Author: Fallton Havenstonne

To start a story, you simply have to write. Even though it sounds simple enough, one of the many things that can get in the way is overthinking it or over planning. With each day we push writing aside from our schedule, the idea starts to lose momentum. We can tell ourselves we’ll write when we feel ready to, or when we’re in the mood. But all that does is delay it from happening. If we do that for long enough, we’ll start to lose interest, and it will end up being a forgotten idea.

We can talk about starting from morning to evening, but until we start, it simply remain an idea, like a world of what ifs and what’s next and maybes that are waiting to see the light of day.

Most of the ideas I’ve had for the novels I’ve written started off as short stories, something I could type in a day or two. But for some ideas, they evolved and grew beyond the confines of a short story, branching out to layers of detail that require hours, weeks, and months of dedication to rummage through and explore.

It begins as a seed that soon grows into a tree that encompasses a universe of imaginative events, bringing forth twists and turns and character arcs and pivotal moments where more mysteries lie. It blooms into something we couldn’t have imagined unless we tended to it overtime with care and passion.

Although we can have dozens of ideas for stories, a small portion will catch our attention, won’t leave our thoughts until we tend them again and again, watering them with our time and research and labor until they stand tall in a field of finished works while others bask in its shadow.

When we write, our thoughts can get ahead of us like we’re trying to catch up with them in a relay race. They sprint ahead while we struggle to hand off the baton and keep up from behind. Sometimes our thoughts will leave us in the dust, speeding blindly forward as if the baton was in its hand when it’s actually empty.

When thoughts get so far ahead that we can’t catch up with them, we do our best to remember what our mind told us, typing from working memory rather than following it side-by-side, which is what we prefer. It’s like our hands, no matter how fast we type, can’t catch up with the voice inside our head that dictates to us at an unrelenting pace.

But instead of lamenting about it, this dilemma presents itself as an opportunity. Writing no longer is a sprint after our thoughts, but a chance to write in broad strokes. Instead of trying to create a masterpiece, it’s a chance to see what secrets the subconscious has to bare.

If we give it a chance, thoughts will begin to spring out in its raw and purest form, unfiltered and organic like a tree branch that extends and twists about openly in the air, unguided by some preconfigured pattern or design. It’s unique and personal without the impression that it’s been borrowed or copied from elsewhere.

It’s ours and of our own making–writing at is finest. So when thoughts start to leap ahead as we write, shrinking far away in the distance, we can at least be free to express the deepest layers of thought that have been dormant in the recesses of our mind.

Typing on a typewriter takes some getting used to if you’ve been typing on a computer a lot. The great thing about typing on a typewriter is the immediacy of the printed word, since they show up on the page the instant you type them.

But what takes some getting used to is the fact that the keys must be pressed more forcefully, like you have to put more effort into pressing the keys instead of letting them roll off your finger tips, as is the case on a computer keyboard. And unlike a keyboard, you can’t fix your mistakes immediately after they’re made, nor can you delete a word if you accidentally typed the wrong one. Whatever mistakes you make are permanent; you have to live with them and move on despite wanting to fix them. And for me, since I’m used to typing fast on the keyboard, typing in a sprint on a typewriter will often leave a trail of light impressions on the page (i.e. uneven darkness in the words).

I’ve seen people type with just one finger on each hand, kind of like they were fishing or hunting for the letters. But I’m the kind of writer that was taught to type with both hands and not look down at my fingers, since it was kind of like cheating.

I do like the sound that the typewriter makes when the keys clack, which creates a strange mechanical rhythm, almost like a beat. Even when I make mistakes, I let them go, since it’s part of the writing process (not trying to make things perfect anyway). And the faster the keys clack, and the more dings I hear after each return, the more that’s being written, like hearing my thoughts come to life.

Sometimes when I write a story, I get so caught up in research that I lose focus on what I was actually writing about. I’ll go down a rabbit hole, becoming more immersed and intrigued in the research itself than the actual story. When this happens, I have to tell myself to pause and get back to writing, or else I’ll get so sidetracked that I’ll stop writing altogether.

It’s similar to going back and editing a draft while you’re in the middle of writing it. Instead of moving forward, adding lines and pages to the story, you spend more time trying to polish it as if it were the final draft. And like research, it can bog you down, take up precious time, spoil the momentum of the writing session.

What I like to do to counteract this is to tell myself to keep writing as if I am on a time crunch. Doing so encourages me to jot everything down onto the page, putting me in the moment of the dialogue and visuals. This urgency to get every thought and idea out before time runs out is like an act of recording their transitory and ephemeral existence before they disappear for good.