The Art of Process: How Great Authors Approach the Page

Behind every beloved novel lies not just a story, but a process. We talk a lot about the result, the book, the brilliance, the breakthrough. But what fascinates me just as much is what happens behind the curtain. From rigid daily routines to spontaneous bursts of creativity, the methods employed by celebrated authors reveal as much about their craft as the books themselves, offering a window into the strange, solitary craft of building worlds from words. While there is no singular formula for literary success, studying the habits of prominent writers offers valuable insight into the discipline, eccentricity, and resilience required to bring stories to life.

Nobel laureate Toni Morrison, for example, was well known for writing in the early hours of the morning before her job, before the demands of motherhood, before the world had a chance to interrupt her: “Writing before dawn began as a necessity.” Morrison carved out time where she was able to work in peace and built a lifelong practice from stolen hours. What began as a necessity became sacred, a rhythm that remained even after acclaim and awards arrived.

With Stephen King, consistency trumps inspiration. In his memoir On Writing, he describes his goal of producing 2,000 words a day, every day, and finishing the draft in about three months. “If I don’t write every day,” he writes, “the characters begin to stale off in my mind – they begin to seem like characters instead of real people. The tale’s narrative cutting edge starts to rust.” For King, writing is more like a job, the craft honed through structure and persistence.

Virginia Woolf took a different approach, reflective, internal, but no less intentional. She often wrote standing up in her younger years, mirroring how her sister would stand at her easel painting. “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction,” she famously argued in A Room of One’s Own, and this concept is echoed in Woolf’s own writing practice, working in an old tool shed at the end of her garden. There, she would write in her diary, experimenting with conventional structure and rhythm. Woolf’s diary was used as a testing ground to hone her style and language before making its way into her novels.

Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami treats writing almost like endurance training. When he’s deep in a novel, he wakes up at 4am, writes for five or six hours, then spends the afternoon running, swimming, or both. “The repetition itself,” he says, “Becomes the important thing; it’s a form of mesmerism.” His discipline isn’t just mental; it’s physical, too. Writing a novel, in his view, is a marathon.

Agatha Christie’s method is perhaps the most relatable of all. She plotted murders while washing dishes. She wrote on bills, in notebooks, wherever there was space. Lacking a fixed workspace, she often wrote wherever she could. Her stories came not from a perfectly arranged desk, but from in-between moments, famously even the bath. There’s something deeply reassuring in that. Sometimes genius arrives when your hands are full and your mind, unexpectedly, is free.

All of these writers had wildly different processes. Some were strict and structured. Some were serendipitous. While their styles and subject matter differ widely, each of these authors shares a common thread: commitment to their process, whatever form it takes. Whether anchored in strict routine or fueled by chaos, their approaches underscore an essential truth of the writer’s life; they trusted that, in one way or another, the work would come, not in a lightning bolt of inspiration, but in the slow, deliberate act of returning to the page.

For those of us still getting to grips with writing – between lectures and part-time jobs, final essays and fleeting motivation – these habits are more than just anecdotes. They’re reminders that writing doesn’t need perfection; it needs presence. The process matters just as much as the product, and creativity, like anything else, is a practice built word by word, day by day.