As a mystery novelist, I often contemplate the writing process. Which is in itself a damned perplexing mystery.

Where do ideas come from? How do writers turn their ideas into short stories, novels, scripts and screenplays? There’s a more practical question, too: Is there some shortcut to avoid what’s otherwise a long slog?

Take it from me, it’s an occupational hazard. Everyone who takes writing the least bit seriously does it. We ask other writers about it as if it’s a pick-up line in a bar: So, what’s your process? We read books on the subject, hopeful we’ll glean something — anything — that improves our own processes. Or at least makes them less vexing.

Here’s the problem. The writing process is different for every writer, as unique as their fingerprints. What succeeds magnificently for one writer fails miserably for another.

Yet, there’s no shortage of general advice from writers about the writing process.

Anne Lamont emphasizes persistence over perfection. How do you tackle an overwhelming project — one involving birds, for example? One step at a time. Bird by bird. In other words: Butts in chairs and hands on keyboards. And don’t worry too much about what Lamont describes unapologetically as “shitty” first drafts. They become better second drafts.

Then again, a quote attributed to sportswriter Red Smith described the process this way: “Writing is easy. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter, open a vein and bleed.”

Even a novelist as successful and prolific as Stephen King admits he doesn’t understand the writing process. King recalled in the afterword of one of his recent collections of short stories how his tales sometime rush into his mind fully formed. “Why this process works, or how it works, is a complete mystery to me.”

I’m no more an authority on writing than anyone else. I believe nonetheless every story, every novel, every fabrication of fiction begins with the same two words arranged as a question: What if? Not literally, of course. But as the origin of the premise.

King answers a lot of what if questions in his novels. What if vampires invade a small New England town? What if a rabid St. Bernard traps a mother and her young son in a stalled car? What if someone travels back in time to prevent the assassination of JFK?

I consider in my novels what happens if a workaholic reporter laid off at a Denver newspaper settles for a job as editor of a small town weekly in the remote northwest corner of Colorado. What if that man meets a brilliant and beautiful history professor searching for a cache of loot hidden by the outlaw Butch Cassidy? What if, two years later, the same couple is scuba diving in a mountain lake in search of treasure and finds instead a ghastly corpse tied to a rock?

What if constitutes only the start of stories. It’s up to writers to explain what follows. Why their characters react the way they do and how they change as a result.

Some writers — call them “plotters” — carefully plan their next steps. They craft outlines, arrange notecards and compile detailed information about their characters and settings. You could call me a “pantser,” someone who writes by the seat of his pants. I prefer the term “discovery writer.” In proceeding without a plan, I’m free to discover where my characters lead me as the plot unfolds. I’m not only surprised by what they do, but also grateful since it’s usually more compelling than anything I could have imagined.

But that’s a story for another time. One that undoubtedly begins with two words. What if?

I love a good backstory. How about you?

Backstories reveal past experiences and events. All those details that bring characters in books and movies to life and explain why they do what they do.

What turns Bruce Wayne into Batman? The haunting memory of his parents’ murder. Harry Potter’s background as an orphan who discovers magical abilities affects the ways he responds to the challenges he faces. Childhood trauma, aristocratic heritage and powerful intellect combine to create the monstrous — and fascinating — Hannibal Lecter.

Backstories turn two-dimensional cutouts rendered in bland physical descriptions into three-dimensional individuals with vibrant personalities. And faults. The more the better. Backstories create characters to which readers relate because they empathize with their needs, problems and aspirations. Most important, readers care about these characters and what happens to them.

Compelling plots might entice readers to turn pages. But if readers don’t care about the characters or what happens to them, what’s the point? The real story isn’t so much about what happens to characters, but how characters react and change based on their experiences.

Like any good thing — chocolate cake comes to mind — backstories are best served a little at a time. There’s a temptation to tell readers everything about the hero right off the bat. There’s also a temptation to devour a whole cake as an appetizer. The pleasure in reading and eating comes in savoring the experience, especially surprises. The alternative is a tiresome information dump or bellyache.

It’s essential to establish backstory near the beginning to foster a basic understanding of what a character wants, what’s at stake and what stands in the way. Then add more backstory to provide depth and context.

Don’t tell a backstory, show it. An event — a sight, sound or smell — triggers memories. Habits like hoarding or cracking knuckles signal deprivation, anxiety and other emotions rooted in the past. The way characters talk — accents, dialects and the words they choose — reflect their background, education and personality.

Don’t show backstory for the sake of showing backstory, though. Show only what’s relevant to what characters think and do. Events, actions and dialogue should unveil backstory gradually even as characters develop.

I wrote a murder mystery featuring a small town newspaper editor as sleuth. I wanted to add a treasure hunt as well as a love story. I invented a second protagonist in a brilliant history professor.

Their backstories? My editor was laid off from his job as a reporter at a big city daily and is desperate to resurrect his career. My professor has searched for years for a cache of stolen loot hidden by the outlaw Butch Cassidy. My characters seperately avoided romantic relationships to focus on work. Together, they’re looking not only for truth and treasure, but also redemption and the meaning missing in their lives.

Here’s what else backstory can do. The professor reveals in my first novel a failed engagement to a paleontologist that left her embittered. That kernel of information serves as a springboard into my second novel in the series. That and the fact the professor learned as a teen-ager how to scuba dive. What follows is the discovery of a ghastly corpse roped to a rock at the bottom of a mountain lake, a plot to illegally unearth dinosaur fossils from public land and a search for gold bars stolen a century ago in a stagecoach robbery.

I strive to offer readers unique characters that bring distinctive skills — and shortcomings — to life-and-death conflicts. Then inspire readers to care what happens. Backstories remain an essential part of the effort.

I love a good backstory. How about you?

I loathe the imprecise use of words. My head literally explodes at the mere thought of it. 

I’m exaggerating, of course, to make a point. But no less so than the growing number of people who use literally when they mean figuratively.

I admit it. I’m a grammar curmudgeon whose knickers twist over matters important only to English teachers, newspaper editors and certain mystery novelists. Confusion over there, their and they’re. Subject-verb disagreement. Incorrect capitalization. Don’t even get me started on Oxford commas. I loathe them, too.

Lest my latest lament go unheeded as yet another screed from a supercilious word nerd, consider the impressions people make with words spoken and written. I’m not foolish enough to judge people by the ways in which they talk and write. I contend nonetheless there are benefits to precise communication. If nothing else, it increases the likelihood of getting what you ask for — whether that’s a raise, a bank loan or a date on a Friday night.

That brings me back to what’s literally the most misused word.

By strict definition, literally means in a literal manner or sense. But literally also has come to serve as a replacement for figuratively as well as an intensifier intended to add force to another word.

Given trends in popular culture, it’s understandable to believe the misuse of literally constitutes a recent compulsion. But literally has been used in a figurative sense for hundreds of years.

Even famous authors used literally when they meant figuratively. Take a scene from “Little Women” in which Louisa May Alcott described an outdoor supper in a land literally flowing with milk and honey. Really? Wouldn’t that make it difficult to eat, not to mention awfully sticky? Or a line from “The Great Gatsby” in which F. Scott Fitzgerald stated his eponymous protagonist was literally glowing. From what? Exposure to radiation on Long Island? Even Mark Twain had Tom Sawyer literally rolling in wealth after duping a group of boys to pay him for the privilege of whitewashing Aunt Polly’s fence. Better wealth than something else, I suppose.

In comparison to such literary luminaries, who am I to question the uses of literally in some of the best novels ever written? A persnickety wordsmith. That’s who. One who remains unconvinced. I’m more like another famous author,  Ambrose Bierce, who decried: “It is bad enough to exaggerate, but to affirm the truth of the exaggeration is intolerable.”

I confess. I’ve given in on occasion to the temptation to use literally. I’m particularly fond of what I deem a well-turned phrase describing someone who literally wrote the book on the subject. But only if it’s true in a literal sense. The person actually wrote a book and wasn’t just an authority in an idiomatic sense.

What annoys me is the more widespread misuse of literally with such disregard as to render the word meaningless and those who do so almost comic.

Here’s the thing about English. If a word is used incorrectly often enough for long enough, it gains acceptance and new meaning. By some estimates, literally has entered the third or fourth stage of a five-stage scale. In the first stage, mistakes are widely rejected. By the time a word reaches the fifth stage, its misuse has become so ubiquitous only people derided as eccentrics reject it.

Count me among the eccentrics.

It’s impossible for people to claim their heads literally exploded. Even if they swallowed the dynamite that caused the blasts.

But it’s no exaggeration to complain I loathe the imprecise use of words.

I do. Literally.