Peeking behind the pages: The messy magic of my writing process.

Ever wonder how a story truly takes shape? I thought I'd pull back the curtain a little and share a glimpse into the often messy reality of my writing process! You know that polished final version of a chapter you read? Well, it rarely, if ever, starts that way for me. What you often see first is a raw, unfiltered outpouring of ideas. Think of it as the primordial soup of the story, a quick and dirty first pass where I'm just trying to capture the initial thoughts and get the basic bones of the scene down on paper, or screen! No fancy wording, no perfect grammar, just the raw essence of what needs to happen. To give you a little taste, here's a snippet of how a recent chapter began:

She goes about her daily routine. Realizing as she climbed out of bed and looks in the mirror that she was still in her dirty tattered clothing from last night. She pauses and stares at this anomaly looking back at her. Streaked, running make up, dried mud and blood, torn ratty clothes.

Look at me. Who am I. What am i doing to myself.

Looking back at her bed it was also covered in refuse from her encounter last night. Along with muddy foot prints winding through her room, and shes sure the rest of her house. The pristine aura of her home has been rattled.

I'm really glad I have maids. Hopefully they deal with it before I'm back.

She heads to the shower. Peeling off her visceral clothing and tosses it right into the trash. She makes the water purly hot.

Oh god. Its so hot. I feel like im boiling alive. I'm not sure if can handle it. But I need this filth off of me, out of me. I can feel it inside me, like it seeped in my core. I dont think ill ever feel clean again.

She remains in the shower until the water runs cold. She has washed her self countless times, and nearly finished off all the products filling the shelves.

It still isn't enough.

She stares at her self in the mirror after stepping out of the shower, her long hair like tentacles, glistening and sticking to her body.

I really need my routine more than ever today. I need something to feel normal.

She dries off and goes about her usual routine, moisturizer, serums, eye cream, sun screen, lip treatments, setting spray, make up.

Finally. I'm looking like myself again. If only my insides matched.

She goes to her walk in closet. She goes directly for her usual business attire, but remembers what the day ahead of her is going to consist of.

Let's not ruin even more designer clothes and grab some causal wear today since im heading back to the dirty town.

Now, take a look at how that initial spark evolved through revision and editing. This is where the real magic, and often the hard work!, happens. I expand on those basic ideas, layering in more detail, exploring the character's internal thoughts and motivations, and refining the language to hopefully create a more immersive and impactful experience for the reader. It's like taking a rough sketch and meticulously adding layers of color, texture, and nuance until it transforms into a fully realized painting! Here's a glimpse at a more polished version of that same scene:

She forced herself into her usual morning routine. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed and caught her reflection in the mirror, the sight stopped her cold. She was still in the same dirty, tattered clothing from the previous night. She paused, staring at the disheveled anomaly looking back: streaks of smeared makeup, trails of dried mud and blood, and clothes ripped and hanging precariously.

This is unacceptable. Utterly, completely unacceptable. That thing in the mirror… that can’t be me. Smudged makeup? Mud? Blood? On my clothes? These are designer, for God's sake! What has happened to me? This isn't how I operate. This isn't professional. This isn't… clean. I need to fix this. Immediately. This whole situation is spiraling, and it starts with this… this mess staring back at me. Get it together, Stella. Now.

Her gaze shifted to her bed, and a fresh wave of distaste washed over her. It wasn't just her appearance that was compromised; her sanctuary had been violated. The pristine white duvet was marred with the same refuse that clung to her clothes. Muddy footprints tracked a messy path across her expensive hardwood floors, and she had no doubt the contamination extended throughout the rest of her meticulously kept home. The carefully cultivated aura of order and cleanliness, the very essence of her sanctuary, had been shattered. This was an intrusion on every level.

God, this is repulsive. It's like some animal dragged itself through here. My sanctuary… it's been contaminated. This feels like an invasion. The maids better have industrial-strength cleaners for this. I need some semblance of order after… after that.

She headed straight for the shower, a sense of urgency propelling her. With a grimace, she peeled off the visceral clothing that felt like a second skin, the remnants of last night’s ordeal clinging to the fabric. She didn't hesitate, tossing the soiled garments directly into the trash bin as if wanting to eradicate any trace of the encounter. She turned the faucet, letting the water run until it was scaldingly hot, a temperature that felt necessary to cleanse not just her body, but the lingering feeling of defilement.

God, this is scorching. It feels like my skin is boiling. I don't know if I can stand this, but I have to. I need this filth off me, out of me. It feels like it's seeped into my very core. I don't think I'll ever truly feel clean again. This whole experience, it's tainted everything.

She remained under the relentless, scalding spray until the water finally ran cold, a physical manifestation of the exhaustion that had begun to set in. Countless times she had lathered and rinsed, scrubbing her skin raw, driven by a desperate need to eradicate the unseen contamination. The once-full shelves of her luxurious shower now bore witness to her frantic efforts, the levels of various cleansers and scrubs noticeably depleted.

Damn it! The waters cold already? It still isn't enough.

She stood before the fogged mirror, the chill of the cooling bathroom raising goosebumps on her raw skin. Her long hair, saturated and heavy, clung to her like glistening tentacles, framing a face that still held a flicker of the night's terror.

More than ever, I need the anchor of my routine today. Just one familiar step, one predictable action… anything to pull me back to some semblance of normal.

She briskly toweled herself dry, the rough fabric a small comfort against her still-sensitive skin. Then, with a determined focus, she moved through the familiar, almost ritualistic steps of her beauty routine. Each application was precise, a small act of reclaiming control: the smoothing glide of moisturizer, the targeted patting of serums and eye cream, the careful layer of sunscreen, the soothing balm on her lips, the fine mist of setting spray, and finally, the artful application of her makeup, a mask of composure for the day ahead.

Finally. The reflection staring back is almost recognizable again. If only the turmoil churning inside me could be so easily concealed.

She walked into her expansive closet, the familiar scent of expensive fabrics a small comfort. Her hand instinctively reached for her usual power suit, the crisp lines and tailored fit a symbol of her professional persona. But then, the reality of the day ahead crashed into her thoughts. Today wouldn't be filled with boardrooms and negotiations. Today required something… different.

Right. No point in sacrificing more designer wear to the grime of that town. Casual it is today. Something… durable. And cheap so I don't feel bad tossing it in the trash again if I have to.

It's definitely a journey from that initial messy draft to the final version you hopefully enjoy. It involves a lot of refining, cutting, adding, and polishing. It's not always glamorous, but it's a vital part of bringing the stories in my head to life.

Thanks for reading,

Brant Tubbs