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!

The Ties That Bind: Stories of Love, Family, & the Legacy We Leave

Our First Date

Bruce is a storyteller, which is likely the reason I became such a huge fan; the characters and struggles and dreams and disappointments he writes into each of his songs are tangible to me. As a coming-of-age kid, dealing with all the natural and hormonal confusion of that transition, and then to have life sucker-punch the breath out of you, I found myself in Bruce’s lyrics, like Growin’ Up.

I took long month vacations in the stratosphere you know it's hard to hold your breath
I swear I lost everything I ever loved or feared, I was the comic kid in full costume dress,
Well, my feet they finally took root in the earth, I got me a nice little place in the stars
And I swear I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parts car
I hid in the mother breast of the crowd but when they said, "Pull down," I pulled up
Ooh... growin' up.

Bruce sang, “I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parts car.” That old parts car, for me, was the ’65 Mustang Dad and I built. When he died, it was the biggest piece of him I had left to hold on to. My buddy Todd and I spent every waking hour—when we weren’t stalking Shari—tinkering on our cars. (Todd’s car by the way, was a ’69 Chevy with a .396 just like the one mentioned in Bruce’s song, Racing in the Street.)

The opportunity I’d been waiting for finally dawned. News broke of the Born in the USA Tour coming to the Orange Bowl on a Monday. Tickets would go on sale at 9AM Thursday morning. Local radio stations reported there were already hundreds of people in line. In Miami. We were smarter than that. 

What’s driving four-hours and spending two-and-a-half days camped outside a Ticket Master box office in downtown Orlando to a young fool in love?

We were first in line in Orlando, with lawn chairs, Little Debbies, Doritos, a pizza, and a cooler full of Cokes. Thursday, 9AM sharp, BAM! Stadium floor. Center. 20 rows off the stage! 

Then it was time to make the call. 

I’d thought through every possible course the conversation could take … except the path it took. Shari said, “I’d love to go, but my mom wants me to ask if you can get a ticket for my boyfriend too.” Never saw that one coming. 

Todd read the panic on my face. He’s nodding and mouthing, “Yes! Absolutely!” What a friend! He was ready to give up his second ticket for my date’s boyfriend

I knew her boyfriend was finished an hour later when Shari called me back (a momentous moment, by the way, the love of my life called me!!!) to say he didn’t want to go. “He’s not a Springsteen fan.” Too bad. If he was, he’d have known where this story was going.

I met her on the strip three years ago
In a Camaro with this dude from L.A.;
I blew that Camaro off my back,
And drove that little girl away!

Shari wasn’t a Springsteen fan yet. Like every other kid in America, she heard the singles off the new Born in the USA album playing around-the-clock on the radio and MTV. But beyond that, she had no clue what she was in for. The long car ride to the stadium that night gave me a chance to tell Shari about my affection for (or addiction to) Jersey Shore rock-n-roll, the relatability of Bruce’s storytelling, and the phenomena known as “The Big Man,” Clarence Clemons. I knew the E Street Band’s epic live show reputation would deliver an unforgettable experience. There was one song in particular I wanted her to hear.

We were about three hours into the show when Bruce led off the first of his three encores with Born to Run. I looked into Shari’s eyes during Clarence’s sax solo and I knew—She gets it! She gets me! She sees us!

Born to Run is the story of a guy and a girl who dream of escaping the confines of their circumstances and the pressures of coming of age; two dreamers on the run, searching for freedom beyond the horizon; their place in the sun, their happily-ever-after. 

In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream,
At night we ride through the mansions of glory in suicide machines;
Sprung from cages on Highway 9,
Chrome-wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin’ out over the line;
Oh Baby, this town rips the bones from your back,
It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap, we gotta get out while we’re young;
‘Cause tramps like us, Baby we were born to run.


Wendy, let me in, I wanna be your friend,
I wanna guard your dreams and visions;
Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims
And strap your hands 'cross my engines;
Together we could break this trap,
We'll run 'til we drop, baby, we'll never go back;
Oh, will you walk with me out on the wire?
'Cause, baby, I'm just a scared and lonely rider,
But I gotta know how it feels;
I want to know if love is wild,
Baby, I want to know if love is real.
Oh, can you show me?
Beyond the Palace, hemi-powered drones
Scream down the boulevard;
Girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors,
And the boys try to look so hard;
The amusement park rises bold and stark,
Kids are huddled on the beach in the mist;
I wanna die with you, Wendy, on the street tonight,
In an everlasting kiss.
The highway's jammed with broken heroes
On a last chance power drive;
Everybody's out on the run tonight,
But there's no place left to hide
Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness,
I'll love you with all the madness in my soul;
Oh, someday, girl, I don't know when,
We're gonna get to that place
Where we really wanna go and we'll walk in the sun;
But 'til then, tramps like us,
Baby, we were born to run.

This was our story. We both knew it. 

That Monday night after the show, she slid into that car next to me … and never left my side.

To be continued …