To Plan Or Not To Plan … That Is The Question
I’ve only known a few, which isn’t surprising given that I suspect they’re a very rare breed. They’d have to be because theirs is such a unique gift there couldn’t possibly be many of them. In the writing trade, they’re called seat-of-the-pants writers.
*Note to my British friends: Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: “You Americans! The proper word is trousers. Pants are … well, they’re under garments!” But the thing is, it’s not my phrase. I didn’t make it up so I don’t get to change it. Besides, “seat-of-the-trousers” writers … just doesn’t have the right zing to it. Sorry.
What I’m about to describe is a massive oversimplification. EVERY novelist is unique, with their own methods, strategies, strengths and weaknesses. We ALL approach and accomplish the task of writing a novel in different ways, but in general terms, here’s how seat-of-the-pants writers differ from the mainstream.
When seat-of-the-pants writers start a novel, they sit down at a keyboard and start typing. Period. They might have a handful of characters in mind. They might have only one. Or they might assume they’ll meet the characters along the way. Seat-of-the-pants writers may have a vague story fluttering on the edges of their consciousnesses, they might have a fairly concrete plot in their heads or they might not have a clue what the plot is or how the story will turn out in the end.
If you are a seat-of-the-pants writer, what I’m going to describe about my method of putting together a novel will seem as absurd to you as putting tights on a sperm whale. It will feel constricting and confining and … downright silly. I know, because I once described my system to a seat-of-the-pants writer. She listened attentively and when I’d finally wound down, she had a one-word response: why? Why on earth did I go to all that trouble? She could no more understand why I had to than I could understand why she didn’t.
The difference between seat-of-the-pants writers and the rest of us is in planning. To a greater or lesser degree, other novelists plan out their work. Some have massive outlines and elaborate file-card systems. Some work out the intricacies of their plots on big, erasable white-boards. Others use post-it notes they can arrange and re-arrange. I have always believed that Stephen King’s novel IT had to be masterfully planned because it traces the lives of seven people as adults and as children, switching back and forth from one character to another, one time frame to another. I can’t imagine that anybody could keep that amount of complexity in their heads.
I developed my own system of planning a novel. That was massively stupid. I’m sure I could have saved myself untold HOURS of time and energy if I’d just done a little research and found out how other writers do it. Let me URGE you to do just that. Why re-invent the wheel? Don’t just go by what I’m going to describe in the weeks to come—go out and read how other writers do it and pick and choose the parts of half a dozen systems that feel right for you.
My system begins at the beginning. It starts with the plot, the story. The story is the engine of your novel. No matter how colorful or lyrical your language, how engaging your characters or how believable your setting, if your plot can’t move it all forward, you might want to consider going into real estate.
Novelists tell stories. No story, no novel. So next week, we’ll discuss just how you grab hold of that story, wrestle it to the ground and hog-tie it.
