As Day Three of my self-imposed exile ends, I note with sadness that the run is over; tomorrow the school bell tolls for thee. Ack.

What follows are a few lessons I want to remember from the experience:
1) Offline writing increases productivity. In fact, the surest way to end creative streaks — launch a web browser slither into the Web’s clutches. A laptop with a decent word processor and no wireless card is the recommended configuration. My greatest realization in the last four years.

2) Divide writing days into two main sessions. A long morning stint, while the brain is freshest, one or two hours of errands, chores, phone calls and eating, then three to four hours on the backstretch. Close with either exercise, alcohol and a shower. In total, it equals roughly eight productive hours, while spanning ten to twelve. During the breaks, engage as many people as possible in conversation. Random compliments can open the floodgates of all sorts of usable dialog or ideas. And there’s no sense turning anti-social, just because the day is spent on anti-social endeavors.

3) The longer the evening session runs, the more spelling devolves, such to the point that by 8 PM the simplest of words, like articles and character names, become Russian Roulette. This breakdown proves the laws of diminishing returns apply beyond physics.

4) Writing outside the home is OK, though choose the spot with care. A buddy’s family room might work. The same dude’s poker table in the middle of a wicked matchup: probably not.

5) Hang up on telemarketers fast, early and often. It’s just the right thing to do. On any day.

Wrote through a Sunday afternoon family visit, TV droning in the corner, without anyone really noticing; they almost expect this sort of behavior from me now.

Part of a conversation with my father-in-law: “Working on your book? Old book, new book?” he asked.

By the time I looked up and said, yes, that one, he was fixing a lawn mower in the garage.

I’m going straight to hell, I swear.

Day one in writing exile, and there are pages for my trouble. And another lesson.

No matter how much I write, the longer the passage, the more glitches surface during revisions. Having wrestled this anomaly for a few years now, it’s clear this is probably a bit more complicated than say, give a dog enough rope and he’ll hang himself with it.

For ages, critics slogged Pink Floyd, charging them with overly minimalistic songs and melodies. But there was a practical reason behind the simplicity. They discovered that while recording, if they made a mistake, and tried to cover it up with production or mixing, it made the error even more noticeable. The whole song lurched. Keep in mind, their reign predated real time digital intervention. Now engineers extricate sour notes with a point and click. Back then, musicians had to get it right. And they were, by their recountings, musicians of average skills. So in order to nail it without going crazy or spending a billion years in the studio, they used stripped down arrangements.

They sold 200 million records. So I’d say maybe people like their entertainment less complicated.

Right now, I also lack a digital mixing board or engineer to automagically fix my mistakes. In lieu of these resources, I keep the chapters under 5 pages and paragraphs under 6 sentences. Wherever possible, sentences are short, independent clauses.

Call me Simple Man.