I have no discipline when it comes to writing. I cannot get up in the morning and have ten pages of fiction done by noon, unlike Lolo Ray Bradbury, or even Stephen King. Whenever I write, it is a slow process of gruelling disembowelment. I sit down and force myself to focus, and achieve a particular state of mind that will allow words to follow a coherent fashion. It helps a lot if I have a deadline, an end date for which I will stop everything else in my life and do nothing but write. The cramming makes me feel as though I am a mere poseur, someone just claiming to be a writer and failing to get the discipline. But believe me, even cramming for the deadline is a lot of hard work. You can ask Tom Stoppard:

I half commit myself to some distant future date. I often talk to someone about it and suggest that in six months it will be done, so I set up a kind of deadline. But most of the intervening period disappears in a kind of anxious state of walking about. You cannot start until you know what you want to do, and you do not know what you want to do until you start. That is Catch-22. Panic breaks that circle. Finally a certain force in the accumulated material begins to form a pattern.

When I grow up, I wanna be like Tom, or at least, David Mamet.