The trick is to figure out a writing process that makes this as painless as possible. The trap is that there’s as many processes as there are writers. And every single one of them is right.
Without a process, what happens is you spend all day thinking about writing – thinking while you read, thinking while you watch just one more episode of Alf, thinking while you eat more ice cream than any human should consume in a week. Then the day’s over and the night of self-flagellation begins.
Oh, and once you find the process that works for you on this project, there’s no guaranty it will work at all on the next project. Did I mention that?
In any case, here’s the process, more or less, that I currently use:
The first thing I do is go to bed the night before at a decent time. This is so when my alarm goes off at 6AM I won’t say silly things like “Blergh con muh-shuff” and an arm won’t come swinging from the other side of the bed with deadly accuracy.
I dodge the cats and all the furniture they’ve moved around in the night and stumble to my coffee maker. I have a Keurig, because it means I’ll only have to wait a maximum of 30 seconds for my elixir of life. Then I stumble down to my desk in the basement.
I’ll spend a few minutes checking emails, facebook, twitter and checking the rankings of my books on a couple sites. After some swearing and headshaking, I’ll open whatever I’m working on in Word and read over what I wrote the day before. This isn’t for editing, but to remind me what the hell I’m currently writing.
I should note that the program I open might not be Word. I have a habit of trying other programs ( Scrivener, distraction-free editors, etc.) at the beginning of projects, but eventually I give in and just transfer everything over to Word. I don’t really have an explanation, it’s just what I do.
In any case, I’m usually doing some actual work by about 7AM. I wear headphones and find some playlist on Spotify to listen to since that’s when other people start bumbling around over my head. This isn’t a really productive time for me, but it’s necessary so when I get to the next session all the air bubbles have been squeezed out of my brake lines.
Somewhere in the next hour or so I’ll stop and either get some breakfast (usually a fruit/spinach smoothie) or just get some more coffee.
Then it’s back to my desk. I’ll write until I hit my day’s quota, at least. My normal quota is 2,000 words. If I’m feeling the mojo, I’ll keep going for a while. Quota or not, I’ll usually stop around 11:30. If the words are flowing, it usually takes me about two and a half hours to get my 2,000 words. This is all new stuff. The grunty work or errands come in the afternoon.
When I’m done my morning, I’ll try to hit the treadmill or workout for a while. Then I’ll have some lunch and shower.
The afternoon is admin, promotion and planning. I’ll do stuff like work on my website, maybe schedule some guest blogs, podcasts, etc. I’ll do some reading, outlines, proposals and such, if I need to. This is when I do most of my non-personal social networking, emails, etc. Sometimes I track my writing and sometimes I don’t. (I need to work on that.) If I’m in a tracking cycle, I’ll make some notes about the work I got done that day. Usually in a spreadsheet or just in a notebook.
Depending on the day and when I’m done all this, I’ll start thinking about dinner or I’ll take a nap. Whether I write at night or not depends on what my fiance’s schedule is like (she’s active in local theatre, plays guitar and paints, but works during the day as an Optician, so the night is the only time she gets to a lot of that stuff).
Weekends are mostly free-for-alls, but there’ll usually be some writing and promotion work in there amongst going bowling or pillaging.
And somehow with that mess I get the first draft of a new book done about every four months. Sometimes I don’t even set it on fire and throw it in the neighbor’s yard.
The Tomorrow Heist
Monarch
Book Two
Jack Soren
Genre: Fiction/Thrillers/Technological
Publisher: HarperCollins/Witness Impulse
Date of Publication: 11/3/2015
ISBN: 9780062365200
Book Description:
Readers looking for twisting, fast-paced suspense will be swept away by Jack Soren’s newest tale of thrilling international adventure...
Jonathan Hall and Lew Katchbrow intended to leave life as international art thieves behind them-if only the money hadn’t run out. But when a shadowy organization approaches the duo offering compensation, protection, and prestige in exchange for their skills, Jonathan and Lew think it’s the answer to their problems…
But the nightmare has only just begun.
Suddenly Jonathan and Lew are thrust headlong into a race against time and a technology that science says shouldn’t exist. With the very nature of life and death on Earth hanging in the balance, it’s up to Jonathan and Lew to discover the truth behind Ashita—a terrifying futuristic city in the depths of the Pacific Ocean—and stop it. But the clock is ticking. If Jonathan and Lew fail this heist, millions will die—and the human race will never be the same.
London
Thursday
12:15
p.m. Local Time
Jonathan Hall hadn't been home in almost
two years. Not that he hadn’t had a place to live during that time. As a matter
of fact, Jonathan had lived in some extravagantly opulent locales—a penthouse
in New York, a yacht on the Aegean Sea anchored off Mykonos Island, even an
abandoned palace in Thailand. But none of those were home. The last home he'd
known was a tiny, run-down house in Tallahassee, Florida. But it hadn’t been
the building that had made it home. It had been the company.
Now, as he sat in a cafe in London,
watching the crowds pass by outside in the midday September sunshine, oblivious
to the magnificence of The Thames and London Bridge, Jonathan thought of his
daughter, Natalie. Not that his thoughts were ever far from her. He hadn't seen
her in person in almost a year. And the year before that he'd only managed to
see her a few fleeting times. These were important years for her and he was
missing them. The same way he'd missed the first five years of her life. He
hadn't even known Natalie existed back then, but it still bothered him.
He wished Natalie's mother was still
alive. That's what a 13-year-old girl needed, a woman to explain all those
things she was feeling and experiencing as she became a teenager. Not a father
who, when he was around, put her life in danger. A father who had no idea what
he was doing. A father who had been an art thief for the past twenty years.
Jonathan squeezed a napkin to ease his
tension as the waiter drifted by. He ordered another chai tea. The waiter
nodded and took the old cup away. It was Jonathan's second.
He checked his watch. Their contact was
over half an hour late. But he wasn't giving up just yet; Fahd was skittish as
hell and in all likelihood was pacing back and forth up the street trying to
decide what to do. In the end, Jonathan knew he'd show. It wasn't hubris speaking,
it was pragmatism. Fahd needed the money that was weighing down Jonathan's
black leather jacket, making it hang on the back of his chair at an odd angle.
Jonathan had found Fahd the same way he
found all their jobs these days: through the Dark Web. Using a special web
browser that protected his identity, Jonathan could access web sites and
discussion forums where normal search engines couldn't go, with no fear of
being tracked. He still had to vet his contacts carefully before actually
meeting them—law enforcement agencies around the world were well aware of the
Dark Web, and stings were becoming more and more common—but after all these
years, Jonathan had become quite skilled at knowing who was and wasn't on the
level.
As the waiter brought his beverage,
Jonathan took the opportunity to scan the room again. He avoided direct eye
contact—especially with the hulking man sitting by the window, hunched over a
plate of pastries and a giant, ridiculously sweet coffee, his long duster coat
hanging over the back of his stool. The man was Lew Katchbrow, Jonathan's
long-time partner and about the only person in the world he trusted. Jonathan
nodded thanks as the waiter left again, confident that the scattering of
patrons were oblivious to him.
He sipped his tea as his thoughts
drifted back to Natalie. She'd just started high school last week and he hated
that he couldn't be there. But it was for her own good. Because of him, her
life had been in jeopardy twice in the past two years. He wasn't going to let
that happen again. No matter how difficult it was.
The first year Natalie was away at
boarding school in British Columbia, Jonathan had tried to stay away, but he'd
given in to his emotions and slowly started visiting her every few months. Then
it became every few weeks. She'd been mad at him for sending her away at first,
but she soon came around.
Then the unthinkable had happened.
They'd found her. He didn't have any proof, but he was sure it was because of
his visits. Canton George, an industrialist with a score to settle, had sent
men to take her and to find Jonathan and Lew any way they could. It was only by
sheer dumb luck that Lew had been with Jonathan on that visit to her campus
when Canton George and his men came. Several tense hours later, George was blind
in one eye, his men were dead and Natalie had been forced to once again abandon
her life. Sadly, George had managed to get away.
A new identity and a few months later,
Natalie was enrolled in another boarding school. This one in Switzerland. And
that was the last time Jonathan had seen his daughter in person. Even their
encrypted Skype calls had started to make him nervous. As painful as it was,
he’d stopped taking her calls, and instead paid the school's head master to
keep Jonathan updated on his daughter's activities through a series of back
channels, again on the Dark Web.
The bell over the café door rang,
shaking Jonathan from his memories. It was Fahd, his contact, a guard at a
local museum. Jonathan waited for a small crowd of patrons to finish leaving
before he motioned to Fahd. The caramel-skinned, slight, black-haired man
nodded and moved towards the table, furtively scanning the room as he
approached. As he did, Jonathan's phone, resting on the table, buzzed. He
looked down and saw Natalie's picture displayed on the screen.
He swore under his breath and swiped the
Reject button as Fahd sat down. The waiter drifted over and asked Fahd for his
order, but Fahd, who kept wiping sweat from his brow with a napkin, tried to
just wave him off. Jonathan smiled, apologized for his "friend" and
ordered an espresso for him. Though as the waiter left, Jonathan thought more
stimulation was the last thing this guy needed.
"You're late," Jonathan said
flatly.
"I almost didn't come," Fahd
said in a British accent that said he'd been schooled well despite his position
at the museum. Jonathan knew the story behind that, though not from Fahd,
himself. Fahd had been expelled from school after only two years for running an
illegal poker game out of his dorm. A position as a guard at a local museum was
the best he could do with that track record. It was one of the reasons Jonathan
had decided to deal with him in the first place. He was motivated by money even
more than most people.
The job was a small one, as far as their
jobs went—a stolen set of rare books. But lately that seemed to be the rule of
the day. Not that there weren't bigger opportunities out there, but Jonathan
had become selective, taking lower profile jobs, which of course meant lower
pay. But if they could stay off the radar of their usual vindictive billionaire
targets, maybe it would be safe to reconnect with Natalie. Still, their
resources were starting to feel the pinch, and Lew was starting to notice the
pattern.
Sometimes Jonathan wondered what it would
be like to sell the works he and Lew stole instead of settling for the finder's
fee from the original owner or museum. Even though what they did had never been
about the money.
Jonathan took the envelope from his
jacket pocket and placed it on the table. Fahd, his nervousness gone at the
sight of the fat envelope, reached out and tried to take the money, but
Jonathan kept his hand on it.
"The name," Jonathan said when
Fahd looked up at him, confused.
"Oh, right," Fahd said,
licking his lips and appearing to weigh responding against letting go of the
envelope. "Jacobson. Peter Jacobson." Jonathan hesitated for a moment
but then took his hand away. Fahd yanked the envelope off the table and held it
in his lap under the table, peeking inside.
"The address?" Jonathan asked.
Fahd told him the address, practically
giggling as he pocketed the envelope. The name and address were new information
for Jonathan, but he'd already met briefly with Fahd and knew Peter Jacobson
was another guard at the museum. One with even less scruples than Fahd.
"Nice doing bus--"
"Sit down," Jonathan said, his
tone slamming Fahd's already rising butt back down on the uncomfortable wooden
chair. "Why'd Jacobson tell you he has the books? You're obviously not
friends."
"I honestly don't know. He doesn't
really have any friends that I've seen. He's, well..." Fahd seemed to be
looking for the right words.
"He's what?"
"Well, he's weird. Has
conversations with himself. Only wears half his uniform sometimes. He'll sit
down across from you on break, stare at you and never say a word."
This Jonathan didn't like. It made his
ultimate target unpredictable. And that meant dangerous. He also figured
something else out from Fahd's subtext.
"So he didn't tell you. You just
heard him talking to himself," Jonathan said.
Fahd looked like a kid caught swiping a
sweet from the local Tesco.
"Relax," Jonathan said.
"You can keep the money. Assuming this pans out. If it doesn't, you'll be
the one your co-workers are calling weird." It was a vague threat, which
Jonathan found worked best.
"Can I..." Fahd said, nodding
towards the door.
"Yeah, beat it," Jonathan
said. He thought about stopping Fahd and making him pay for the espresso just
for kicks, but let him go. He knew from past experiences with guys like Fahd,
the less you had to do with them, the better.
Jonathan watched as Fahd stumbled his
way back out of the cafe. The second he was out the door, Jonathan grabbed his
phone. His anxiety eased when he saw that Natalie had left him a voice message.
He was about to dial his voicemail when Lew dropped down into the seat Fahd had
just been in.
"Twitchy give us anything
good?" Lew asked, still chewing on a pastry.
"How are you not a thousand
pounds?" Jonathan asked as he watched Lew inhale the rest of his
"snack". Jonathan had eaten with Lew more than he had anyone else on
the planet, even Natalie, and the amount of food Lew consumed was always
amusing. Especially since Lew was six feet tall and over 220 pounds, but only
about 10% body fat. Jonathan was jealous. He had a thinner body type than Lew,
but the past couple of years he'd had to really work to stay in shape. And he
couldn't remember the last time he'd let himself have anything resembling a
pastry.
"Clea' libbing," Lew mumbled
through a mouthful of dough. "So what's up?"
"Talie called," Jonathan said.
"Yes! I knew it. Told you, didn't
I? What did the little squirt say?"
"I don't know. She called just as
Fahd got here."
"No, don't tell me...you rejected
her call? For that sleeze? That's messed up, man," Lew said, shaking his
head.
"We got the name and address,"
Jonathan said, ignoring Lew's jabs. After all these years he'd gotten good at
that. "We'll go tomorrow. Make sure you get some sleep tonight."
"Yes, Mom." Lew drained his
coffee. "Still can't believe you didn't answer the kid's call." He
stood up, the chair creaking a sigh of relief. "I'll come by your place in
the morning. Call your kid."
"Want some company?" Jonathan
said, standing up and throwing a few pounds onto the table. Lew furrowed his
brow and looked at him. Jonathan knew why; they’d made a habit of not being
seen in public together. Just in case.
"Uh, sure. Anything specific you
want to do?" Lew asked, donning his Raybans.
"Just walk," Jonathan said.
They stepped out into the afternoon and headed
east towards St. Paul's Cathedral. They didn't talk for almost an hour. They
were as close as brothers and their silences were never awkward. Sometimes it
was just good to be around someone who meant that much to you. After getting a
couple ice cream cones, they ended up leaning against a railing and watching
the afternoon river traffic.
After a while, Lew turned around and
leaned back against the railing, watching the crowds. Tourists and businessmen
strolled by in the September sunshine. But Jonathan knew Lew wasn't people
watching; he was making sure there were no threats about.
"You gonna tell me what's on your
mind?" Lew said without taking his eyes off the crowds.
"We're running out of money,"
Jonathan said. The smaller jobs had taken their toll. Paying off Fahd had
actually made Jonathan worry about making his rent this month.
"I know," Lew said.
"You know."
"Sure, but this is what you
do."
"What I do?"
"Every now and then you get all
freaked out about drawing too much attention and then you only set up smaller
jobs for us. But you get over it and then we're flush and back to normal. I
have to admit, it’s gone on longer than usual this time, but you'll come
around. You always do," Lew said.
"You seem awfully sure of
yourself," Jonathan said, trying to roll with what he'd just heard. He’d
had no idea he was being so transparent, or that there had been enough of these
times for there to be a pattern.
"I do, don't I," Lew said,
looking at Jonathan over his Raybans. The look Jonathan could take, it was the
shit-eating grin that went with it that got under his skin. "It must be
annoying."
"Hang on," Jonathan said.
"Why are you so calm about this?"
"I'm not calm."
"You seem calm."
"I don't know why I'd seem
calm."
"Maybe because you're calm."
"Huh, maybe."
"Well?"
"After your last spate of cut-rate
jobs, I figured it was time to add a little cash to the bugout bag in my
closet."
"A little. How little?"
"About fifty grand," Lew said.
"Jesus."
"You can borrow some if you
want."
"I can?"
"Sure. All you have to do is
ask."
Jonathan sighed and braced himself.
"May I borrow some money."
"What's mine is yours, amigo. But
you know there's a way we can make sure this doesn't happen again."
"Uh huh. How's that?" Jonathan
asked, but he was pretty sure he knew what was coming. Lew took off his glasses
and looked Jonathan dead in the eyes.
"Let's be The Monarch again."
Jonathan knew Lew had never minded being
The Monarch. Liked it, in fact. Especially the big payouts. They had started
all of this because they'd been fed up with the system -- Lew with the army and
Jonathan with intelligence. Both had felt they were doing more harm than good.
But then a chance meeting in Bogota, Colombia had set them on the path to make
a difference. Though, there was a big distinction between returning some rare
books stolen by a delusional security guard, and finding a lost Rembrandt the
world had thought destroyed. As The Monarch they were preserving culture and
history, but there was a big price to pay.
"What about Natalie?" Jonathan
said. She wasn't just Jonathan's daughter, she was Lew's surrogate niece.
"We can figure something out,"
Lew said, sounding like a kid trying to convince his Dad to take him to a
ballgame.
"‘Figure something out’,"
Jonathan said flatly. "Jesus, you thought harder about which pastries to
eat back at the cafe! Natalie isn't something to figure out. She's all that matters."
"And I don't know that?" Lew
said, getting defensive. "I'm just the fucking idiot muscle."
"I didn't say that," Jonathan
said. Then after a minute: "But there are times—"
"Fuck you," Lew said, pushing
off from the railing. "If I'm such a mouth breather, get your own fucking
money." He roughly put his glasses on, swung around and marched off, his
coat swirling in his hurry.
"Lew, don't be like that. You know
what I meant," Jonathan said, but Lew kept walking. "Lew! Are you
coming tomorrow?"
Lew spun around and walked backwards.
"Sure! You might need me to lift something. Ladies and Gentlemen, Jonathan
the giant brain. Give him a hand," Lew said to the people around him,
waving his arms like a circus ringmaster. Then he turned and disappeared into
the crowd.
Sometimes
I can be such a dick.
Jonathan didn't believe for a minute
that all Lew brought to the table was his physicality, but it was a button he
could push to make Lew drop The Monarch nonsense. In retrospect, Jonathan knew
he was lucky Lew hadn't knocked him on his ass. He had to apologize, but when
Lew got like this you just had to leave him alone for a while. The only person
who could cut through his moods was Emily, his on-again, off-again girlfriend.
But as far as Jonathan knew, they'd been
off for a long while. Ironically, for the same reason Jonathan was staying away
from Natalie. Not that Lew would admit it, of course. Jonathan actually wished
they could work things out, but he knew Lew could be a lot to take on a
constant basis.
She was probably better off without him.
About the Author:
JACK SOREN was born and raised in Toronto, Canada.
Before becoming a thriller novelist, Jack wrote software manuals, drove a cab and spent six months as a really terrible private investigator. His debut novel The Monarch was nominated for the Kobo Emerging Writer national book award. He lives in the Toronto area.
@jacksorenwrites
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