They come to my course from all walks of life, people who want to write in a meaningful way. Mostly, they want to write a book; magazine features don't interest them although they should. Features offer a fertile training ground, a starting point.

I'm teaching an evening course this fall that helps people write in a telling way. At least I hope it does. The first exercise I put aspiring writers through is "Brutally Honest Soul Searching." I have them write answers to a series of questions. "Why is writing a book so important to you?" is one such question. The answers reveal a lot about human nature.

Another question is "What bad things might happen if you don't write your book?" The answers draw back the curtain on human desires and fears. "I'll always feel like a failure." "I'll sink into mediocrity and lose the part of myself that snaps, crackles, and pops."

Another question, a tough one, is "Do you have what it takes to pull off writing a book?" They always answer, "yes," and so they take my course and others, make notes, and dream of writing a book. And they like to talk about it more than anything, but they never seem to get around to the heavy lifting: writing itself. Many seek some Holy Grail of writing that can make a book effortlessly materialize, but there are no shortcuts. The process is simple but the actual doing is a Herculean task and taking class after class is yet another way of putting off the inevitable while feeling good. Mañana. Always mañana.

Carl Sandburg created here. Photo by T. Poland It's much like people who talk about going on a diet. The actual start is always tomorrow. The day that might redirect their destiny never arrives for many, but they'll study diets that offer fast results; diets that fall out of favor even faster. Parallels exist between people who want to write and people who want to lose weight.

People fall head over heels for fad diets because they promise an easy way to drop pounds just as aspiring writers fall for writing gimmicks such as mini-lessons, skill builders, writing workshops, and support groups. Real weight loss results from a daily regime of discipline, exercise, and wise choices. The loss is gradual but real. Writing a book is much the same. Each day you make choices, mainly how best to use your time, and each day a bit more text accumulates. John Grisham offers up a writer's "diet" that's a bit faddish. "Write a page a day. If you don't, you'll never get published." At least you'd be writing though, not merely talking about it.

Exercise every day, and you'll better reach your desired weight. I hear way too young people say they can't jog or run because they have bad knees. What? Were you a paratrooper? Too many rough landings? Did you blow out your knees playing football? What would the world be like without excuses.

Dieting and writing, essentially, require a lifestyle change. That's what make each so difficult. The dieter must avoid foods that sabotage his best efforts; foods he happens to love. The writer must wall himself off from things and those who would take up his time; people whose company he enjoys. Isolation. It's the only way to control time, a writer's true raw material. Toward the end of his life, the late Jim Kilgo, who taught me English at Georgia, told me people caused his greatest problems as a writer. All the interruptions.

Ernest Hemingway said, "Writing, at its best, is a lonely life." In writing, you have to go it alone to get anything done. Some writers live by strict schedules and avoid people. Some turn off their telephones. Some write seven days a week, fueled by coffee and adrenaline. The good ones dedicate themselves to their mission. They write sitting at a desk, on top of a desk, and lying in bed. They don't resort to the common excuse, "I don't have the time." They make the time. And they do what it takes.

When he was in the Soviet Union's Gulag Archipelago, its prison system, the great writer Alexander Solzhenitsyn did not write down his thoughts on those rare occasions when pen and paper were available. To do so was to risk his life or suffer more severe conditions and longer sentences. Solzhenitsyn wrote nonetheless. He wrote in his head. Over eight years, he memorized tens of thousands of lines. After he was released from prison, he transcribed them in secret.

Writers create a world in which they minimize failure and maximize success, and what interests me the most about a writer's world is the writing environment itself. Writers in the free world work face few constraints, so it's interesting to see what their workspace is like. It can be whatever they choose. It can range from a cluttered office to a rustic cabin to a palatial beach home to a corner in a house to a closet. They generally set it up in a way that reinforces their discipline and suits their moods. Other than James Dickey's office, I've only had the opportunity to see one other writer's office. A few years ago, I made the trip to Flat Rock, North Carolina, to tour the home of a writer, dead now for 42 years.

Carl Sandburg was a newspaperman before becoming a full-time writer of poetry history, literature, and other genres. He won the Pulitzer Prize in 1940 for Abraham Lincoln: The War Years. Five years later he bought his farm in Flat Rock, North Carolina, "Connemara," and in each room, he kept a stack of Sears, Roebuck and Company catalogs, a guitar, and a fire extinguisher. He propped his feet on stacks of catalogs when playing the guitar. More than 10,000 books filled his home. That did not surprise me.

His routine was interesting. He slept late while his wife and daughters took care of chores and tended the livestock. That did surprise me. He exercised each morning. He worked alone late into the night and did so for 22 years, a productive time, in an office that was fairly simple and a bit cluttered. He was fond of using fruit cases as office furniture and rearranged them until they suited him. The office is refreshingly bereft of anything plastic.

It's cozy, filled with light. It overflows with the tools of the writer's trade; files, folders, chairs, a briefcase, note cards, and reference books. There's a rolling chair that can easily scoot over to an old typewriter. A box of papers sits on a wood-burning stove. From such a place, comes crafted imaginings. All that's necessary are time, isolation, and discipline.

He was 89 and still writing when he died at Flat Rock July 22, 1967. The notes, papers, and letters on his desk make it appear as if he'll return any minute. In the North Carolina mountains, he had found the place and elements that worked for him. His writer's diet of discipline, isolation, and a routine worked, and intellectually, he cut a lean, strong figure.

I don't think Sandburg dieted food-wise. All photos portray him as a slender, and I know from his achievements that discipline and hard work were deeply ingrained. I am sure that if he were writing today neither cell phones, emails, business lunches, nor visitors would distract him. Writers understand everything about the word, "no," and they unwittingly offer a model for dieters. It's not a stretch ... Food for thought you could say.

Email Tom with feedback and ideas for new columns. tompol @earthlink.net