Sometimes when I start a new novel, I feel like I'm the laziest person on earth.

I'll get an idea and I'll get the urge to start writing. I'll hurry over to my computer and sit down and start typing, and a bunch of crap will come out. Within a page, I'm lost.

Who the hell are these people? Why would anyone read this? What's the story?

These are just a few of the typical questions I will find myself asking. And I will turn on Google Chrome and do a little Facebooking. Or I will watch the newest Michael Slezak video recap of American Idol. Or I will get up from the computer and move as far away from it as I can.

This process generally lasts a couple weeks. During which time I question my ability to write a single sentence, let alone a novel. How have I done this four times already? I'll ask myself. Maybe those were just luck. Maybe this is my limit. I've reached it, and I will spend the rest of my life eating Chewy Spree and watching Hot in Cleveland.

But here's the cool thing: Unbeknownst to me as I am going through this hell, my novel is forming. I am dreaming it. I am working things out in my head. I am learning the voices of my characters.

I am currently emerging from one of these periods where a sentence is more than I can do. I pushed myself a couple times to sit down and write a chapter, and both times I came up with stuff I didn't love. A homeless boy stealing a Red Snapper from Whole Foods by putting it in his pants. Another time, a homeless boy walking into a Circle K and stealing Doritos. Neither excited me.

This weekend, it all came to me in a dream. Why C.J. is sleeping in an alley off Mill Street. The person he loves who doesn't love him back. Why Reggie is offering him help. What skeletons the ex-nun (as yet unnamed) has in her closet. How hot it is in Tempe in May, and what that heat sounds like.

Which is to say, the novel (as yet untitled) was born. Today was the first morning I was able to get 10 pages down that didn't make me wretch. I found myself excited about what was going to happen next, which is one way I can gauge whether readers will care. It's also how I can gauge whether I'll be back tomorrow at 6 am for more.

Which is to say: I am not lazy. This is my process. I have trouble honoring it sometimes, because I want to be more like my friend Lisa McMann, who can write a novel from start to finish with very few changes needed in under a month. I am not Lisa, as nice as it would be to be her. My brain is just wired differently.

I won't give much away about the new book, but I will say the following: I've been reading and re-reading Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin. That's my favorite book of all time. You should read it immediately if you haven't yet. So much love in that book. Humor, sadness, joy, pain.

I have found that I am not Armistead Maupin, but then again, I don't need to be. I just need to be me. But with this book I am being me and incorporating interweaving story lines like Maupin does. I have found a place where people live together like a makeshift family, like Maupin does. I have found some loveable characters who have thrilling secrets that will surprise the reader. Like Maupin does.

Stay tuned, gentle readers. I'm thinking of you as I weave this story. I hope you'll love it!