Writing a Book - The Notes

Ah, notes. I like ‘em which a good thing. Because I write a lot of ‘em. I used to use a notebook. But now, well, apps do the job. Although I still like a nice notebook. 

Anyway, the point is, if you are a wrier, you need notes. I don’t mean so you can write a plot out. Or character templates. Nah, bollocks to that. I mean, yeah, do those things if you want. There your notes. But what I mean is, the notes a writer keeps? They’re where ideas come from. 

I wrote a note the other day. It said:

Write something about a young lad, maybe ten. Who finds out he’s got a passenger. An adult voice in his mind. Who tells him how to do things.

That was it. I read it back a while later and thought: pfft! Weird. Yeah, I did. But then I wrote this, didn’t I? 

A horror short story. And I reckon more will come to follow that one.

One note. And a whole story came from it. Maybe be whole series. 

Another time, I was at a bus stop. There were two blokes chatting about work. It wasn’t what they were saying. It was how they were talking to each other. It gave me an idea. On the bus, I made a note. Yeah, the manuscript is about a third written. One note, a new novel. 

Sometimes, I write a note that is total bollocks. But it doesn’t matter, it’s a note. I can delete it. Have a good laugh at it first. Then? Press delete. Gone. Write a new one. 

Oh yeah, a brief technical thing. I use Bear Notes. There’s loads of apps, but I prefer Bear. It’s bloody great. But pick one and stick with it. 

Right, where was I? Ah yeah, notes for writing. Sometimes, I write… sketches, I think that would the right word. Where it’s me, talking to a character. It might be a character I’m writing. Or one I’m going to write. But by having a conversation with the character, I get to learn about ‘em. 

I know. Mad right? But it works. When you have that conversation, the character you are developing will tell you things. And you can either use them, or realise there’s something off. Either way, your novel is the winner. 

So, listen, yeah? I reckon if you don’t write it down, it’s gone like a fart in the wind. It might be a load of bollocks, but still, catch it and decide later. 

I’m sitting there in the kitchen this morning, scribbling away like a mad bugger, and I think, fuck me, without these notes, I’d be up shit creek without a paddle. Ideas? They hit you like a bus on the High Street—bam!—one minute you’re the next bleeding big author, then, next, you’re staring at a blank page going, “What the fuck was that about?”

Take characters. You see this fella in the pub last week, yeah? Face like a smacked arse, eyes darting like he’s after robbing something.

—Go on mate, tell us your story, I say in my head. 

But he scarpers. No bother—I whip out the phone, jot it down: 

Weasel-faced bugger, whispers to his pint like it’s his mum. Boom. Now he’s in the book, breathing down your neck, stealing chips off the table next to you. Without that? He’s dust. Gone. And you’re left with cardboard cutouts, all “Hi, I’m tragic,” like some shite American sitcom.

And the things you see or hear—fuck me. That old one on the bus yesterday, moaning to her shopping bags, voice cracking like an egg on the hob. Or the two fellas arguing in the chippy: “You fucking twat, that’s not salt, that’s me dreams you’re pissing on!” Snippets, see? Gold dust. Write ’em down or they evaporate, poof, like the last swig of your pint. Notes keep it real, keep the blood pumping. They’re your bloody oxygen, your safety net when the big blank stares back and laughs.

So do it, writers. Notebook in the pocket, app on the phone, scribble like your life depends on it. ’Cause it does. Otherwise, you’re just another gobshite with a pen and nothing to say.