I have a new piece of fiction out, as of October 8, 2026. You can find it here - "Tomorrow Me," at horrificscribblings.com. I'd love for you to read it. And, while you're there, read a few other things, too. Lots of fun spooky stuff up there.

Having a new piece published is a pretty fabulous feeling. It's validation that the work we do, from aspiration to idea to grind to draft to grind to revise to rejection to revision to rejection, ad infinitum, has artistic value. We do all the work for the joy of the work, or at least those who continue to write after hardship and rejection do, and at no point do we have any indication beyond our own assessment that we're going to contribute to the human collection of art in any meaningful way. We're really just playing with toys by ourselves until someone else says that they like the way we play. And then they put our work up on their site, or in their magazine or their anthology.

For novels, an agent tells you they can sell your book and then you're validated, you celebrate, but more work begins, and then you assume there's a terminal point at which the book sells and you can put the project to bed. That's another kind of celebration.

Something that comes up in many of the numerous conversations I have about writing and writing processes is the question of where the ideas come from. Reviving my publishing practice (have I mentioned my new piece over at www.horrificscriblings.com?) also means reviving my writing processes. I don't think people consider how much writing practices influence idea generation. I hear a lot of people talk about books they've read about reconnecting to the creative spirit or translating messages delivered from some transcended "beyond," or how journaling every morning for 12 weeks is going to somehow cast a spell into The Creator's earshot that will result in direct attention from a divine muse.

There's something about the idea of a divine muse that makes me a little, I don't know, maybe defiant? These books seem to align with the idea that in order to have an idea, we need to pray at the altar of ideas, and then the Grand Whatever of Ideas may or may not bless us with a spark that we then nurture into being. Like the only control we have is praying, and then we're lucky if the prayer gets answered.

Yeah, no.

I mean, I agree in part. If we consider the actual work of writing--experiencing, reading, talking, feeling both good and bad, doodling, thinking, planning, drafting, erasing, drafting, etc.--to be praying at the altar, sure. That part is necessary. But, ideas are the direct result of what we do in that work, from inside our own effort and growth and creative synergy. Not at the mercy of the universe. If we sit around and wait for things to come to us, we die uninspired. If we do the work, we create ideas.

I wanted to talk about writing processes in this little stab of Night Work mostly to talk out my own practices and see them in front of me instead of having them rattling around in my head. And, I want to double down on not creating rituals that are essentially prayers to the muse that may or may not get answered. I want to anchor practice in the work of writing, the craft and trade. So, here it is.

I knew I was going to mention my freshly-published story, because anyone who wants to build an audience is going to drop that in as often as possible. It's at www.horrificscriblings.com, go check it out. I also knew I wanted to talk about writing processes, but I didn't quite know how I was going to go about it. So I stewed.

I read some things, including the opening couple chapters of John of John, by Douglas Stuart. Not specifically for this piece, but because Book Club is Monday and I write this on Saturday. I'm behind. I watched some things, Obsession and Make Some Noise and a bunch of YouTube videos about small everyday carry bags and different writing apps for iPads. I hung out with some people and felt some things. Wrote maybe 3 or 4 words down in a notebook and then forgot about them. Spend Friday getting things fixed around my house. Spent this morning setting up new software. The whole time, kept this piece you're reading in mind.

All of this is part of my process. Not the specific pieces themselves, but a collection of normal-life things that are underpinned by the constant churn of thought and feeling and thought and feeling that generates an idea for a piece of writing. In the easiest weeks, drafting happens daily. In tougher weeks, it all happens on a Saturday afternoon. But none of it happens without the work that it takes to generate--not find, not be given--ideas.

Sometimes, you watch a bird dodge a car and the image of a bent feather tattoos itself behind your eyelids. Sometimes, you swallow your water wrong and choke like an entire person is trying to crawl out of your mouth. Sometimes, you thank your past self for quitting drinking just because life is too short to be hungover. Sometimes, you meet with an ex-girlfriend for coffee and she looks great, so you tell her, and she thanks you, and then there's two seconds of horrific silence during which she does not return the compliment. Sometimes, you read a Mary Oliver poem and carry part of it around forever:

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

"Sometimes," Mary Oliver

Always, though, the work leads to the feeling to the thought to the idea. There is no idea without the work. And, the work is almost always going out and intentionally experiencing things that deliver big feelings. Big ideas come from big experiences and big feelings.

And then you write. And at some point you realize you've been writing the entire time, it's all writing, the draft is just where the momentum of all that living of a writing-forward life takes you.

Last, if you're like me, you throw the first completed draft up for the world to see.

Your turn. How are you writing?