There are days when the novel just locks up. Yesterday was one of those. The page stayed cold, the lines sounded like empty subway cars, and my monitor stared back like I was the bug in the system. I had the scene, I had the receipts, I even had the city’s hum in my head—every sentence still fell like rain that never lands.
So I do what I always do when I need New York to recalibrate me: I step away from the screen.
1) Deli Reset: salt, steam, people
First stop: the corner deli. No glam, all neighborhood. Windows fogged, floor honest-to-God sticky. Behind the counter a quick “What can I get you, friend?” and I order what always clears my head: egg & cheese on a sesame bagel, plus water.
Between cough drops, lotto slips, and neon, the day flips. People come in like sentences—short, necessary, precise. I listen. Two contractors debate the Yankees season (yeah, cliché, I know), a nurse vents about night-shift algorithms, a kid digs for the right coin for the machine. That’s my audit: real voices, real dreams, real aims. Five minutes later I remember what a scene is for—not pretty words, observation and consequence.
Mini-ritual (works every time):
- 3 deep breaths at the door (yeah, even in the deli).
- Note on my phone: What does the character want? What blocks it? What counts as evidence?
- One line on paper, not in an app.
2) Diner Loop: chrome, coffee, clarity
If the deli doesn’t cut it, I hit a diner—the kind of place where time stutters but the waitress never does. Chrome trim, vinyl booths, coffee that tastes like decisions. Here I line up sentences like a scene lab:
Hook: What’s the sound of this scene (hum, rumble, ping)?
Procedure: Which viewer/pre-viewer/mirror is in play?
Resistance: Who says no—and is it autonomous or preloaded?
Consequence: What shifts in the chain?
Five questions, one notepad—and suddenly the page has a pulse again. Outside, rain rinses the streets; inside, the cup keeps refilling like it knows I’m not done. Tip: draft the scene by hand, 5–8 lines. Then move it to the editor. Analog forces decisions with no undo.
3) Subway lap with no destination
Sometimes the best editor is a ride with zero plan. I hop the next train, go two stops past mine and loop back. The rumble sorts what my head stacked wrong. No podcast, no music—just the city. Two stations later I know what the conflict really is. Not a plot point—people with clashing goals.
On-the-go prompt:
If the scene were silent, what’s left as proof? (place, object, sound, look)
4) Quick detour: rain on metal
New York’s got those bridges where rain goes ping. Standing there, I remember why I write tech-noir: it’s not the machine that’s thrilling, it’s what it does to us. I bring two lines back:
- Sounds are clues, not proof.
- A chain is a path of accountability.
Most days, that’s all the page needs.
**5) What I *don’t* do when it jams:**
- No “lemme just clear all my emails” escape.
- No panicked rewrite of chapters that already work.
- No “I just need the perfect soundtrack” (I need quiet + city).
Instead: save one good paragraph. One paragraph is a promise to the next page.
6) For anyone writing (and everyone reading)
If you write: give yourself a deli reset. It forces you into images, smells, rhythms no algorithm can fake. If you read: this is the city my novels come from. Not cold server rooms without people—people with procedures. New York is the machine and the counter-argument at the same time.
Mini checklist to carry out
- Step outside (five blocks is plenty).
- Watch one person without judging.
- Name one sound (hum, rumble, ping).
- Define one piece of evidence (object/protocol/decision).
- Write one paragraph that sticks.
If you’re curious how it turned out: next week I’m dropping a new sample from the new book. And yeah, there’s rain on metal again—but more important: somebody finally asks the right question.
Until then: breathe.
And if you’re in my hood—deli’s on deck. You know the deal.
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