The morning is mild and grey, with a smattering of sunlight breaking through the clouds. It's utterly still--no breeze at all. And silent--no birds, no boats.
It's a perfect writing day, and I mean to make the most of it. And instinctively I know it's also a writing-in-longhand day. So I'm about to go down to the dock with my little black-and-white assistant, a pad of lined paper and one of those unique felt-tip pens I purchase only in Ireland (can't get them anywhere else.)
My first novels were all written in longhand. In order to have a semi-normal life and meet my contracted deadlines, eventually I learned to "think" onto a keyboard. My fingers now fly as quickly as my thoughts.
Some of my colleagues, most notably my friend Tess Gerritsen, do their first drafts in longhand.
I constantly shift back and forth, from modern technology to the old, depending on my mood and the nature of the scene I'm writing.
My goal is to finish at least a third of a chapter before Ruth and I have our afternoon walk. Maybe half. Wish me luck!
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