I’m going to walk you through my story writing process, and model it for you. I’ll explain how I come up with an idea for a story, then how I construct the thing. I’ll be composing a scene for my memoir, but you’ll want to follow along even if you’re writing a case study or a blog.

It’s Tuesday morning, my scheduled writing block time, and I’m staring at an ugly blank page. After I get my tea, Mint, and pick at my fingernail polish, Stardust Pink, I’m going to browse through my story notebook. I know what I’m looking for because one idea I wrote down a while back has been swirling around in my head. I’ve started thinking about it lately, without being consciously aware that I’m doing so.

Here are a few notes I jotted down around that time in my notebook:

1. I heard that song in a restaurant: I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen. It made me want to run away. It was the song Dad loved to play on his violin. Why did a Norwegian farm boy from North Dakota obsess about such a sad Irish tune?
2. From the New York Times Magazine. A quote from Kacye, a country western singer. “My idea is to push buttons first, scare off the people who are gonna be scared off and then the right people will like you for who you really are.”
3. Had a conversation with a friend. About how I was over-reacting to my husband. How I felt like I was being held hostage when he took too long to answer my question. Told her my ex-husband used to take ten hours to answer a simple question. That he liked me hanging on every word. That he would get pissed off if I walked away mid-speech. My friend asked, “Did anybody else ever make you feel like you were being held hostage?” And I remembered my dad. Oh, did I remember my dad. How he would wake me up in the middle of the night to wash the dishes so he could rant about his miserable life.

There it is, that hostage expression I’ve been mulling over. That’s a weird thing to say, though I think it explains a lot about me. I can think of lots of times I’ve felt this kind of trapped. I can think of lots of times I’ve written about these moments. I’m pretty sure, however, that I left the broad statement “ I felt trapped” dangling there on the page. I’m sure I never bothered to flesh it out in a scene to explain the feeling. What does that mean? Where does my strong reaction come from?

This expression reminds me of a story: my dad dragging me into the kitchen in the middle of the night. I’m going to dramatize this moment in order to explore the idea of being held hostage. I don’t know exactly where it will fit in my larger project, but what the hell.

Here’s my broad statement: Sometimes, for no obvious reason, I feel trapped. Like I’m being held hostage. I’m going to type this at the top of my blank page as a sort of writing prompt.

It’s time to sketch out this story. Here’s the path I’ll follow:

I’m going to place my ten-year-old self in the kitchen with my father.

I could bring my mother and brother into the story, but I don’t want to complicate things. I’m going to leave them sleeping in their beds.

I’m going to set our story in the kitchen. Dad will have already pulled me out of bed. I want my readers to be in that kitchen with me.

I’m going to illustrate everything that I see. Because my readers want to see what I do. I’m going to describe the stack of dirty dishes on the counter, the open cabinet door above the sink, the one I always bump my head on. The tub of Country Crock margarine with the toast crumbs swirled on the surface that sits over by the refrigerator, and the yellow plastic dishpan in the sink. I’m going to give you a glimpse of my pajama sleeve as it soaks up dishwater.

Then I’m going to mention what I smell, because readers want to smell what I do. I’m going to note the whiskey on my father’s breath, and the smell of three-hour-old spaghetti sauce on the stovetop, and the grease from the frying pan, and the sweet stench of the guinea pig cage that’s sitting on a stool in the corner.

I’m going to describe what I hear. The ticking of the ceramic clock my mom painted in class. The hum of the refrigerator, and the creak of the bedroom door—my brother’s—because he wants to keep an ear open in case the evening escalates.

So, here we are—Dad and me —in this kitchen. You, the reader, are in the kitchen, too. You can see, hear, and smell what I do. You can even feel the grease in the lukewarm dishwater, where my shaking hands are. You can feel the sharp knife I cut myself on because I don’t know it’s there at the bottom of the pan.

Now I need to paint what it feels like to be ten, pulled from my bed and ordered to wash dishes while my combative father looks on. What it feels like to be trapped in the kitchen with no easy way out. Because to leave means to bring something really bad—what is it? I’m not sure—down on my head. I need to show you, my reader, what it feels like to be trapped by an angry, frustrated, heartbroken man who needs to get the pain off his chest when he doesn’t know who else to talk to. Who chooses a child instead of his wife because she’s already shut him out and will only make him feel worse.

How do I do that?

My first draft will be shitty; first drafts always are. This child will be an innocent victim. The father will be a monster. I’m going to be OK with that for now because this story is seen through the eyes of a child who has no real understanding of the world. The piece will soften up during revision. Right now, I want to get the situation down on paper. I want to capture a feeling. I want my reader to understand and feel trapped, too.

What will my father say to get the action rolling? We need dialogue. We need to hear his voice. “Do you think it’s fair that I work all goddamned day, then I have to come home and wash the dishes too at 10:30 at night?” Maybe that’s not exactly what he said—after all, this is forty years ago—but that’s pretty close. That’s how he sounded. That’s about the right feel, the right impact. And this little girl is going to say something to calm him down. To make herself small, so he won’t take out his rage on her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know there were dishes in the sink.”

I’m going to have a dialogue going, but I’m also going to mention the actions and the body language of our two characters. I’m going to show you how my father sat at the edge of a worn-out stool; his glassy and unfocused eyes; the clenched jaw; the way his hands shook; how he smoothed that patch of salt and pepper hair over his bald spot. Dad is going to get up, pace, scoop the guinea pig from its cage, pace some more, sit back down. I’m going to focus on him, primarily, because we’re seeing this moment through my ten-year-old eyes. We’re seeing this through my point of view.

I’m going to build the tension because readers crave tension. I’ll show you how Dad jumped up from the stool, as if he were ready to collar me by my pajamas and throw me out into the cold; then, just as quickly, how he controlled his inexplicable rage by pacing that unswept floor; and by stroking that guinea pig on his lap instead.

I’ll let you hear how he changes the subject from the goddamned dishes, to his horrible boss at work, who took all the credit for his airplane engine part design. I’ll let you hear my interior dialogue, what I’m saying to myself, what I’m thinking. Can I leave yet? Is he calm enough for me to go back to bed? Or is it too early? Will I bring his rage down on my head?

After two or three pages, I’ll have shown you, my reader, what being trapped looks smells, sounds, and feels like, maybe even tastes like, if I can capture that sense as well. Then I’m going to end my story. I’m going to leave these two people in the kitchen without any sort of resolution because I’m after the feeling—trapped, held hostage—not a clean conclusion.