Live To Write Another Day

a single book: The Republic by Plato. If you’re familiar with this classic work you’ll recall that within Plato’s complex dialogue there is an extensive discussion about the nature of reality, at the end of which he concludes that the “thought form of a thing” is more real than the material object itself. The reasoning behind this is that nothing in the material world could ever be as pure or as perfect as the way you imagine it in your mind, so therefore it could never be as complete or true. Heady stuff, I know, but bear with me here.
What is it that we’re actually trying to do when we write? We’re trying to bring a thought—in the case of creative or dramatic writers, a story—into material existence. But as Plato or anyone with the writer gene will tell you, that story never seems to make it onto the page quite the way it was intended.
Now remember what I said earlier about solutions to problems existing out there somewhere? It’s the exact same thing with original stories. They exist, I believe, as thought forms, floating around the ether in an absolutely perfect state. But when you first stumble onto one, you can’t quite make it out entirely. It’s kind of fuzzy and unclear, like a faint radio signal. Before you know it, you get a little curious about this signal and you start to tune it in. You try to listen to it a little closer. And closer…and closer…until finally you get this feeling deep in your belly that this is not just any random radio signal. It’s a very specific signal that must be paid attention to. Now you make it your business to tune it in. This is the point when the writer gene starts to express itself, and the point where my process begins.
 Getting Started with Research
Over the years I’ve found that I’m much more likely to make a script work if I start by researching the subject I’m writing about. To non-fiction writers, this is a no-brainer. “Of course you want to spend time researching the subject first,” they would say. If you’re a creative writer, however, sometimes you get so jazzed about an idea, so pumped up by that initial rush of inspiration, that you just want to jump right in and start writing. Unfortunately, I have fallen into this trap more than once and it’s a recipe for disaster, an almost 100% guarantee that your crisis moment will come sooner rather than later. Why? Because you simply haven’t spent enough time tuning in this story to execute it properly.
When I begin thinking about the idea that has somehow slipped into my brain and woken me up in the middle of the night, the first thing I do is surf the web. I’m not talking about anything exhaustive, just your basic Google search to see what interesting information floats to the surface. Then, after a couple days of bookmarking, downloading, and printing the various materials, I will buy about six to eight non-fiction books that more specifically support the angle from which I’m attacking the story.
Now, you might think this approach sounds good if you’re writing a crime story about the Russian mafia or a medical drama about heart surgeons, but not if you’re writing a romantic comedy. There’s not really much to research if your story is just about people and their relationships, right?
Actually, that’s not entirely true. Granted, a romantic comedy may not always rely as heavily on the underpinnings of a particular subject, and may not require quite as much research as a crime story or a medical story, but like all stories it does have characters who must come from somewhere, who must have jobs, personal histories, and/or interests that need to be fleshed out and made three dimensional. The truth is…
There is always something that you can learn from doing a little research that will help you tell your story—any type of story.
What’s more, the actual content of the research is only part of what I’m after. Hang with me here. There’s a method to my madness.
 The Launching Pad
Once I have all the books, I begin the passive part of the process by simultaneously reading, highlighting, and taking tons of handwritten notes on a yellow legal pad. The notes are a combination of direct quotes from various texts, my interpretations of what I’m reading, and ideas about my story that are now starting to emerge. These could include ideas for scenes or characters, high-level structural ideas with respect to how I will lay the whole thing out, thoughts on the message I’m trying to convey, or anything else about the story that pops into my head.
The key here is:
I do not edit what I write on the pad or try to make any sense of it at this point.
Why is this so important? Because again, I’m not trying to impose my will on the story. I’m trying to tune it in. It already exists, remember? But at this stage I can’t quite hear the signal clearly yet, so I have to be careful not to overthink it, and to avoid being judgmental about anything I come up with. After all, they’re just ideas and nobody but me is going to read them anyway, so who cares how wacky, stupid, or off the wall they are?
This probably sounds like a painstaking process. I’m not going to lie to you, it does require a lot of discipline and patience, but once you get into it, it’s really kind of liberating. You just have to commit to it, completely lose yourself in it, and keep devouring all that information until you feel like you’re going to burst, like you’ve just eaten Thanksgiving dinner and are so stuffed you can’t possibly eat another bite. This is when you know the researching phase is over and it’s time to let the active part of the writing process begin. (Depending on what else I have going