Writers Write

The Write Process

People often ask about my writing process.

They want to know where I write, when I write, whether I outline before I begin, what software I use, or how many cups of coffee it takes to finish a chapter.

Those are fair questions. We’ll get to some of them in this series. But before any of that matters, I think there’s a more important question every writer needs to answer:

Who are you writing for?

I’ve found that once you answer that question, the where, when, how, and even the software begin to matter a whole lot less. Let me explain.

I Have Two Writing Offices

One has bookshelves.

The other has baristas.

My favorite place to write is a room in our home. It wasn’t always there. My wife, Shari, and our daughter Emily—with a lot of help from her partner, Lu, my brother-in-law Mike, and my sister Diann—transformed what had once been a closed-in patio into what has become my writing laboratory.

Most days, that’s where books are written. Theology gets wrestled with. Sentences get crossed out. Coffee gets brewed… and reheated.

But a few times every week, I pack up my laptop and drive two minutes down the road to Starbucks.

Not because I love Starbucks coffee. (I don’t.)

And certainly not because I love Starbucks prices. (I really don’t.)

If Panera ever opens within thirty minutes of my house, Starbucks may never see me again. Until then…

The truth is, I don’t go there because it’s quieter than home. I go there because it isn’t.

There’s something about sitting in the middle of ordinary life that reminds me who I’m writing for. Stories don’t begin on my laptop. They begin across the room—in conversations, in laughter, in tired faces, in quiet acts of kindness, and in people simply trying to make it through another Tuesday.

I write for the retired couple who never miss their weekly coffee date.

The college student cramming for tomorrow’s exam.

The exhausted young mom hoping for twenty uninterrupted minutes before heading back into the beautiful chaos of family life.

The DoorDash driver grabbing one more order before lunch.

The business professional whose phone never seems to stop buzzing.

The baristas who somehow remember everyone’s order—and still manage to smile while making it.

They’re the reason I write.

The staff knows me now. They’re mostly young adults just beginning to build their lives. They’ve always been kind and encouraging toward me and my work. In some strange way, I feel like their local writer in residence.

Every book I’ve written has started in my writing room. But every book has been shaped somewhere else.

In coffee shops.

Hospital rooms.

Church foyers.

Restaurant booths.

Long talks with friends.

Conversations with people carrying burdens they never expected to bear.

Because writing, at its best, isn’t just about finding the right words. It’s about paying attention to people. It’s about loving them enough to listen.

The keyboard is simply where the listening becomes words.

Writers Write is a free resource here at DarinMichaelShaw.com for writers of every level and every season. If you love the written word, I hope you’ll stop by often, join the conversation, and tell me a little about your own writing life.

Storysmithing Services is where I come alongside writers who have a story to tell but need help getting it across the finish line. Whether you’re starting with a notebook full of ideas or a completed manuscript that needs shaping, I’d be honored to help you turn your story into a finished book—and into the hands of the people who need to read it.

I'm so happy to be here!

Somebody’s Knocking

Several years ago, I participated in a writing class in the Literary Kitchen. Among our assignments each week was a ‘Quick Write’ practice, which is to be completed in ten minutes or less, in response to a prompt. One prompt was, ‘Somebody is knocking on your motel room door in the middle of the night.’  Here was my QW response: 

I don’t have to make this one up—it’s happened to me.

Knocking.

Middle of the night, I tell you. It was the darkest night of my life. I was scared. When you’re jarred awake and you’re in an unfamiliar place, and the things that you normally count on as ‘sure’ aren’t there—what’s for real?

Four weeks earlier—to the day—my brother Dave had taken me on that fateful fishing trip. Middle of Lake Jessop in Sanford, Florida; the most alligator populated body of water in North America. Gators were everywhere I looked—eyes, noses and backs sticking out of the water surrounding our little boat. Dave pulled a bible out of his tackle box and said, “Sit down and listen to me for a minute. I want to talk to you about Jesus. If you don’t want to listen, you can swim for shore.”

For four weeks I’d been thinking about what Dave said, considering giving this Jesus a chance to prove himself real to me. Now this?

Knocking.

Darkest night of my life started as the darkest day—at 11 that morning I learned that my father died. He went to work like every other day, but this time a disgruntled employee and a case of what they call workplace violence changed everything. Sixteen. My dad’s not coming home. He’s never coming home. Most days he’d pull in the driveway after work and pick up a mitt, we’d throw a ball for a half-hour before supper, talk about the day. Never again. I lay in my bed, tears streaming down my cheeks. Life never hurt so bad.

Knocking.

‘So Jesus, what the heck? I’m giving you a shot to see if you’re real and this is what you’ve got to offer?’

I picked up the bible my brother gave me and found my way to a list of verses he’d penciled in the back. I looked one up.

Knocking.

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him, and eat with him, and he with me.” 

“Hey Jesus, you’re welcome to come in, but I need to warn you, I’m not really a religious guy.”

“That’s good,” he said. “I don’t hang out with religious people. Haven’t you heard? My friends are drunkards, gamblers and whores … the broken, the sad, the weak and weary … the lost.”