The Challenges and Advantages of Writing a Novel Out of Order

It's Time to Get Serious. The Power of the Narrative

The Challenges and Advantages of Writing a Novel Out of Order

Now that the first draft of the concluding installment of the Victoria da Vinci trilogy is finally done, I am inclined to reflect upon the unique challenges and advantages of writing a novel out of order.

I’m not talking about writing book three first and book one second and book two third. I didn’t do that. (The full explanation of how the entire Victoria da Vinci trilogy began as a concept for a complete short story and expanded into three novels can be found HERE for anyone who is interested.) No, I’m talking about having the whole outline finished from beginning to end, and then fleshing it out here and there over time, like hanging ornaments on a Christmas tree over the span of several months.

For example, I will already know from the beginning that chapter six will take place in Victoria’s hotel suite in downtown Chicago in the year 1923, and that it will involve Victoria, Constance, Pearl, and Lillian. I know that Pearl and Lillian won’t arrive until a little later in the scene, because they are out conducting reconnaissance, and I have a list of specific events that need to happen during those interactions (mostly character development and plot advancement that unfold through conversation). I also have a pretty good general idea of each character’s mood, attitude and motivation at the time. I just don’t yet know precisely what they’re going to say or do, and how the events will roll and unfold.

So then as time passes and I think about the story, I randomly get ideas. (Sometimes very randomly, like while buying a tomato.) The ideas are usually quite specific: of course Victoria would say this to Constance in that situation or here’s a great little detail I could throw in to help establish a fact without coming right out and saying it. So every time that happens, I will pull out my phone and text it to myself. Later, when I’m at home aboard our sailboat and in front of the computer with some time to write, I’ll download all those texts, compile them, and import them into the appropriate chapters. (That is definitely something neither Dickens nor Melville ever did. Although they might have, given the opportunity.)

I’m doing this with all the chapters all the time, and the inevitable problem is that I ultimately find myself dealing with paragraphs of description and dialogue that were written weeks or months apart, and they don’t flow. Sometimes I repeat or contradict myself, or things happen out of sequence, or a character has a line even though she isn’t actually in the room yet. Also, I have to find plausible, organic, non-jarring segues from one topic to another.

So while that technique is very handy for keeping the project alive even during all the times when I can’t actively sit down and focus on the manuscript, it also forces me to do a great deal of extensive re-writing to weld, button, glue and hammer all the pieces together.

One thing that’s quite gratifying and delightful, however, is when I have a brilliant idea for a tiny but important detail that I could throw in somewhere — only to discover that I already put that in there eight months ago. Yay, past self! Well done, sir!

The biggest plus to writing this way is that the effort is always rght there in front of me, like a partially finished puzzle on the dining room table. (Not that I have a dining room, but you get the idea.) It’s in the way, so it’s constantly on my mind and never far from my immediate awareness. It’s almost impossible to forget or ignore. And at any time, day or night, no matter what else is going on in your life, you can always take just a moment to pick up a piece and put it where it belongs.

So now comes the final step — taking this first draft and turning it into a completed book. It’s always those last few percentage points, taking it from 91% to 98%, that are the most agonizing and tedious. (No manuscript is ever more than 98% complete. Those last two percentage points are like the seawater in the bilge: you’ll never get rid of them.)

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