Writers Tricks of the Trade ISSUE 3, VOLUME 7 | Page 20

W RITE U NTIL I T B URNS !
L AWRENCE D. E LLIOTT
L AWRENCE D. E LLIOTT
is an author and
contributor to the
best-selling
Chicken Soup for
the Soul book
series. He's also a
contributor to
HuffPost.
He's a member of
Toastmasters
International and
has been
interviewed by
The Wall Street
Journal Radio
Network. A native
of San Diego,
California, he's
lived in Germany
for over 6 years.
He still
understands the
language.
Visit his website
Chicken Soup for the
Soul Contributor
Member
of Toastmasters
International
F ALL 2017
A laptop. Inspirational music. A glass of wine. A dog named Lacie. At one time
in my life, these were my writing tools of choice. It didn’t hurt having a great
environment, either.
I called it my writer’s paradise. A backyard with a well-designed pool, a huge
lava fire pit, and a landscape replete with palms of numerous varieties. How many
hours had I spent writing -- either in the pool with a notepad and pen or at the
patio table with my laptop -- while soft music played through the backyard
speakers? Too many to count, I assure you.
It was a warm night, so I wore a pair of shorts and a light t-shirt. Beside my
chair--and quite often under it--would always be Lacie, our beautiful black
lab/border collie mix. She loved curling up nearby as her daddy worked.
But eventually, the world of my material being was often no longer important.
The one I was creating was a new reality. My focus was there. But sometimes
being so consumed can be pushed to the extreme. This would become clear on
one particular night.
It was still, except for the soft music. It was new age, which created the perfect
mood for my late night writing. My writer's paradise was replete with landscape
lighting, which highlighted the palms. In the far corner, between two segos sat an
illuminated mini waterfall. On the opposite corner was the fire pit, not far from the
pool. I loved lighting it because it gave off its own particular glow.
My fingers moved across the keyboard at a feverish pace. The flame of a
tabletop candle played kaleidoscopic games through the brandy glass. But I stayed
focused on the words, On the story. Between sprints lasting as long as ten minutes,
I’d enjoy a sip of brandy. A short-term reward for a long-term project.
Quite often, I’d hear the ruffling sounds among the shrubbery and trees.
Unbeknownst to me, Lacie had taken her leave of me to track down a small
creature she’d heard moving about.
Go get ‘em, Lacie!
Once in awhile, I’d stand, stretch, and walk around to get the blood flowing in
my body. Then, I’d sit and get back to work. I was in the flow and I didn’t want to
interrupt it too long.
Come on, man! A thousand more and you can go to bed!
Tap. Tap. Tap. I pushed myself to reach my goal, even though it was close to
two in the morning. I was physically tired, but my mind was still sprinting. I drained
the last drop of brandy from my glass. I contemplated getting a bit more. No! That
would mean stopping. I decided to push ahead without it.
P AGE 12
W RITERS ’ T RICKS OF THE TRADE