I’ve been writing every morning now for a while. No one talks to me. The room is dark. It’s dark outside. I’ve got my French radio station on. No commercials. No interruptions.
And the pages pile up.
Because I print my work every day in case for some reason my laptop decides to turn into a hunk of plastic and thin aluminum… I can walk over to my side desk and there are the pages. Pages I wrote. They stack up. It feels good.
The key, for me, is to do it every morning. I have other things to do the rest of the day, but the morning is mine. And the pages pile up.
I do not read my work while I’m pushing pages out the end of the machine. I readjust the outline continually… moving things and editing and cutting and redoing… as the script dictates. Deep in the script (at p. 102) I’m realizing the outline is wrong here and there. So it improves. The back of the script won’t match the front. No matter. It’s a first draft. A pile of pages. It’s sure not a script yet.
But it will be.
Quite satisfying to have that physical pile of paper to look at and think, “I did that.” It may suck, but at least it’s there, ready to be repaired.