can be a freeing, ecstatic experience when you get the hang of it. Below are some tips to get you started. Remember, this is a methodology that takes practice and is itself a practice: sitting down to try it is how you do it.

The formless first draft

If there is one thing I want to communicate about why discovery writing works, it’s this: for intuitive writers, plot is an emergent property of their writing. While rational writers first conceptualize plot and then write to fit that, intuitive writers build their story piece by piece without a clear idea of where they’re headed. Plot slowly emerges. For this reason, the first draft should be written without a final form in mind. This type of writing is a bit like brainstorming. As an example, my current novel, which is entering the second draft stage right now, is full of what I call “orphan” sentences, paragraphs, even chapters. I wrote whatever came to mind. Much of it will end up informing the final plot, but some of it – notably, a section I wrote from the perspective of a dog – probably won’t. But all of it helped me get where I’m going with the story.

The subconscious is a mapmaker: there may be one best route to a destination, but the mapmaker has to experiment with many routes in order to create a complete picture. The rule of thumb for the formless first draft is “nothing is precious, and everything is necessary.”

Regular writing

No, it doesn’t have to be every day. But to develop skills at discovery writing, you do need to have a consistent writing habit. What that looks like in practice varies among writers. Some do write every day, some once a week. When you become more adept at discovery writing, you don’t need to worry as much about consistency, but you may find, like I did, that you want to continue with the regular writing habit. Discovery writing is a technique that is used during the writing process. There’s no way around it – you have to sit down to write in order to do it.

Focus on the feeling, not the idea

We live in a society that has a strong preference for left-brain approaches to life, so a major challenge in learning discovery writing is loosening the hold intellect has over our process. There is a time for left-brain writing in the editing phases, but the first draft should be done with as little left-brain control as possible. In the first draft, what you want to focus on is what you feel you want to write, not what you think you should. What does what you’re writing feel like to you? I’m not talking character emotion here, because once you start thinking about what your characters should feel, you’re in left-brain territory again. What I mean is, what do you feel about what you’re writing? Trust what your subconscious is telling you through your feelings.

What if you sit down and having nothing to write?

That happens. Usually not often once you’ve become adept at trusting your subconscious, but it’s part of the process. Discovery writing is not efficient, nor is it logical. For anyone who prefers left-brain approaches, it looks ridiculous, wasteful, and useless. Even many intuitive writers find it too unstructured. It’s a technique I recommend to intuitive writers who are struggling with feeling that they’re not accessing their true creative potential. It really is magical if you give it a fair try. Remember: let go of outcome. Any time your brain starts to evaluate what you’re writing in terms of where it’s going, gently tell it to STFU. There’s plenty time to think about that stuff later during the second, third, fourth, etc. drafts.

And don’t worry about trying to get this “right.” It’s always just practice.