I would best describe my writing process as cycles. I have usually have two. The writing cycle and the editing cycle. By the end, 90% of the stuff I have developed has changed.
Let me explain my process.
When I am in a writing cycle, I will aim, in the beginning, to write about 250 words a day. Once the work is successfully in motion, I will usually set the count to 500 words a day. This is a low number, but it is about building and retaining the momentum. Allowing the habit to stick. Ensuring the work is done every day. Making every word economical. Not draining your well of inspiration.
These cycles, be it writing or editing, usually last around 3 months.
If I miss a day, I add to the count for the following day. This can be, at times, a burden. But the key is to firstly ensure the work is done, and to secondly, ensure the work is not missed by something else. It builds the discipline, like muscles in the gym.
If you are a writer, then you simply turn up to work every day.
The editing cycle is a different beast in itself. This involves rewriting, reforming and restructuring what starts as a mess of words into a polished piece. Different authors and writers have come to articulate this process in their own terms – it does not matter because the end result is usually the same. The finished manuscript.
Which in turns, leads me to the title of this essay.
Much of what I write is left on the cutting room floor. Some of it, if I feel it is alright, might be repurposed or reused at a later point. Occasionally, something can be good enough to be salvaged and redrafted into an actual vessel for the work. But much of it stays there and never sees the light of day again.
And finally, when you are bringing what you believe to be the ‘draft’ to the table – well, guess what? It gets edited some more. The true work of writing is in the rewriting. Ensuring each word counts towards the story. Keeping the attention of your reader. Using a simple and concise word if a larger, fluffier word is not required.
In reality, this editing cycle is something that has its end point. It feels impossible when you are in the middle of the cycle, to see light at the end of the tunnel. I felt this when I was working on Soldier Side, my second novel. Every time I thought I was close to finishing it, there was something else wrong with it. Something that needed to be corrected. An occasional character decision needed to be changed. A word was not required.
But eventually the novel was published. In 2026, I will tell you that I could not have made that novel better if I tried. And that is not an opinion – it is a fact. The work that went into that book demonstrates the point of this essay – that for 90% of the written draft – about 10% of it is what you see in the final version.
I’m not saying that 90% is not there in some form – the bones of the story about several men joining the army for various reasons remains.
But the version you see as a book is far from how it originally appeared to be.
You always stop editing before you become exhausted.
And this is the essence of writing. My wife to be is in the process of her new book. It is a novel that she will not have me reveal the nature of (yet) but it is not even a book at this point. Just a mass of papers that sit in her desk, waiting to be formed into the story it will become. How much of it will change, be altered or cut entirely, is a matter for herself.
The point is that even when we print the published form, it is almost completely different from what it originally was. Even this essay will undergo several revisions before it arrives at its finished version. (Five times in the end.)
When I am in a writing cycle, I will sit down to write every day, regardless of circumstances. Sometimes I can create something quite lovely, with meaning behind the words and flow, allowing me to tell a story. And sometimes, I will write (often without being deliberate) complete horseshit.
It does not matter because the rule remains of 90% written, 10% published. The point is the exercising of your writing muscles. It is about rebuilding the habit and getting back to a level of fitness that means you can effortlessly do the writing.
I’m often asked how I can write each morning. I often ask how Ian McEwan or Stephen King bring out book after book. The answer is the same for all three of us. The discipline of getting to the desk and getting the work done. Turning up.
The cycles can last for about 3 months, and by the end, I can usually turn up 1000 words a day. Once the cycle comes to an end, I usually have enough to work with for the next three months.
And then we enter the editing cycle, where the grit and the gold are identified and separated.
I initially start this process by going through the entire draft, (be it a page or two hundred pages) covering everything from plot inconsistently to grammar and syntax. I can only describe this cycle as a painful, yet necessary action. And frankly, this is where the majority of the cuts will usually happen. One has to be ruthless about realising where the good stuff is, and the lousy stuff that has to go.
Once I have managed this, I will ordinarily take a break of about five days, allowing the dust to settle and the cards to fall. I will often think of my work during this time, and any notes go into my journal. Any alterations made are documented with the time and date. I do this to help identify where I am at my best with my work.
And then I return, edit the document on my laptop, print, and repeat the cycle. Little by little, the words fall into the correct order, the story starts to make sense, and the direction of the narrative is in place. This process goes on for as long as it goes on, but as with all things, one usually knows when the end is close. That nothing else can be done to make this story as good as it can be.
And by the end of it, more often than not, about 90% of the work has been cut, altered, rearranged or rewritten; with about 10% of it remains. And that 10% is the good stuff that makes it to the end.
I try very hard to be regular with my prose. I have never been a fan of fluffy writers, who dive into long winded sentences and prose that is not required to serve the story. I have learnt from the ones who championed sparse, consistent prose. Perhaps that has helped with my business of writing.
The cutting room floor is the place where the true work is completed. It cannot be done by any other means. The more you write, the greater the cuts. Not necessarily the more beautiful your story. Every word must count. The end process is normally the same for any writer of quality.