“I was sitting in church the next day, thinking idly about this particular show (no, oddly enough, I don’t remember what the sermon was about that day), when I said suddenly to myself, Well, heck. You want to write a book, you need a historical period, and it doesn’t matter where or when. The important thing is just to start, somewhere. Okay. Fine. Scotland, eighteenth century.
So I went out to my car after Mass, dug a scrap of paper out from under the front seat, and that’s where I began to write Outlander; no outline, no plot, no characters—just a time and a place. . . .
I had not the slightest intention of telling my online acquaintances in the Literary Forum what I was up to. I didn’t want even the best-intentioned of advice; I wanted simply to figure out how to write a novel, and was convinced that I must do this on my own—I’d never asked anyone how to write a software review or a comic book script, after all, and I didn’t want anyone telling me things before I’d worked out for myself what I was doing.
So I didn’t say anything. To anybody. I just wrote, a bit every day, in between the other things I was doing, like changing diapers and writing grant proposals.”
