​🪚 From Timber to Text: Why Writing a Novel is Pure Carpentry

 By D.C. Salmon     ​⏱️ Reading Time: 5 minutes

  • ​In this post: Late-deadline panic, life as an apprentice joiner, why writing a thriller mirrors building bespoke kitchens, and why editing is just fine sanding

    ​Full disclosure: for the second week running, I found myself staring down the barrel of a Wednesday publishing deadline with practically a blank page.

    ​Usually, my best ideas strike when I’m out walking the dog. There is something about the steady rhythm of putting one boot in front of the other that clears the cobwebs, kick-starts the imagination, and untangles plot knots. But this week? Total radio silence. I paced across the fields drawing a complete blank.

    ​Then, halfway through our usual loop, the penny finally dropped.

    ​People frequently ask debut authors where their discipline comes from or how they manage to construct an entire 90,000-word manuscript out of thin air. For me, the answer doesn’t lie in academic creative writing courses or highbrow literary theories. It comes from my first trade: carpentry.

    ​Long before I ever sat down to plot historical hunts for the Irish Crown Jewels or missing Bugattis, I worked with timber. And the longer I spend writing novels, the more I realise they are practically the same craft.

​🪵 Learning the Ropes as an Apprentice

​When I left school, I was fortunate enough to land a carpentry apprenticeship on the maintenance team at my local college. I spent just over a year there, and it was a fantastic education. My boss was a master joiner who built top-notch furniture—the sort of craftsman who could look at a raw plank of oak and turn it into practically anything.

​From there, I moved into a commercial joinery shop, handcrafting bespoke kitchens, fitted bedrooms, and custom furniture. I learnt a massive amount at the bench, though once I qualified, I moved on because they were never going to pay me what the work was truly worth.

​Yet, those years in the workshop shaped how my brain works forever.

​When you're an apprentice, you learn two vital rules: you listen to the experienced tradesmen who came before you, and you learn from every botched cut and split timber.

​Self-publishing has been no different. I’ve had to lean heavily on the wisdom of fellow indie authors who walked the path first. Admittedly, while the writing side feels natural, I'm still trying to master the modern side of the bench—social media algorithms and digital book marketing. It’s an ongoing apprenticeship, and somedays I don’t feel like I’m getting any better at it! But just like learning how to sharpen a chisel or set a plane, you turn up every day and keep practising.

​🧱 Phase 1: Building the Carcass (The First Draft)

​When people say they want to write a book, they often worry about the wrong things. “Is my grammar good enough? Is my spelling perfect?”

​If you were to ask those questions about my early drafts, the honest answers would be: No, and definitely no!

​Spelling and punctuation can be corrected by software, proofreaders, and editors. What matters first is the courage to get the raw material onto the page. You cannot shape what isn't there.

​In the joinery shop, whenever we built a bespoke kitchen, the very first task was assembling the carcasses—the raw plywood or MDF cabinet boxes. We’d set out the overall layout on the workshop floor. At that stage, it looked rough and utilitarian. There was no finish, no glossy paint, and no polish2qed brass handles. But the dimensions were accurate, the footprint was solid, and the foundation existed.

​That is your first draft. It’s messy, unpolished, and nobody outside the workshop sees it, but the foundation is locked in place.

1 By D.C. Salmon ​⏱️ Reading Time: 5 minutes


​In this post: Late-deadline panic, life as an apprentice joiner, why writing a thriller mirrors building bespoke kitchens, and why editing is just fine sanding


​Full disclosure: for the second week running, I found myself staring down the barrel of a Wednesday publishing deadline with practically a blank page.

​Usually, my best ideas strike when I’m out walking the dog. There is something about the steady rhythm of putting one boot in front of the other that clears the cobwebs, kick-starts the imagination, and untangles plot knots. But this week? Total radio silence. I paced across the fields drawing a complete blank.

​Then, halfway through our usual loop, the penny finally dropped.

​People frequently ask debut authors where their discipline comes from or how they manage to construct an entire 90,000-word manuscript out of thin air. For me, the answer doesn’t lie in academic creative writing courses or highbrow literary theories. It comes from my first trade: carpentry.


​Long before I ever sat down to plot historical hunts for the Irish Crown Jewels or missing Bugattis, I worked with timber. And the longer I spend writing novels, the more I realise they are practically the same craft.

​🪵 Learning the Ropes as an Apprentice
​When I left school, I was fortunate enough to land a carpentry apprenticeship on the maintenance team at my local college. I spent just over a year there, and it was a fantastic education. My boss was a master joiner who built top-notch furniture—the sort of craftsman who could look at a raw plank of oak and turn it into practically anything.

​From there, I moved into a commercial joinery shop, handcrafting bespoke kitchens, fitted bedrooms, and custom furniture. I learnt a massive amount at the bench, though once I qualified, I moved on because they were never going to pay me what the work was truly worth.

​Yet, those years in the workshop shaped how my brain works forever.

​When you're an apprentice, you learn two vital rules: you listen to the experienced tradesmen who came before you, and you learn from every botched cut and split timber.

​Self-publishing has been no different. I’ve had to lean heavily on the wisdom of fellow indie authors who walked the path first. Admittedly, while the writing side feels natural, I'm still trying to master the modern side of the bench—social media algorithms and digital book marketing. It’s an ongoing apprenticeship, and somedays I don’t feel like I’m getting any better at it! But just like learning how to sharpen a chisel or set a plane, you turn up every day and keep practising.

​🧱 Phase 1: Building the Carcass (The First Draft)
​When people say they want to write a book, they often worry about the wrong things. “Is my grammar good enough? Is my spelling perfect?”

​If you were to ask those questions about my early drafts, the honest answers would be: No, and definitely no!

​Spelling and punctuation can be corrected by software, proofreaders, and editors. What matters first is the courage to get the raw material onto the page. You cannot shape what isn't there.

​In the joinery shop, whenever we built a bespoke kitchen, the very first task was assembling the carcasses—the raw plywood or MDF cabinet boxes. We’d set out the overall layout on the workshop floor. At that stage, it looked rough and utilitarian. There was no finish, no glossy paint, and no polish2qed brass handles. But the dimensions were accurate, the footprint was solid, and the foundation existed.


​That is your first draft. It’s messy, unpolished, and nobody outside the workshop sees it, but the foundation is locked in place.

​🚪 Phase 2: Framing and Hanging the Doors (The Plot Structure)

​Once the cabinet carcasses were lined up, we moved on to the doors.

​We’d mark out the stiles and rails, cut the mortise and tenon joints, assemble the frames with glue and sash clamps, and square them up. Then came the tricky part: hanging each door into its respective frame on the workshop floor to make sure every hinge swung true and every gap was even.

​In a novel, that is your structural plotting:

  • ​Your character arcs are the joints holding the frame together.

  • ​The chapter hooks are the hinges.

  • ​If a door sticks or binds in its frame, you don't paint over it—you take a hand plane and shave the edge until it swings effortlessly. If a plot point drags or a chapter doesn't transition cleanly into the next, you rework the scene until the story flows seamlessly.

​🪚 Phase 3: Scribing, Planing & Fine Sanding (The Edit)

​Once the entire suite was standing complete in the workshop, the real graft began. We would spend hours scribing panels, planing down tight spots, and sanding every surface smooth.

​Editing is the joiner’s sanding block. It is repetitive, dusty, and often downright tedious. But if you skip it, the finished piece will be fundamentally flawed.

​Every author approaches this slightly differently. For my books, once I’ve done my own structural pass, I hand the manuscript over to my proofreader, Cosette. She flags where sentences clatter, catches continuity errors, and points out where the story needs trimming.

​Once her feedback arrives, I carry out another lighter edit. In woodworking, after you’ve taken off the rough bark with coarse 80-grit paper, you switch to a fine 240-grit or 320-grit paper to remove the tiny blemishes. You only see the true grain of the timber once that final fine sanding is done. That is what a clean, professional polish does to your prose.

​🎨 The Finishing Coat (The Book Cover)

​Finally, there is the finish: the stain, the wax, the lacquer.

​You can build the most structurally sound, impeccably joined dining table in the world, but if you slap a cheap, streaky varnish over it, the customer will walk away disappointed. Appearance sets expectations. Oak should look and feel like oak; mahogany should look like mahogany.

​A book cover operates under the exact same rule. Your cover is the varnish and visual promise of your craftsmanship. If you are releasing an adventure thriller, the typography, colour palette, and imagery must signal thriller. If it accidentally looks like a sci-fi epic or a cozy romance, you have failed before the reader even reads sentence one. It’s why I happily invest in working with Peter at Bespoke Book Covers—because the exterior finish has to do justice to what’s built inside.

​✍️ The Author’s Toolbag

​They might seem like two completely separate worlds, but working with timber set me up for writing far better than any classroom ever could.

​Both trades demand patience. Both require you to build from the ground up, measure twice, cut once, and embrace the grind of the sanding block. If you have a story lodged in your head, stop worrying about whether you're a "born writer." Grab your tools, start building the carcass, and refine it as you go.

​💬 Over to You!

​Have you found that skills from a completely unrelated past job or hobby unexpectedly help you with your creative work today? Let me know in the comments below!

📚 What Am I Reading?

The Mozart Conspiracy by Scott Mariani

​​Having turned the final page of The Alchemist's Secret, I went straight onto Book 2 in Scott Mariani's Ben Hope series: The Mozart Conspiracy.

​I haven’t had nearly as much time to read this past week, mind you. Here in Peterborough, it is school half-term, meaning work has been non-stop, alongside coaching in the evenings and travelling the length and breadth of the UK for my son's matches. Finding a quiet half-hour to sit down with a book has been easier said than done!

​I’m currently 43 pages in at Chapter 7, and just like Ben Hope's debut outing, the story has wasted no time getting straight into the action. Now, I just need five minutes of peace to sit back and catch up with whatever chaos Ben is walking into next!

​👉 View The Mozart Conspiracy on Amazon

💌 Want More?



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​📚 The Newman Adventures

​An Irish Mystery A fast-paced historical adventure about stolen treasures, hidden histories, and the cost of obsession. The story that started it all.

​An American Treasure The journey continues! Cedric Newman returns in a high-stakes hunt for the lost riches of Mosby's Rangers. Action, mystery, and a new enemy await.

​

 

Available in Ebook, Kindle Unlimited, Paperback & Hardcover

​👉 An Irish Mystery

👉 An American Treasure

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​🌍 www.dcsalmonbooks.com



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