Someone call the police, I need to give a statement. The muse assassins have struck again. Page two and I'm stuck, shriveling in my favorite thrifted chair, afraid of my half-reflection in the blank laptop screen. I can't wait 48 hours to report her missing. In 48 hours, I'll be neck-deep in a Netflix series, and I'll forget her features, her purpose, her life. (If I could lose weight as quickly as I lose my concentration on a writing project, that would be another personal problem solved.)

      I won't even get a ransom note. No call. Those stealthy assassins—musenappers—know that in a day I'll manufacture another, birth it wet and wiggly onto my desk, and leave it unattended like I do every other time. They'll watch it flop toward the wood edge, secreting slime across pen and paper, before tumbling headfirst into their chew-proof nets.

      In short, I have no control of my process. And process is everything, right? It's the boss of all the other adhesives holding our writing together. "Process" is how we keep from falling apart.

      But what is the writing process?

     (Give me a second; there's afterbirth everywhere.)

     I'm not assuming everyone reading this has no idea what they're doing. I just assume I don't. For me, the five steps of the writing process are akin to climbing the sobriety ladder. The initial prospect of writing a novel is an alcoholic hook, and everything that comes after is recovery. When you're drunk, when you're elbow-deep in fantasies, twirling around barefoot to a David Bowie song, you feel fantastic. Every thought breathes potential, every mood board a set of Pinterest armor even a dragon couldn't melt. It's stunning, the creative flow. The unexplainable juju of conducting imagination like a live wire. The intoxication of idea.

     Ah, ideas. Step One, part B.

     Unfortunately, the vibe hits the pavement at some point, and you wake up to see the mess you've made. If you're anything like me, there will be crying. Regret. But there will also be an unignorable itch to build something coherent from the ashes. This is where the writing life gets brutal for me. The longer I truck a single idea up the process ladder, the less intoxicated and enamored I become with the act of writing.

     But I never lose the want. Even as the initial attraction to a project fades into the moonrise of my chronic distraction and procrastination, the swelling welt to create doesn't recede.

     I am not in control of my muse or my process. I chase writing highs and crash hard by Step Two as I sober. And when I feel dissatisfied, or in need of imagination blinders in "real" life, I skip to the next intoxicating idea and murder it. (Not in the fun, slang-y, metaphorical way.) Never once have I seen a long project through to full fruition. If I get close, those assassins sweep in, and the cycle begins again.

     I've recently been listening to the podcast "No Write Way" by the illustrious Victoria Schwab. The full series lives on Miss Schwab's youtube or Spotify, and in it, she dissects the brains of famous authors to gain unique perspectives on the writing craft. (Which is crack brownies for an overthinker like me!) In her inaugural episode, she interviewed Author Chuck Wendig. (I capitalized the 'A' out of respect for his accomplishments. Writers write. Authors make money.) The interview was brilliant. If you haven't already indulged, I encourage a cup of coffee, and a listen. One thing he said stuck to my soul like fly tape or wet toilet paper: "If your process isn't working, change your process."

     I paraphrased, I'm too lazy to rehash 45 minutes for an accurate quote, but you get the gist. My life goal is to be published. My 2020 goal is to finish a novel. But how can I do that when I consistently fade in the final stretch?

     Change your process.

     Wow, Chuck, wow.

     Traditionally, the five steps of the writing process are as follows:

     1. Prewriting

     2. Drafting

     3. Revision

     4. Editing

    5. Publishing

     There are a ton of sub-stuff underneath those headers. Writing is never an actual 5 Step Process. We complicate it. Add branches. Parts. Bullets. Hoopla. At a glance, the five points written above are what we aim to achieve and achieve well. But alas, we are all inept humans.

     At least I am. I'm a writer.

     I sit here in my overstuffed, mustard-colored chair, a beautiful example of by-gone furniture production with woven upholstery like steel. It's a vintage Kroehler, and this baby is perfect. The classic flared back, dimpled by covered buttons. The complimentary fabric samples, straight from the factory, are still pinned under its skirts. It is an invincible creative rocket. Not even our seven-month-old kitten has managed to make a dent in it. My body must be comfortable to create, and the springy, fifty-something-year-old foam holds me exactly right. I admit I stole it from the living room. My real desk chair was stiff and misbehaving, so I switched. Step One, part A, of my process is this: be comfy, now write.

     In this thrifted chair, I stare in fear of my half-reflection, slowly sifting through words, struggling to string them together like fragile beads. Whenever I gain a pattern, I change my mind and start over, terrified my creation won't reproduce how I see it in my head. I have no control. Or maybe, I control too much.

     I sabotage myself. I am the muse assassin.

     I sit here, building an orphanage for my slimy thought-spring. I will not abandon them anymore. The first part of "Writing Blahz" will explore each stage of the writing process. The methods that work for me, and the bad habits that must die, disintegrated in a dumpster fire. If anyone has insight or experience on what works for them, please, drop advice in the comments as we continue. I'm here to learn, and I enjoy your company.

     It's a win-win.

     Now, excuse me while I go and rinse my net.