The best free software for writers

Every writer has different tastes when it comes to the tools they use to write. Book authors, article writers, writers of non fiction, poets all want different things from their computer. I would like to share with you the software I use, and why.

First of all, I'm cheap. I like freeware. I like open source software. Why pay for something if you can get it for free.

Second, I like my tools simple. If I'm going to whittle a piece of wood, I prefer a simple single-bladed knife, not a multi-tool Swiss Army knife that is fussy to open and awkward to hold. I want comfort and agility. Something that will get the job done. I don't care for bells and whistles, particularly if they get in the way of the workflow.

Third, I really like portable software. I work on several computers during the course of a month. Admittedly, they're all Windows machines, but that's true of most of the world these days. My primary machine at home, an elderly HP box. A laptop I use occasionally. A machine at work. And computers at various relatives' houses when I'm visiting. Portable software can be loaded on a memory stick, which can then be inserted into a USB port on any Windows computer, bypassing all compatibility issues. I can carry all the software tools I am used to -- plus my works in progress -- on a USB stick in my pocket.

The first (and really the only) software a writer needs is a word processor. Something that records your words as you type them on the keyboard. Traditionally, Microsoft Word is the writer's default word processor. It's on many Windows computers. A lot of us are familiar with it. But I don't like it. It's a massive piece of software. It embeds proprietary Microsoft formatting codes into your words, making each document larger than it has to be and unreadable by many other programs.

I prefer to save my compositions in a more standard format, either plain text (.txt) or rich text format (.rtf). Text format documents can be opened by virtually every word processor ever sold or given away, on Windows, Macintosh, Linux or any other platform. Rich text format documents are nearly as universal and add the ability to add formatting like bold and italic.

I use RoughDraft, a program written by a guy named Richard Salisbury. It can save in .rtf or .txt. Its small, portable, includes a built-in file browser, a word count feature, and even has automatic formatting for screenplays. A terrific piece of freeware.

When speed is of the essence, a tiny notepad-like program is quickest. I use Metapad. I like it better than notepad because I have more control over the display font. it works only in .txt format, but for writing words, that's all I need. It is faster than my fingers. In Word, I would sometimes type faster than the program could handle (admittedly, on an older computer). With Metapad, each character always appears on screen the moment I hit the key. That speed of response keeps my train of thought intact.

For arranging notes, I use a program called Mempad. It's sort of like an outlining program. The program window includes two panes. The left pane shows an outline composed of, say, chapter titles. You can create sub-chapters or sub-scenes under each entry. The end result looks like an outline of terms. Click on any term, and you can use the right pane to type in whatever you want. If I'm writing a book, I create a top level entry for each chapter, then sub entries for characters, setting, background, plot devices, etc. I can make notes to myself in all the sub entries. Then I write the actual text of the chapter in the top level entry. I can instantly refer to my notes, or copy-and-paste sections of notes into the chapter text. If something relates to another chapter, I can easily jump to that chapter and insert a note to remind myself of the connection. I also use Mempad to work on and keep track of short stories. One reason I settled on Mempad instead of one of the other outlining programs out there is its export feature. At any time, I can select any entry, or the entire collections of entries, and with a couple of clicks, export it to a text file; great for when its time to format the story for publication. Even better, backups of the entire contents of a file are as easy as copying the datafile; it is stored in text format that anything, including Notepad or Word, can open and make sense of. Mempad includes a search feature that allows you to find words anywhere in the file you currently have open. I create a different file for each book I'm working on, another for short stories, another for miscellaneous information.

When I really want to buckle down and concentrate, a little program like WestEdit or Q10 block out all computer-related distractions. Both these programs convert your entire screen into a blank canvas with only your words showing. They're both configurable as to color of background and text (my favorite is the default lime green text on black background). Both these programs work on virtually every Windows computer. Other similar programs I experimented with either required underlying software that didn't exist on all the machines I use, or were slow. Of the two, WestEdit is smallest, but I prefer Q10 because it is more configurable.

Like other scatterbrained people, I sometimes can't remember where on my computer I jotted a note or created a file. Sure, Windows has a search feature that can help find such misplaced snippets of information. But a freeware program called WildReplace does the job faster. You can set it up to search for text inside files, and/or to match entire or partial filenames. And it is fast!

Another program that helps my memory is Scrapbook 2, by Eric Nitzsche. This is a tiny freeform database program. It's set up along the lines of a pile of cards. You write soemthing on a card (in this case, a text window). You end up with a giant pile of cards. When you want to find something in the pile, you type a word in the search box, and you can cycle through only the cards that contain that word. Say you vaguely recall you jotted a note about a guy named Pendergastman, or maybe Pendergasmen. You search for "pender" and jump through any note that includes the string "pender." Scrapbook helps me keep track of notes that I'm not ready to insert into the more organized Mempad.

All of the programs mentioned above help me develop my writing ideas and put them into words. They all work on every Windows computer I've tried them on, including Windows 95, 98, 2000 and XP. They all save data in plain text format for universal compatibility.

That's my toolbox. A variety of text editors, an outliner, and a search utility. They all live on my USB memory stick. I can plug into any Windows computer anywhere and use the tools I'm familiar with, save my notes and writings, unplug, and drop all my work in my pocket. Portable, small, free, fast.

When the writing is done, or nearly done, I export my raw text into Microsoft Word or Quark Xpress and deal with formatting. But when I'm converting my thoughts into text, I want simple, plain text. At that stage of the game, formatting just gets in the way of the creative process. And anyway, most novels don't include much formatting - your publisher will most likely prefer unformatted text anyway.

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The Missing Wooley Bugger - Part One

My Wooley Bugger was missing. It was Sunday afternoon, the first day of a week-long vacation, and I planned to drive up to Lime Creek for a couple of hours of fishing. But I loved that old Wooley Bugger, and it bothered me that it wasn't where it belonged, snug in my little aluminum fly box.

I'd caught at least four dozen trout with that Wooley Bugger during the last year. Even if I didn't tie it on the line today, I wanted to bring it along. You know, kind of like a good luck charm. It seemed like a necessary component of my vacation, during which I planned to fish several streams, drink some beer, do a little backcountry hiking and maybe climb Engineer Peak. Anyway, fishing was number one on the agenda, and going fishing without my Wooley Bugger was unthinkable.

The Wooley Bugger is a fly created by wrapping the long body of a fishing hook in thick, rough thread until it looks like a fluffy tube with a smattering of long hairs sticking out all over and a big luxuriant tail sticking out past the bend of the hook. When it's dry, a Wooley Bugger looks sort of like a tiny discolored carrot, complete with greens. You can buy or tie them in different colors; brown or black are popular. My good luck example is dark gray with a spiral of copper wire around the body. Once in the water, the Wooley Bugger's hair and thread all cling together and the fly transforms into the shape of a hairy minnow. Or maybe the fish think it looks like a caterpillar that fell in the drink, or a tasty piece of filet mignon or something. Whatever it looks like underwater, fish want to eat it, and that's what counts. I could just go buy another one at the fly shop, but like I said, I was kind of attached to this particular one. It and I had a history together.

I thought back. Where had I last seen the thing? Then I remembered my friend Jay borrowed it a couple of weeks before when we were fishing on the Piedras River over near Dolores. I'd already caught a couple of nice brookies with the Wooley Bugger that morning, then had switched to a Royal Coachman for kicks. Jay had so far only hooked a single small brookie, too small to keep, on a No. 14 Adams dry fly. He borrowed my treasured Wooley Bugger, tied it on his tippet, and promptly hooked and landed a nice 10-inch brookie and then a 14-inch rainbow. Combined with what I had in the creel, that was plenty for lunch, so we headed home. Then his old VW van had a flat tire on the way back to town, we hitched a ride with those two nurses in the pickup truck, ended up going out to lunch with them, then dinner, then, well, we ended up leaving the fish in their refrigerator. And I lost track of my lucky fly. I just hope the nurses didn't let those tasty fish go to waste. I'd hate to think they died in vain.

Anyway, I was pretty sure that the last time I'd seen my Wooley Bugger, it had been hanging from the end of Jay's 7-foot No. 5 fly rod.

I dialed Jay's number. No answer. But Jay usually doesn't answer his phone unless he's expecting a call. And he hates answering machines. So I hopped in my car and drove the two miles to his house. I spotted his old Volkswagen van parked in the street in front of the house, so I figured he was home and parked. The front door of his apartment was open. I knocked on the screen door.

"Hey, Jay, you in there?" I yelled over the jazz flowing out of a boom box inside. Jay loved listening to jazz. He was also reasonably good with his battered old trumpet, though I rarely heard him play.

"In the kitchen! Come on in," he said.

He was in the middle of preparing vichyssoise, which is some kind of weird cold French soup whose main ingredient is strained potatoes. Personally, I prefer a nice hot chicken noodle.

The kitchen was a full-scale mess. He was preparing a meal for half a dozen friends. He hadn't invited me, but considering that cold strained potato soup was on the menu, I wasn't too put out. I turned down the jazz a few decibels, then asked him if he still had my Wooley Bugger.

"Yeah, man, I caught three fish with it this morning," he said.

"I want it back. I'm heading up to Lime Creek, and you know it's my good luck charm," I said.

"It's probably in my fishing vest hanging by the door."

I wandered over and rifled through the vest as Jay started complaining that he had seven people - including a couple of hot chicks - due for an early dinner in less than two hours, and he was low on butter and needed more wine. I didn't find the fly in the vest. His rod was leaning in the corner, but it had a No. 12 gnat tied on the tippet, not my Wooley Bugger. I made a quick inspection of his decrepit straw cowboy hat, in which a large number of flies were impaled, but no luck there, either. I stepped back to the kitchen to voice my concern over the missing fly. But Jay was still blathering on about his wine shortage.

He'd bought four bottles of his favorite cheap table wine specifically for the dinner, but had split one bottle the night before with Leslie, a woman from work. Leslie lived a couple of blocks away and had invited him over to watch a horror flick on the tube. She loved suspense films, but couldn't stand to be alone in the house while watching one. It wasn't the first time Jay had shared a bag of popcorn with her. I'd been to her house a couple of times myself in the role of movie companion. Leslie was a nice and intelligent lady, a good conversationalist, and was pretty to boot. I didn't mind at all when the really scary parts of a movie arrived and she reflexively grabbed an arm or huddled close against my shoulder. Don't get me wrong - it wasn't like she's a tease or anything like that. She just loves scary movies and likes to have someone to hold onto during the creepy parts. After the movie was over, Jay and I each knew we'd get a grateful smile and maybe a friendly hug, then the door. That was okay with me. Jay and I never spoke of such things, but we each knew the score with Leslie, and each reveled in the experience of a private movie showing with her. She just wanted someone to hold onto for a couple of hours of Hollywood fantasy, then she wanted her privacy. She didn't have a steady boyfriend to keep her company, which is why she enlisted me or Jay on film nights. I didn't know why she didn't have an actual boyfriend. Somewhere on the edge of my conciousness, I had been thinking of applying for the position.

Anyway, Jay had shared popcorn and one of his precious bottles of wine with her. That got me thinking. Maybe he was interested in the boyfriend role, too. That would mean I'd have competition with Leslie, if I decided to ask her out on an actual date. Maybe I'd better rent a horror film, buy a bottle of wine or a six-pack and invite her over to my place. Well ... maybe tomorrow. I was going fishing today.

Jay went on to say that he had consumed another bottle of wine himself that morning while preparing one of his famous exotic meals. I could see that for myself - his eyes were a bit more watery than usual, he had this crooked grin on this face, and he was trying to hum along with the stereo in between telling his tale of woe about the depleted stock of wine and preparing the vichyssoise. As I mentioned, Jay is famous for his exotic meals - exotic for a down-home small town, anyway. Jay loved to cook, and he loved to have a group of friends enjoy his efforts.

One time, for example, he raided all the local stores to assemble a meal for five of us consisting of grilled duck, baked papaya with almond sauce, Waldorf salad and some kind of fruit dessert that's supposed to be served flaming. But by that stage in the meal, we had consumed all the brandy, so we had to eat the fruit sans flames. It was delicious anyway, as far as I can remember.

Today, though, Jay had gone fishing at dawn and taken enough trout to serve his invitees. And he'd used my Wooley Bugger to take a good portion of those fish. But instead of giving me thanks for the loan of my good luck fly, I realized he was still asking me go fetch more wine and a couple pounds of butter while he continued his culinary preparations.

"But what about my Wooley Bugger?" I asked.

"It's around here someplace," said Jay. "But I really need more wine and some butter. I'm workin' on deadline, man, and I still need to make the dumplings. There's some cash in the flower pot. Be a pal, buy me some wine and have it back here pronto."

I gave in. The Wooley Bugger would have to wait. A friend in need is a friend not to be ignored. I walked over to the flowerpot, an ugly brown cylinder that squatted on the floor and was filled with what appeared to be a small dead shrub and some random twigs jammed in at various angles. I groped underneath the distressed plant and came up with a twenty and a handful of ones.

I glanced back toward the kitchen and saw Jay opening yet another bottle.

"When you get back, you can have some of this, too," he said, tipping a glass toward me so suddenly that some spilled onto the floor. Ignoring the splash, he took a giant swallow, then held the empty glass high. "Get, say, four bottles of this, two pounds of butter, a large can of hot green chili peppers, a fresh pineapple and a big bag of peanut M&Ms. You can stay for dinner if you want - I invited Sandra from the office, and she's bringing along her cousin who's in town for a week from Atlanta."

He winked at me.

Sandra was a curvey redhead who manned the phones and front desk at our place of employment. She'd been working there about eight months and Jay had been talking about her for at least that long. Jay has this thing about freckles, and Sandra's gorgeous face was covered with them. Every time Jay set eyes on her, a goofy smile would slide onto his face and he would stand straighter and his belly would miraculously flatten a little. Any day Sandra was working the front desk, Jay would just happen to wander by several times to shoot the breeze and gaze wistfully at her freckles.

I had to admit Sandra was smart, cheerful, attractive and fun to be around. I began to wonder if her cousin might share her bright demeanor. Maybe my fishing trip could wait until tomorrow.

"I'll go fetch your groceries, Jay," I said. "And I'll think about the dinner invitation."

I headed out in search of wine for a friend. But on the way out, I stopped at Jay's van and gave it a quick inspection to see if he had maybe left my lucky fly in there. No such luck.

I drove home and quickly changed into more presentable jeans and a clean golf shirt. That passed for formal wear in Durango, at least for me. Then I stepped on the gas and headed to the liquor store.

END of part one; more to come.

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