So, I’m starting to write a new novel. It would actually be more honest, or at least more accurate, to say that I’m preparing to write it. No, strike that. I am writing a novel.

In the movies, we can easily recognize when someone is involved in the act of writing a novel. They’re either leaning close over their manual typewriter, maniacally jabbing at the keys (such a workout for the fingers!), or perhaps the author appears stiff-shouldered and pecking rapidly at an electric model. Clickety clack.

The modern way we mortals write is so different, with our faces bathed in the glow of a laptop screen while barely pressing the unresisting keys. In my case, there’s the option of writing chapters in longhand, then later dictating barely decipherable scribblings into voice-to-text software. My process is made necessary by my extreme sensitivity to LED lighting, the result of a brain injury. That’s how the cookie crumbles. Regardless of which writing technology I choose, I work alone, at home in my writing space. In solitude, I dream the story. No one witnesses my agonizing over word choice and punctuation placement.

It’s often hard to tell, in real life, when the writer is writing. Writers’ partners, family members and close friends know what I’m talking about. They recognize writer-face, the moments when we are concentrating on the conversation at hand, then suddenly our gaze softens and we drift a million miles away or perhaps, in the case of historical writers, to 150 years into the past. We don’t mean to detach, but our subconscious is knitting together intricate story details while we are doing other things. When the narrative begins downloading, it’s like there’s a ticker tape scrolling inside of my head and pre-empting all other stimuli and messages trying to make their way in.

To my people, I love you so much and am interested in your every word and thought. Thank you for understanding that the bargain I struck with the novel is that when it speaks to me, I won’t shush her. (I should have inserted a clause to inform the novel of my office hours!)

So much of the writing of a novel happens inside the mind, the heart, the gut. By comparison, a minuscule amount happens externally with fingers gripping a pencil or tapping a keyboard.

Just recently, I let myself drift into doing writing activities on a Sunday, after I’d promised myself the day off. Breaks are important as they allow for time to rest and energize those creative muscles. The more I tried not to think about my burgeoning novel, the more I thought of it. I decided to distract myself by listening to a podcast and then, lo and behold, the topic of discussion inspired me to imagine something significant for the plot. Off I went, searching for a pen, to once again start jotting story notes.

I’m very firm on my vision for this novel. In fact, I’m beyond excited about it. And why not?! To come up with a story idea is no small thing. I’ve known for a few years what I’d write about. Finding inspiration for a new novel is like discovering a soulmate. The story must be something I can commit to for at least three years—much shorter than a commitment to a soulmate, but you know what I mean.

Never have I set off intentionally to search for a next-novel concept. The ideas drift past and because I’m curious and always on the lookout, they catch my attention. There’s that word attention again. Constant vigilance is required of an author. The universe rewards the watchful. I experience a low-voltage current when I encounter “the one”, a sense that this is critical to a story I’m currently telling or will tell in the future. I mightn’t know where this puzzle piece fits into my creativity, but I intuit its importance and store it away. So, in this way, I’m writing a novel before I lift pen to page or even know fully what will happen in the story.

I’m describing accidental-on-purpose research. But at some point, the research becomes intentional and swallows me whole. Research triggers school-days trauma for a lot of people. For me, it’s writing playtime. Discovering characters’ lives and ways of living from the past is exhilarating. They’re born into the complications of their times and experience dilemmas, both familial and relationship-wise. From conflict comes story. I ask questions and search for answers through historical research. One question begets another. Some facts that I find make the plot I’m fashioning implausible. I must shift things around.

The volumes of information must be organized, stored, and retrievable. I research from books and printed-off documents from the internet as much as possible. Paper, paper, paper. Managing research makes me feel like a fact hoarder at times. I’m forever reinventing ways to do it more effectively. This is part of writing, too.

I don’t share what my current novel in progress is all about. As Friedrich Nietzsche said, “The author must keep (their) mouth shut when (their) work starts to speak.” Part of me wants to gush about what this new work will be about, but I can’t. To tell would dilute the magic. A dear writing friend put it brilliantly when she said that writing is a private thing. It is, indeed.