I have written at all times of the year. The most busy time of the year as far as writing is the holiday season. On a recliner across from the Christmas tree I attempt to weave new Christmas classics into the fabric of tradition. December 22nd, I am most productive, in remembrance of my Grandpa's birthday. My Grandpa once told me I could do and be anything I wanted, so with the dream of being a successful author I find it fitting to write on his day.
As far as how? Well I tend to plot out all my books before I even touch my mac. I have a diagram of events. Wait. No. Diagram sounds far too organized. I have scribbles of the plot line scattered through out my black journal. The plot points arrive in my brain at all different places, a few have dropped in while at theme parks, some in bed, and school when I should be teaching. Anywhere inspiration is scheduled to visit with me I scribble. Never neatly I might add. Neat enough. Oh and the scribbling doesn't always happen with pencil in hand, sometimes, I have to hound those around me to remember what inspiration gave me.
So with all the plot drudged up, the action chapters mulled over, I fasten my seat belt on the recliner and pound the keys. I have written for 15 hours straight at one point. I have to get it all out and I need to have little or no distraction. Sometimes no distraction can be achieved but then hunger, thirst, my dog Poof, and Bing Crosby movies set in.
In conclusion, I am a binge writer with a spot in inspiration's appointment book. I admit it. Okay I am done now. Or shall I write for a few more hours on the subject?