If you knew me as a writer, you'd have me committed.

The writer’s blessing and curse: his or her own writing process. Trust the process. Believe in the process. But truly, if anyone else knew the process of a writer, they’d have you committed. It’s completely unlike any other way of life out there. Even in my days as a copywriter, writer’s block leaves me banging my head on the desk or pulling out my hair until the right words formed. If you cracked open the mind of a writer, you’d be shocked and probably corrupted to the core. And there’ll be no going back.

Tonight, I watched “Adaptation,” and fell in love with how much it reminds me of the trials of being a novelist. It’s the excitement in capturing that completely genius plot twist by paper or tape recorder. Your voice climaxes as the words leave your mind and formulate into existence, finally. It’s even more evident with voice recordings for me.

A year ago, my work commute was one hour each way, leaving me with too much time on my hands. I started getting lightning ideas halfway home, and soon I had no choice but to start recording my thoughts in the heat of the heart-pounding moment. Palms sweating, eyes widening, thoughts growing frantic with each second, I unloaded my brain’s incessant babble and thoughts – often still unprocessed and jumbled – into the small device in the palm of my hand. Everything surrounding me was blocked, distant from any concern. The only noise I heard was the sound of my own rambling voice, as I discovered the key that would unblock my story roadblock. It was brilliant, simple. After the first 10 minutes of scrambling random words that made no sense, the rest seemed to create its own logical pattern that would solve everything. My characters, sitting idle in my head until I could continue typing the next chapter of their lives, would find their purpose again soon.

Everything is perfect. Until I get home that evening to replay my notes. Something’s gone wrong. Is this my voice? What the hell was I thinking? The expression of horror on my face is frozen, and I’m mortified that there is evidence of these ideas. My instinct is to erase the file, as if the thoughts never existed. I resist the urge to stash my recorder into the depths of the back closet, buried under the less desirable items hidden there already. It will only be minutes before I have to fight back the sensations to tear apart my manuscript, take a sledgehammer to the computer with which I’ve trusted my files.

In my office, evidence of bad ideas and juvenile writing is a deadly sin. But I still mourn the loss of my first poem, which was part of a collection published when I was 12. All I recall is that is was about the lonesome tales of a traveler leaving home and exploring the world. It wasn't until around four years ago that I began to understood the true beauty of the story, which was lost on me for many years.

It took me years before I could force myself to stop destroying my documents. My writing notebook (actually, it was just one spiral notebook, but has grown into four different notebooks), which contains bits of my manuscript and endless notes and thoughts, is not readable. Call it my own secret writing code, I truly doubt that if stolen, my notes could ever be put together and determined logical. This is where my bad ideas belong, so that they’re never unearthed by accident in future brainstorming.

“It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance … and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.” (Max Eastman, American journalist and published author)

Trust the process.