From Napkin Notes to Novels My Creative Writing Process
Writing has been part of my life for as long as I can remember, but the way it happens now looks nothing like it did when I was younger.
As a kid, I could sit down and write for hours. No plan. No pressure. No laundry waiting. No dinner to make. No purse full of forgotten receipts, gum wrappers, and one very important paper napkin with the beginning of a book scribbled across it.
Back then, writing felt like opening a door and walking straight through.
Now, it feels more like chasing a character through the house while trying not to drip shampoo on the floor.
And honestly, that is still part of the magic.
The old way was simple and endless
When I was younger, writing came in long stretches.
I would sit somewhere comfortable, pick up a pen, and disappear. Hours could pass without me noticing. The world inside my head felt closer than the one around me. Characters showed up and stayed. Scenes unfolded like I was watching a movie only I could see.
There was no system because I did not need one.
There was no file called `Ideas for later`.
There were no napkins stuffed into purses, no rushed notes typed with wet hair, no months of silence between visits with a story.
I wrote because I wanted to. I wrote because the story was there. I wrote because I had time, or at least I thought I did.
Childhood writing has a freedom that is hard to explain once life gets fuller. Back then, I did not worry about whether a scene belonged in book two or book three. I did not think about release dates, reader expectations, editing timelines, or whether I had accidentally created a plot problem that future me would have to fix.
I just wrote.
That kind of writing is beautiful. It is also rare once adulthood arrives with its calendar, responsibilities, and loud little reminders that time is no longer an endless thing.
The new process starts anywhere but at the keyboard
These days, my creative writing process usually begins when I am nowhere near my computer.
A character will tap on my shoulder while I am out to dinner with my husband. A scene will roll through my mind while I am trying to enjoy a quiet evening. A line of dialogue will arrive fully formed, and I know right away that if I do not capture it, it will vanish.
So I do what any writer does when inspiration shows up in public.
I ask the wait staff for a paper napkin.
Then I scribble the idea down as fast as I can, fold the napkin, and tuck it into my purse like it is a treasure map. In that moment, I am sure I will remember it. I am sure I will go home, type it up, and turn it into something right away.
That is not what happens.
What happens is that the napkin goes into my purse and disappears into the unknown. Two weeks later, I clean out said purse and find it waiting there, wrinkled and patient, like it knew I would come back eventually.
Then I read it and think, “Oh. Yes. I remember you.”
That is when the idea gets promoted from purse archaeology to the computer file.
The file is named, very creatively, `Ideas for later`.
I wish I could say the name is poetic. It is not. It is practical. It is also honest. That file is full of beginnings, fragments, half-scenes, stray character thoughts, and little sparks I was not ready to build into a fire yet.
Some writers have color-coded systems. Some have beautiful notebooks. Some have boards and charts and timelines.
I have napkins, memory, and a file with a painfully obvious name.
And somehow, it works.
The best ideas do not respect bath time
Of course, an idea does not always stay quiet after I file it away.
A few nights later, I might be taking a bath, minding my own business, shampoo in my hair, when that same character pops back into my head. Not politely. Not softly. More like they have kicked open the door and announced that they have more to say.
A scene appears.
A piece of backstory clicks into place.
A line I did not know I needed suddenly makes the whole character feel real.
At that point, I have a choice. I can tell myself I will remember it later, which is one of the biggest lies writers tell themselves, or I can get up and write it down.
So there I am, wrapped in a towel, dripping water, trying not to freeze, rushing to the computer because the idea will not leave me alone.
The bath water gets cold.
The shampoo waits.
The scene comes first.
This is one of the strange things about writing. The work does not always happen when I sit down and say, “Now I am going to write.”
Sometimes the real work happens while I am washing my hair, cooking dinner, riding in the car, or trying to fall asleep.
The mind keeps writing even when the hands are busy.
That can be frustrating, but it is also a gift. It means the story is alive somewhere in the background. It means the characters are still moving around, still speaking, still waiting for the moment I finally let them out.
Some ideas need time before they are ready
After the napkin, after the bath, after the emergency typing session, the idea may sit untouched for a while.
Sometimes a month goes by. Sometimes more.
Then one day I open that file and see the idea again. Visiting it feels like running into a long-lost friend I have not seen in years. There is a little surprise, a little guilt, and a lot of curiosity.
We visit.
I write.
Then I leave and go on with my life.
That might sound scattered, and maybe it is. But I have learned that not every story wants to be forced. Some ideas need time to gather weight. Some characters need to live in my head for a while before they are ready to step onto the page.
I used to feel guilty about that. I still do sometimes.
There is pressure to produce quickly. There is pressure to keep up, to finish the next book, to always have something new coming. Readers are patient, but they are also eager. I understand that because I am a reader too. When I love a story, I want the next piece of it as soon as possible.
But books do not always grow on command.
At least mine do not.
Sometimes they grow in pieces. A line here. A scene there. A character whispering something inconvenient while I am trying to live a normal life.
That is why it can take me two years to finish a book.
It is not because I do not care. It is because I care deeply, and because my brain does not always travel in a straight line.
The characters live in my head rent free
The most accurate way I can explain it is this: my characters live in my head rent free until I let them out.
They are not quiet tenants either.
They interrupt. They argue. They reveal things at the worst possible times. They change my plans. They make me rethink scenes I thought were settled. They demand space in a story that I thought belonged to someone else.
When a book takes a long time, it does not mean nothing is happening. A lot is happening. It is just happening internally before it becomes visible on the page.
I might not be typing every day, but I am listening.
I am turning scenes over in my mind. I am learning why a character made a choice. I am figuring out what part of the story is true and what part is only noise. I am waiting for the moment when the scattered pieces finally start to fit.
That moment is worth waiting for.
When a character who has been quiet suddenly speaks clearly, I know it. When a scene finally lands the way it should, I feel it. When the story opens up, I remember why I kept coming back.
The trilogy has taken its own path
My most recent trilogy began three years ago.
That is strange to write, but it is true. Three years ago, the first pieces of it started forming. Characters arrived. The world began to take shape. One idea became more than one idea, and then it became something bigger than I first expected.
Now book two is nearly finished.
That sentence means a lot to me because I know how long these characters have been waiting. I know how many times I have stepped away and come back. I know how many small notes, late-night thoughts, and unexpected scenes have gone into this story.
Clean comes out August 17th, and I am so excited to finally share it.
The second book is close behind. I expect to have it finished by November. I know that may feel like a wait, especially for anyone who wants the next part now, but I promise it is moving. The story is not sitting untouched in a dark room. It is very much alive.
And the third book is already swimming around in my head.
That is both wonderful and slightly chaotic, which seems to be the normal state of my writing life.
I can feel pieces of it forming already. Not all of it, not enough to call it finished, but enough to know it is there. Enough to know these characters are not done with me.
The good news is that I do not plan to let it stagnate too long.
My writer’s ADHD is getting better. I am learning how to work with the way my mind moves instead of fighting it all the time. I am learning to catch ideas faster, return to them sooner, and trust that an imperfect process can still lead to a finished book.
I am learning to honor the messy middle
A lot of creative advice makes writing sound cleaner than it is.
Sit down every day. Hit the word count. Finish the draft. Revise. Publish. Repeat.
That works beautifully for some writers. I admire them. I truly do.
For me, the path is messier.
There are bursts of focus and long pauses. There are napkins in purses and files I forget to open. There are characters who show up during dinner and scenes that arrive during baths. There are chapters that pour out quickly and chapters that make me wait.
For a long time, I thought that meant I was doing it wrong.
Now I think it means I am doing it my way.
A messy process can still be a real process. A slow process can still produce a finished book. A writer who wanders away from a story can still come back with more depth, more understanding, and a better sense of what the book needs.
I do not want to romanticize the frustration. Waiting on yourself is hard. Losing momentum is hard. Wanting to finish a project and not knowing why your brain will not cooperate is hard.
But I also do not want to pretend that creativity has to look neat to be valid.
Mine does not.
Mine looks like this:
A dinner napkin folded into my purse
A forgotten note found two weeks later
A file called `Ideas for later`
A bath interrupted by a demanding character
A towel-wrapped sprint to the keyboard
A lukewarm return to the tub
A story revisited like an old friend
A book that takes two years because it needed two years
That is the truth of it.
Patience is part of the story too
I am grateful for every reader who waits.
Really, I am.
When a book takes longer than expected, I know it asks patience from more than just me. Readers remember characters. They wonder what happens next. They look for updates. They hope the next book is coming soon.
I do not take that lightly.
The stories matter to me, and so do the people waiting for them.
That is why I want to be honest about the process. Not as an excuse, but as a glimpse behind the curtain. The books are coming. The characters are loud. The trilogy is still growing. The work is happening, even when it looks a little like chaos from the outside.
The story always brings me back
My writing process has changed, but the love of writing has not.
I may not sit for hours the way I did as a kid. I may not move in a straight line from idea to finished draft. I may collect scenes in strange places and lose notes inside my own purse. I may take longer than I wish.
But I come back.
That is the part I trust most.
I come back to the characters. I come back to the file. I come back to the napkin. I come back to the story that would not leave me alone while I was trying to take a bath.
And little by little, those scattered pieces become chapters.
The chapters become a book.
The book becomes something I can finally share.
So be patient with me. Clean arrives August 17th. Book two is nearly finished, and my goal is to have it done by November. Book three is already circling, already whispering, already waiting for its turn.
The process may be messy, but the stories are still coming.
And somewhere, probably at the bottom of my purse, there may already be another napkin waiting.
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