I’ve been asked this question during many a book club talk. Usually the reader will then clarify with something like, “Do you write in the morning or later? In longhand or on the computer?”

The first time a reader asked me this, I was puzzled, because it’s not a question writers ask each other (which begs a question that I address in my companion post for writers). After other readers made the same inquiry, it dawned on me that they probably ask this because it’s a way of envisioning the writing process from a concrete starting point: the physical act of writing. After all, other than picturing the person writing at a certain time of day or night and with pad and pen or on a keyboard, there are no substantive toeholds for readers. Beyond these scant details, the act of writing is entirely cerebral and rather opaque.

We’ve all seen movies about writers. The most boring scenes in these movies are when the writers are writing: thoughtful look on their faces as they scrawl or clatter away on typewriters or computers, epiphanies indicated by smiles, frustrations by the grim set of their mouths. So far, I haven’t seen a film where a writer is creating her masterpiece on a tablet computer; I suspect this is because the accompanying sound effects of fingertips thumping glass would make the scene even duller.

These scenes are uniformly tedious because the viewers can only see the physical manifestations of writing: time of day or night, longhand or keyboard. The interesting stuff—the creative process—is beyond the capability of filmmakers to represent. And, frankly, beyond the capability of many writers to describe. In fact, I think most writers fear analyzing their creative processes too closely, in case they become overly self-conscious and start to interrogate how they do what they do.

At the risk of spooking the homunculus that lives in my gray matter and labors by candlelight with quill and foolscap, and in the spirit of transparency, I’ll try to describe my process in as visual a way as possible. That starts, conveniently, with transparencies.

Show of hands: who remembers being taught in school using transparencies (or “flimsies,” “acetates,” and other “foils”) on overhead projectors?

For the uninitiated (and those who enjoy dabbling in nostalgia), an overhead projector is basically a lightbox the size of a that so-called carryon luggage that’s too big for the bins, with a fan as noisy as a 747 and, despite said fan, is as hot as a furnace. It uses mirrors to display upon a screen or wall an enlarged version of any transparent image placed on its always scratched and stained surface (just as the screen or wall are perpetually marred). The transparency is a crinkly, clear acetate film that one can print or draw on and is notably staticky, attracting any loose hair or string so these can be made to appear six feet long when projected.  A teacher would lay a transparency on that surface as a means of illustrating her subject matter. Additional flimsies could then be set atop one another to provide more details: “Here is an outline of Europe. Here are the countries and their boundaries—no, that’s not the Iron Curtain; a string came off my blouse. Here are the major lakes, rivers, and mountains. Here are—wow, I need to do something about my split ends” and so on.

I construct every one of my scenes in much the same way, with the hair and string getting wedged under my laptop keys and stuck to the screen. (FYI: a scene is the basic building block of a novel—each chapter consists of one or more scenes. So there.) Thanks to the outline I did (see Pantser or Planner?), I have a good idea about the purpose of the scene and how it moves the story forward; reveals more about the characters’ thoughts, feelings, and motivations; and entertains the reader with conflicts overcome or exacerbated. I write a draft of the scene that provides the bare bones of these intentions. This is the first transparency placed on the projector. I go back and rewrite to add more nuances to the characters’ dialog, interior thoughts/feelings, and/or actions. This is overlaid on the first flimsy.

Then I go back and add more senses, if these are pertinent—the way things smell or taste or sound—and put in metaphors/similes/imagery/other literary flourishes if these will enhance the readers’ understanding of the scene or increase the entertainment value (i.e., make it more memorable). These are additional transparencies set one atop the other. Most of the creativity involves rewriting with different word choices until I’ve achieved my desired effect. Then on to the next scene.

In this way, I create a draft of my novel. Then I go back to the beginning and rewrite and edit each scene again to improve consistency, clarity, and speed. This might involve removing some transparencies that were muddying the picture or starting from scratch if the scene just doesn’t work (i.e., doesn’t achieve the goals I’d set forth in my outline).

If I start over on a scene, does that mean my previous efforts were wasted? Objectively, yes—I expended time I can’t get back and that could’ve been put to a different (if not better) use. Subjectively, no—the act of linking words together in myriad combinations is like doing mental aerobics. It’s healthy for the writer’s brain even if the end result is unusable (much like my time at the gym). Also, I think I need to make mistakes so I can analyze where things went wrong and improve. The ultimate solution often isn’t obvious to me until I’ve failed several (or more) times. By eliminating what didn’t work, I can realize what would be successful.

It is, indeed, a process.