Writing can at times feel like birthing a Honda Civic, as I said in the Acknowledgments.

And writing can feel like inching your way along a pitch-black, long tunnel. You can make out only the next few feet in front of you. You take unsure baby steps. You have no idea where you'll end up or when you'll get there.

What helps with the pitch-black uncertainty and enormity and overwhelmingness of the task is to start with a process to guide the way.

When I was in middle school and learning to be a better writer, the focus was squarely on the end product. My teachers emphasized the final paper versus the rough drafts and scratch notes that helped it along the way.

In other words, they were more interested in seventh-grade Ann delivering an essay on The Red Badge of Courage's Henry Fleming (a romantic farm boy who became a Civil War soldier) than they were in how the Henry essay came to be sitting on their desk at all.

Or so it seemed at that time. Maybe process was part of the curriculum? But I don't think so. I can't remember Ms. Dolan ever celebrating my Red Badge rough draft. I don't remember her vigorously waving a flag at the checkpoints along the way to that final piece.

* * *

Process is one of those things that feels hopelessly boring and mind-numbing. Like peeling skins from raw tomatoes. Matching socks from laundry. Scrubbing dirt from beets.

But process is necessary in writing. (And in many parts of life, now that I think of it.) We need a road map to get us to where we're going.

Think of your writing process as a kind of GPS navigation. Like a global positioning system, it gets us to where we need go. It turns our discombobulated thoughts into a coherent, clear piece of writing that others can understand and appreciate and love.

The Writing GPS acts as our guide.

The Writing GPS also reminds us that we aren't lost—not really.

The tunnel might feel dark. But there is always light at the end of it.