How do you write 100k plus words on any subject?

Cathy C said:

^^^This. And the pay is pretty good for the effort.

That said, I first thought that a novel was daunting but I wanted to write a book similar to the size I read, so I separated the book into sections that made sense TO ME (not to say anything for the myriad of other ways to write, but this is what worked for me.)

Section 1 - The beginning of an interesting thing happens. I write paranormal thrillers, so usually, the "interesting thing" is a bad thing.

Section 2 - My hero/ine winds up having no choice but to deal with the interesting thing. In other words, through duty or fascination or threat of death/harm to loved ones, my protagonist must go forward instead of ignoring the interesting thing or running away from it.

Section 3 - Real life comes back to bite the hero/ine on the butt. This can be anything from unpaid bills, to forgotten obligations that cause people to ring the phone or pound on the door. (Otherwise known as "subplots")

Section 4 - The interesting things get worse and pile on top of the forgotten/neglected things so that the hero/ine's life truly sucks.

Section 5 - Hero/ine figures out a novel way to solve the interesting thing (because if it was EASY to solve, it would be a short story. )

Section 6 - One last bad thing happens that nearly upends the hero/ine's plan, but through either sheer will or timely help from friends along the way, the interesting thing is dealt with.

Section 7 - Wrap up of loose threads and hints of the future (if a series.)

Each section, by itself, isn't overwhelming, so it's not as scary.

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Jamesaritchie said:

Most writers write simply because they want to write. Some write because they see no other way of achieving fame and fortune. Some write because it seems to be a good way of making pocket money. I've known too many who write because they had a word processor, didn't want to pay big bucks to go to college, didn't want to spend four or more years working their asses off to graduate, and used writing as an excuse not to go to college, despite all lack of apparent talent.

There may be a few who must write, who can't find a way not to write, but that isn't me, or any of my writing friends.

I have a lot of writer friends, in fact, and we've talked about this extensively. Not one of us has anything resembling a compulsion to write, a need to write, etc. We all write because we enjoy the process, and because we're pretty darned good at it. That's it.

We all tend to think that such things as "I must write", or "I have to write or die", or "I have to write like I have to breathe" are either delusions of grandeur, or a sign that the writer needs help. Most often, it's probably just trying to make writing more than it is, trying to up the importance ante. But there's nothing special about writing. It's just another activity like playing video games, quilting, or riding a bicycle. True compulsions are almost always bad.

I write because I enjoy it, and because I can make money at it. Take away the money, and I wouldn't write another word. There are too many things I enjoy as much as writing that actually get me out in the fresh air and sunshine. If I could figure out a way to make a living from some of them, I'd be doing that, rather than writing. Take away the enjoyment, and the money wouldn't be worth it, and I'd stop then, too.

Wise writers realize at some point that they lack the talent to write well, and they quickly find a way not to write, and to move on to something they do have talent for.

At any rate, if not knowing how to get to one hundred thousand words means you aren't a writer, then some of my favorite writers should be doing something else for a living. Some of the best writers out there never have managed to write a good novel of any length.

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The double sink was filled with jewelry. Mostly rings and watches. There were both men’s and women’s watches: Timex, Seiko, Bulova, even a Rolex; some of them were attached to flexible bands; some with no bands at all; none of them was attached to a leather or plastic band. Bryce saw scores of wedding and engagement rings; the diamonds glittered brilliantly. Birthstone rings, too: garnet, amethyst, bloodstone, topaz, tourmaline; rings with ruby and emerald chips. High high-priced pieces.
Bryce dug his hands into one of the piles of valuables the way a pirate, in the movies, always drenched his hands in the contents of a treasure chest. He stirred up the shining baubles and saw other kinds of jewelry: earrings, charm bracelets, loose pearls from a broken necklace or two, gold chains, a lovely cameo pendant…

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You could know Bay City a long time without knowing Idaho Street. And you could know a lot of Idaho Street without knowing Number 449. The block in front of it had a broken paving that had almost gone back to dirt. The warped fence of a lumberyard bordered the cracked sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Halfway up the block the rusted rails of a spur track turned in to a pair of high, chained wooden gates that seem not to have been opened for twenty years. Little boys with chalk had been writing and drawing pictures on the gates and all along the fence.
Number 449 had a shallow, paintless front porch on which five wood and cane rockers loafed dissolutely, held together with wire and the moisture of the beach air.
The green shades over the lower windows of the house were two thirds down and full of cracks. Beside the front door there was a large printed sign “No Vacancies.” That had been there a long time too. It had got faded and fly-specked. The door opened on a long hall from which stairs went up a third of the way back. To the right there was a narrow shelf with a chained, indelible pencil hanging beside it.
There was a push button and a yellow and black sign above which read “Manager,” and was held up by three thumbtacks no two of which matched. There was a pay phone on the opposite wall. I pushed the bell.

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Louis’s mind turned to Ellie as he had last seen her tonight, fast asleep with Church purring rustily on the foot of the mattress.
“My daughter’s got a cat,” he said. “Winston Churchill. We call him Church for short.”
“Do they climb when he walks?”
“I beg your pardon?” Louis had no idea what he was talking about.
“He still got his balls or has he been fixed?”
“No,” Louis said. “No, he hasn’t been fixed.”
In fact there had been some trouble over that back in Chicago. Rachel had wanted to get Church spayed, had even made the appointment with the vet. Louis canceled it. Even now he wasn’t really sure why. it wasn’t anything as simple or as stupid as equating his masculinity with that of his daughter’s tom, nor even his resentment at the idea that Church would have to be castrated so the fat housewife next door wouldn’t need to be troubled with twisting down the lids of her plastic garbage cans—those things had been part of it, but most of it had been a vague but strong feeling that it Would destroy something in Church that he himself valued—that it would put out the go-to-hell look in the cat’s green eyes. Finally he had pointed out to Rachel that they were moving to the country, and it shouldn’t be a problem. Now here was Judson Crandall, pointing out that part of country living in Ludlow consisted of dealing with Route 15, and asked him if the cat was fixed. Try a little irony, Dr. Creed—it’s good for your blood.

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Spade's thick fingers made a cigarette with deliberate care, sifting a measured quantity of tan flakes down into curved paper, spreading the flakes so that they lay equal at the ends with a slight depression in the middle, thumbs rolling the paper's inner edge down and up under the outer edge as forefingers pressed it over, thumbs and fingers sliding to the paper cylinder's ends to hold it even while tongue licked the flap, left forefinger and thumb pinching their end while right forefinger and thumb smoothed the damp seam, right forefinger and thumb twisting their end and lifting the other to Spade's mouth. He picked up the pigskin and nickel lighter that had fallen to the floor, manipulated it, and with the cigarette burning in a corner of his mouth stood up.

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It was one of those beautiful, naive seaside panoramas for which the Brittany and Picardy beaches have provided the setting - and inspired their recorders, Boudin, Tissot, Monet - ever since the birth of plages and bains de mer more than a hundred years ago.
To James Bond, sitting in one of the concrete shelters with his face to the setting sun, there was something poignant, ephemeral about it all. It reminded him almost too vividly of childhood - of the velvet feel of the hot powder sand, and the painful grit of wet sand between young toes when the time came for him to put his shoes and socks on, of the precious little pile of sea-shells and interesting wrack on the sill of his bedroom window ('No, we'll have to leave that behind, darling. It'll dirty up your trunk!'), of the small crabs scuttling away from the nervous fingers groping beneath the seaweed in the rock-pools, of the swimming and swimming and swimming through the dancing waves - always in those days, it seemed, lit with sunshine - and then the infuriating, inevitable 'time to come out'. It was all there, his own childhood, spread out before him to have another look at. What a long time ago they were, those spade-and-bucket days! How far he had come since the freckles and the Cadbury milk-chocolate Flakes and the fizzy lemonade! Impatiently Bond lit a cigarette, pulled his shoulders out of their slouch and slammed the mawkish memories back into their long-closed file. Today he was a grown-up, a man with years of dirty, dangerous memories - a spy. He was not sitting in this concrete hideout to sentimentalize.about a pack of scrubby, smelly children on a beach scattered with bottle-tops and lolly-sticks and fringed by a sea thick with sun-oil and putrid with the main drains of Royale. He was here, he had chosen to be here, to spy.

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tb0099 said:

I had weighed everything you guys have said and wrote the next chapter in my wip. That chapter ended up at 3k. The same amount as the. Previous 3 put together.

Thanks guys.

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