Don’t Confuse the Map with the Journey
By David Corbett | September 12, 2017 |
I’m writing on the same day that Don posted his wonderful piece on journeying cross-country with his family. (What Makes a Journey.) He described how much of the trip was enhanced by the people they met—something that can’t be predicted by AAA, Lonely Planet, Frommer’s, Fodor’s, or any other supplier of travel guides.
I’d venture to add that what makes a journey truly memorable is defined largely if not entirely by what happens that wasn’t or couldn’t be planned.
Example: On a recent cross-country drive, my wife and I stopped in Taos, NM, to visit with a college friend of mine. While there, we learned that Victoria Willcox, author of a trilogy of historical novels based on the life of Doc Holliday, was giving a talk the following night in Glen Springs, CO, just west of Denver. (Glen Springs is where the infamous gambler and gunman died.)
I was working on my own project involving Doc Holliday at the time (The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday), and so this seemed like the luckiest of happenstances. We made it to Glen Springs in time for the talk and I got to meet Victoria (who is simply lovely), describe my project, and get her blessing.
But that wasn’t even the real coup. The next day, as we were heading west toward Utah, our GPS took us on “the most direct route,” which turned out to be an unpaved lumber road. It was pretty lovely, but slow, and so once we hit pavement again I naturally wanted to make up for lost time.
Guess who sat about a mile down the road waiting for idiots just like us?
As the very polite state trooper was writing out our ticket, my wife asked where the nearest rest stop might be. He said it was only a few miles off in a little town called Dinosaur.
My wife’s eyes almost popped out of her head: “Are there dinosaurs there?”
Well, the trooper-turned-tour-guide directed us to Dinosaur National Monument, just east of the Utah-Colorado state line, where you can actually touch fossilized dinosaur bones. (This accounts for the singularly amazed expression on Mette’s face in the selfie at the top of this post—you can’t see her hand, but it’s touching an honest-to-God prehistoric relic.)
But that’s not actually why I gathered you all here today. I actually wanted to talk about how all of this relates to—oh, you’re way ahead of me.
One of my students in an online class I just concluded through Litreactor very generously gave her time to a fellow student struggling with how to plot her story, which was a tale of romantic fantasy involving a rakehell prince and a recently widowed dancer.
I had posted a discussion thread titled “The Unique Structure of the Love Story,” pointing out how love stories, lacking the kind of adversarial combat we normally associate with protagonists and antagonists, structure their conflict in a unique way—more in terms of connection and disconnection than battle. The author of the romantic fantasy felt this had led to a breakthrough, and she posted her new plot outline on the discussion thread and asked for comments.
This is when the other student, “Max from Berlin,” chimed in, and offered some of the sagest advice I can imagine.
“I firmly believe that formulas like this story structure, or The Hero With a Thousand Faces or (oh woe!) Save the Cat are great for analyzing where your story might be lacking, but are terrible to plan with, because they tend to lead to very predictable plots.”
If Max hadn’t been sitting over 5600 miles away, I would have hugged her. (I forgot to mention—Max from Berlin is a she. Not that I wouldn’t hug her if she were a he. But I digress.)
Steven James brings this up in his excellent Story Trumps Structure, and it’s been my bone to pick (or one of several bones) with the Campbell school of heroic journey since I first learned about it.
The problem with three-act structure or any kind of prefabricated plot structure is that it tends to invite forcing your characters into predesignated plot points—i.e., turning them into plot puppets—rather than allowing them to create the story themselves.
Now that requires creating characters with the richness, depth, and complexity that can permit them to generate a truly compelling story.
Even so, allowing your characters to lead the way can often feel like wandering off into the dark. It’s scary. There’s no telling where you’re going—like taking a trip without a map or a guidebook. And yet that’s exactly how a truly memorable journey happens—when you allow yourself to explore the unexpected. When you lean into the darkness.
Yes, this take more time. Yes, it can lead to false starts and wrong turns. Yes, it can force you to tears up pages, backtrack, even start over. But you you are far more likely to discover something surprising taking this risk than you will safely adhering to a pre-arranged plot map.
Will you possibly waste time? That depends on what you mean by “waste.” As Joshua Mohr has wisely remarked: “Learn to respect the pages the reader will never see.”
As for the importance of surprise in making a memorable story, let me once again invoke Steven James and recite what he calls the Reader’s Paradox:
Readers want to be able to predict where the story is going. And they always want to be wrong.
That can’t happen if you go exactly where your pre-arranged plot plan tells you to go.
“Learn to respect the pages the reader will never see.”–Joshua Mohr
This isn’t an argument for pantsing over plotting. It’s a recognition that to surprise the reader, you’re going to have to surprise yourself. Or, to extend our journey metaphor: To go somewhere interesting, you have to risk getting lost.
Once you’ve done that, yes, you can go back and shore up the wanderings, cut the meandering digressions and tighten things up. But if you start from a tidy plan of where to go and how to get there, good luck coming up with something original.
I’m not saying it’s impossible—screenwriting is by and large structure-driven, and not all screenplays are formulaic. But you need to leave yourself open for breaking the formula to allow your characters to surprise you, and lead you someplace new, someplace interesting, someplace off the map.
That’s not wasting time. That’s writing the pages the reader will never see, which are worthy of respect.
When in your writing has getting lost led to a breakthrough? When has it led to a feeling of being simply more lost? How did you resolve the problem—how did it work out in the end?
Have you ever written a story based purely on three-act structure or the hero’s journey and come up with something new and original? How did you make that happen?
David Corbett (he/him) is the author of seven novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar, Do They Know I’m Running?, The Mercy of the Night, The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday, and The Truth Against the World. He has also published the story collection Thirteen Confessions and the novella The Devil Prayed and Darkness Fell.
David’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in a broad array of magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for Best American Mystery Stories.
His non-fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Narrative, Zyzzyva, MovieMaker, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest.
He has taught both online and in classroom settings through the UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program, Book Passage, LitReactor, 826 Valencia, The Grotto in San Francisco, and at numerous writing conferences across the US, Canada, and Mexico. In January 2013 Penguin published his textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character (“A writer’s bible that will lead to your character’s soul.” —Elizabeth Brundage), and Writer’s Digest published his follow-up, The Compass of Character, in October 2019.
Love this, David. Surprise is my favorite part of the writing journey. I’ve never quite believed writers who say ‘my character took over.’ ‘My character wouldn’t do what I wanted.’ That can’t be true. Not literally. The author is the one in charge, the one writing the story. But unless the author is willing to be still for a moment, to let his or her subconscious enter the page, there can be no surprises, no fun. I’ve created whole characters who were never in my mind at the start of the story and it’s so rewarding when it works. And when it doesn’t, well, it was still fun.
Thanks for giving us the right to surprise ourselves!
Thanks, Mary. The key is knowing when it works and when it doesn’t–and the courage to accept that and respond accordingly.
I have often heard writers say, “Once the characters started talking to me, the story just took off.” More than once, I’ve wanted to reply, “How unfortunate that they only spoke to you in cliches.”
The unconscious can be a gold mine. Or a big black box of mediocrity. Often the key to knowing which aspect you’re tapping into is that fearful feeling of being lost, but mustering the courage to step forward.
Great advice.
A similar RL story: We were once on our way to Shikoku to visit Ritsurin Koen, justly famed as one of the three most beautiful parks in Japan. However, strong winds closed the bridge between the main island and Shikoku, so our big express train was canceled.
But no worries: JR was going to get us there. They packed an express train full of passengers onto a small local train headed to a port city. We stood with our suitcases tight between our legs, cheek-by-jowl with all the passengers that fit — and it turns out, there’s always room for another passenger on a local train in Japan. Off the train went, stopping at each small station, and you could tell how many people got off at each — one, two, or maybe five — by how much more room you had when they did.
Then, at the port, on to the ferry, for a thrilling trip across the water to Shikoku, pushing through the big waves, having our faces distorted by the wind, and watching that wind lift small cyclones of spray from the water.
That detour, though slower than the express train, was a lot more fun and a lot more memorable. Met some nice people too. I was glad they’d closed the bridge — I’d gotten an adventure, instead of mere transportation, as a result.
Ritsurin Koen was beautiful, and I remember it well, but those packed local trains and that wind-swept ferry ride are things I’ll never forget it.
Regarding Steve James “Reader’s Paradox:” “Readers want to be able to predict where the story is going. And they always want to be wrong.”
Classic animal training teaches that to maintain a learned behavior, you want to reward it, at random, about 25% of the time. Any more or less than that and the behavior will begin to be less reliably performed. And if you reward the behavior 100% of the time, the animal may get upset and misbehave when you don’t reward them. (This is why state lotto games give a minor reward, like another ticket, about 25% of the time.)
So if surprise is the reader’s reward, you may want it to occur, somewhat randomly from the reader’s perspective, about 25% of the time, so that 75% of the time the reader will correctly predict what will happen, and 25% of the time they’ll be surprised. And that kind of makes sense: too little surprise leaves the reader bored, and too much surprise leaves them are frustrated by the chaos.
Perhaps the proper “surprise ratio” isn’t 25%. Perhaps it varies by genre. But it’s something to think about: how often am I surprising my reader, with something, in each chapter of my story?
I’m certainly going to think about it.
Surprise is the reader not knowing where the story will go; I don’t like it when the writer doesn’t seem to know.
Skip: Being a dog owner, I find that analysis fascinating, if a little disheartening (I’m clearly going about this all wrong).
I think you need to take into consideration levels of surprise. An interesting turn of phrase is surprising. A character contradiction is surprising. So is a plot twist. But they reward the hunger for surprise in different ways.
SJ adds that surprise is not created by withholding information. Rather, it’s created by supplying a lot of information, much of it misleading or irrelevant, so that the reader comes to the wrong conclusion. This makes the surprise still feel not just credible or logical but (hopefully) inevitable. It’s also what makes for a great punch line to a joke.
25% is maintenance level – you start training with 100% rewards (rewarding any behavior that is more like the desired behavior, in fact, even if it isn’t exactly what you want) and then taper off. I hope I can assume an adult reader is already trained, and just needs to have the training maintained. :)
I agree about not witholding information. The best surprise, like the best invention, is the one that was obvious in retrospect — the ones that make you say, “Now why didn’t I think of that?”
I often find myself going back and adding material to earlier sections to foreshadow and support a surprise that comes later — I write scattershot as inspiration takes me, but within the framework of an evolving outline and timeline – an approach I may have developed when coding complex software. Modern tools like Scrivener make that iterative and evolutionary approach easy, but it gives me tremendous respect for writers that created such foreshadowing of their surprises back in the Paper Age.
David, I’m happy to help your friend Max work through a few misconceptions, most notably that structure is the “problem” when it comes to creativity or predictability. It’s not. Even our mutual friend Steve James believes in the three-act structure, he just uses different terms: origination, escalation of conflict, resolution. Chris Vogler uses: The Ordinary World, The Ordeal, The Road Back. It’s how we relate not just to story, but to life. Remember the riddle of the Sphinx?
The issue is creativity and how to get at what Dwight Swain called “unanticipated but logical” twists and turns. These can be created in many ways. The mistake is believing that structural planning necessarily impedes the process. In fact, when understood properly, it can actually help it. It’s just another neural pathway. The wing-it-and-write pathway is not, therefore, “far more likely” to discover something surprising. It just feels that way because you’ve surprised yourself while writing. That’s a high. (I will add that not all highs are healthy, like the drunk guy who thinks he’s doing great at the Karaoke machine, etc.) The truth is happy surprises can be found in a planning process, too. Ask Jeffery Deaver, Robert Crais, Joe Finder, a guy named Patterson … structural planners all, and surprises galore. In fact, you can come up with more possible surprises via planning. When you get “surprised” as you pants, you usually settle on that one choice because it feels “organic.” But you could, therefore, be missing out on other, even better choices, which come from considering lists of possibilities in the planning stages. In my own planning, I surprise myself all the time, and in rapid fashion, too. With my index cards at Stabucks, I can sometimes be heard yelping.
Structural beats are there to help the lost pantser and prod the wise planner. In the former case, seeing the next “signpost” can stimulate the imagination and hearten the soul; in the latter case, every step along the way can create a surprise–the key is almost always not to go with your first choice.
Well, David, I’ve managed to surprise myself with this lengthy comment. Thanks for the thought sparker!
Thanks, Jim.
First, let me remove all onus from poor Max, since I’m the responsible party here, not only for the post but for the idea that plot points can hinder creativity.
Emphasis on “can” not “will” or “must.”
I taught a class on structure at this weekend’s Book Passage Mystery Conference and noted at the outset that the more you can think of story organically as beginning-middle-end and not be intimidated by plot jargon the better.
But beginning-middle-end (bless old Aristotle’s heart) is just the original statement of three-act-structure.
(I also pimped your books like a MoFo by the way, and strongly recommended in particular both Plot & Structure and Writing Your Book from the Middle.)
For me, pantsing vs. plotting has always been a false dichotomy. Whether you plow through your first draft or plan it out meticulously, you always start by telling yourself the story. Then you go back and shore it up–and plot points can be a great way to go back and look for places where the story sags or you made a weak choice, etc.
If you tell the story by writing the whole thing out, fine–but be careful of getting wedded to things you’re going to have to change or cut. If you plan meticulously, be sure you’re not just fleshing out an outline when you write the book, because that can often feel thin.
But I think if you say as you’re planning–Wait, I need a Point of No Return (or a Pinch Point or a Midpoint or a Whiff of Death or whatever) RIGHT HERE, you risk pushing your characters into actions they would not naturally do–thus, creating plot puppets, not characters.
Again, note my verb: I say “risk” not “inevitably wind up.”
I don’t know about you, but when I can watch a film and tell myself, “Okay, here comes the death of the ally (or whatever,” I don’t feel rewarded. I feel let down. When plot points work, they feel like an organic part of the escalation of the story’s action and tension, created by what they characters would naturally do given the increasingly difficult and unpredictable things happening to them.
I think we agree that surprise is essential. We even agree it can be generated using either method. But it’s also important to recognize that each method also has its potential pitfalls. Pantsing can lead to meandering messes. Planning can lead to predictability and plot puppets. Not “will” … “can.”
As for invoking the big guns of one method over the other, may I introduce our readers to Michael Connelly, James lee Burke, Jan Burke, Laurie King, and Kate Atkinson — pantsers all.
So, please consider my remarks more in the light of a “cautionary tale” rather than a “dogmatic screed.” Ick. Boo. Ooga-booga.
Finally, I’m sure Max was speaking of her own experience in workshops, where she has seen more inexperienced writers falling into the trap of thinking Plot Points are the one and only way. And then coming up with formulaic stories because they didn’t do the much more difficult and creative work you describe in your response and which I am trying to encourage.
Great convo (despite the “lengthiness” on both ends, for which I’m far guiltier than you). See ya soon in Pasadena.
Considering that you, er, recommended my books like an, um, enthusiastic teacher, I think we can indeed agree that cautionary tales are better than the Ooga-booga in these matters. But are they better than the Macarena? The way I do it, no doubt.
You’ve obviously never seen me do the Hokey-Pokey.
Some people, healthy and spry, can stuff a couple of pairs of jeans and a toothbrush into a backpack, fill their water bottle, and head out on an adventure.
Others, because of personal circumstances, must plan every detail, and have three backups for each potential emergency, because their bodies don’t have the capacity to improvise, do without, or find an alternative. We need as near certainty as we can get – because there is no such thing.
It depends on how bad we want to go somewhere.
Extreme plotting is an extreme sport – and exhilarating.
Agreed, Alicia. See my reply to Jim’s comment just above.
Just last night we returned to NYC from that fabled cross-country (and back) car trip. As we rounded the final bends of I-78 East in Jersey City, we saw to our right the glowing Statue of Liberty guarding the New York harbor. The great green lady was welcoming us back.
It was September 11th, as well, and straight ahead of us were the memorial twin beacons of light soaring up in the night sky, shooting higher than the Twin Towers themselves ever stood. They were, for me, the final reminder of the greatest lesson of our journey: Americans everywhere are decent, friendly, courageous, caring and good.
It is so wonderful to be home.
And back here at WU. Today’s topic is too vast, and I’ve already written too much about it, to reply at length. So I’ll just add a few thoughts.
Plot schemes can be a map, a diagnostic tool, a prison, or dynamite to blast out of same. It doesn’t matter how, when, or even if, you use them. What matters above that, ask me, are these factors:
That a story has an intention to make it matter.
That a protagonist has both a task to make us anxious and a yearning to make us hope.
That a story world is full of peril, but also inhabited by people full of goodness.
That an author is free of fear, inspired by truth, in love with words, and open to whatever a journey brings.
On our cross-country (and back) trip, we did follow a map…or rather, GPS, as you did too, David. But, oh, the surprises along the way! Our trip was poorly planned–indeed, hardly at all–but that proved lucky.
We could not have made it without GPS, but we would not have grown had we not sometimes stopped and been open to the great experience that is America.
Thus, in fiction terms, the map and the journey are not the same but where one leads you onward, the others leads you in–to your story, your characters and your self. Use both and you’ll never be lost–and always be unbounded.
So nice to connect with you today, David. And Jim, and everyone. Great to be home.
Welcome home, Traveler!
For some odd reason, your post, though being posted much earlier than others, didn’t pop up until just now (i.e., later than the ones below it in this thread). Did you somehow bend the time warp in your travels?
I have copied your short list of guidelines and taped them to my computer screen.
With one small exception.
An author free of fear, hmm. I will settle for one who possesses conviction, empathy, and purpose. (I’m not entirely sure we’re describing different things.)
Once again, welcome back.
Thanks, pal. My comments haven’t been posting in recent days, but Therese and Co have fixed the problem.
David, I was delighted to read your post, especially – “to surprise the reader, you’re going to have to surprise yourself. Or, to extend our journey metaphor: To go somewhere interesting, you have to risk getting lost.”
I’m in the middle of writing a short story that is surprising me. Whenever that happens, I’m delighted, as these are the moments that keep me working on my craft. That aha, that the character gives you when you let them roam in your mind and on the page.
I think, once you’ve been writing for a while, the structure is somehow embedded in your mind. Like walking or cycling or anything else. Once you learn it, you go to it naturally without giving it much thought. It’s then, you can free yourself for all kinds of possibilities.
I absolutely agree with that. All the pansters I identified in response to Jim’s comment are either old hands or natural storytellers–or both. Once you do your 10,000 hours, you get the knack of this thing, meaning you can let go a little and let your (now reasonably well-trained) unconscious take the wheel now and then.
Thanks for this, David. My husband and I just started watching Ozark, a new Netflix series with Laura Linney and Jason Bateman. So far I am hooked for exactly the reason you state: I think I know where it’s going, then, Surprise!
Surprises, when done well of course, are delicious and delightful. Humans are funny creatures, no?
Happy fall to you!
My wife and I loved Ozark, and yes, it provides numerous surprises all along the way. (Don’t worry, I won’t now spoil them for you.)
Now, to be fair, TV is very very very structure-driven, and have no doubt that those surprises were planned out before any scenes were written.
The key to creating surprise, whether you plan your stories or let them emerge, seems to be recognizing what “clues” you’ve presented as to where the story is going to go, identifying where the reader or audience is most likely thinking it will go, then asking “What if …?” Trying to find another logical but previously unforeseen result that is also possible. This may require going back and seeding the surprise without giving it away. Or it may be right there waiting to be discovered.
By the way, that reminds me. About Ozark. You’re really going to love it when they get to the part where…
No. I won’t do that.
Happy fall to you as well.
This post underlines my process in writing, but not in travel. Actually I don’t plan our trips, my husband does, down to every detail. But “during the trip” as you show in this post, things can change and often for the better. Enlightenment, excitement, joy. And I get how that compares to the writing process. In the end, each writer will defend their individual journey–how they write their novel, pants or plot. But also, in the end, change, surprise, a different road–should be welcomed, whether it’s on the “map” or springs out of nowhere. In most cases, it improves the journey.
Yes, I agree that going to Paris with no plan whatsoever is an excellent way to miss a great deal.
“How did you like the Louvre?”
“Never got there. Spent too much time in these really cool cafes.”
The key is to remain open to the unexpected. It’s seldom bad to plan. It’s rigid adherence to the plan that, ironically, is likely to “lead you astray,” i.e., keep your eyes locked on the map or the itinerary so you never look up and go, “Wow.”
Let me add: I’m sure your husband’s extensive planning gives not just you but him the freedom to, once on the ground, enjoy the experience as it occurs. Planning can also be liberating–another curious irony.
What a rich post this Tue morning, with sunshine streaming through the windows.
Great quote from Max and Mohr. I agree completely because that’s my experience too. Even in relatively short books like the picture book, you should see the delight in a child’s eye when there’s a surprise at the end. And it’s still brings joy after the 500th reading.
Thanks, Vijaya.
You just reminded me of a children’s picture book, “The Farmer and the Clown,” that my wife and I have given to several of our friends with kids. It’s a wonderful story with no words whatsoever, with a story you think you understand until the very last image, which delivers a very gratifying turn on what’s come before–surprising but inevitable.
“Readers want to be able to predict where the story is going. And they always want to be wrong.” Yes!
And “It’s a recognition that to surprise the reader, you’re going to have to surprise yourself.” Yes!
I feel I’ve always been uncomfortable with plotting and using pre-fab story structures (even when they are demonstrably successful) to plan a novel and maybe you’ve both hit on part of the reason why. Part of it involves the reader (Steven James’s point) and part of involves the process of writing (your point).
It all just feels so predictable and it takes away a lot of the fun of writing for me. And I recognize that plotting works well for lots of people and they manage to write unpredictable stories that way (I’d put my husband in that camp, an absurdly extreme plotter — we’re talking tens of thousands of words in his outlines, no exaggeration — who writes gripping and unpredictable suspense novels.) But for me, I find I can do only the most basic outlining, and only up to a point, and very quickly any outline I’ve tried to make becomes pointless because the story is leading elsewhere. I don’t often know my real story, my real point, until I get rather close to the end of the first draft. What I’ve ended up with so far are stories that agents I’ve queried in the past comment are “original” or “manages to pull off a unique story (which is a rare and pleasant surprise).”
I take that to mean that there’s a lot of formulaic stuff out there, and I’m not interested in writing (or reading) those stories. I know that there are authors who teach workshops about how to churn stories out as quickly as possible through what amounts to kind of a plot machine mentality. Plug in Character X with Past Wound Y and Goal Z and Plot Ensues. That’s fine if that’s what you’re after — volume –but that’s not why I write. The writing is as much for me as it is for readers. I’m not writing just to sell books, or even just to tell a story. I’m writing to work out my thoughts and my opinions about things I struggle with. And for me, that takes time.
I don’t mind working my way into a story, cutting a path through the forest and getting slapped in the face by a branch or two, rather than taking the well-worn freeway through so I can get to the destination — a finished manuscript — as quickly and painlessly as possible. I enjoy writing slowly as much as I enjoy reading slowly. And traveling slowly! Savoring the experience piece by piece, and each happy accident along the way.
We all have our preferred methods, and I’m not bashing plotting or using structural templates. It’s just not for me at this point.
Thanks, Erin.
I was on a revision panel at this past weekend’s Book Passage Mystery Writer’s Conference, and the panelists were Hallie Ephron, Mary Kubica, and Allen Eskins. And one point we all made in one way or another was: One of the most important things you will learn as a writer is how you work. And you will have to come to accept that process with its various pitfalls because it also reveals and demonstrates your strengths. Also: that process may change. (It’s changed radically for Hallie, who used to be much more of a planner and now is not.)
I wonder what it must be like having someone in the house with a completely different methodology. I imagine it was a bit of a challenge at first? Or were you already pretty comfortable with your own process?
Oh, we’re both quite comfortable with our own processes and feel no pressure whatsoever from the other to “conform” or anything. But very often our advice to each other when we hit sticking points doesn’t actually help. :)
When he delays the beginning of the drafting process because he’s stuck on his outline and doesn’t know where it will go (and the clock is ticking to turn in a manuscript), I suggest just starting anyway and figuring it out as he goes along. But that doesn’t work for him (or perhaps he’s not tried it…I don’t know for sure). But once he’s off and running, he NEVER gets stuck.
Which is the opposite of me. I could probably start a dozen books in as many days, but I always have a spot or two or five I get stuck in the middle somewhere. Sometimes it takes a few days or weeks off and then a solution presents itself. My last finished MS I was 70,000 words in and thought I’d finish and came to a screeching halt but I didn’t quite know why. I think it was a week or so later (maybe longer) that I realized the problem was the POV. I went back to the beginning and started over with this new direction and not only was able to finish that first draft but the story took on new plot and character dimensions I’d never planned.
So we both get stuck, just at different times in the process. Also, he revises very little. I revise a LOT and the story can change a lot during the revision. But the thing is, revision is my favorite part of the process, so it’s not a burden to me.
I think with his genre, suspense, pre-planning is important because of all the clues and red herrings you’re planting for the reader along the way. I don’t think I could write suspense because I’m better at gathering than planting. He’s laying down a thread to follow and in my writing I am more often picking up threads from various other places and weaving them together to make something else.
There’s definitely some truth to the need for planning in the suspense genre–for precisely the reasons you state. It’s one thing to have a lot of reveals and reversals. It’s quite another to know where they need to go to maximize suspense, tension, and meaning. I always need to think that through at least a little before I jump off the diving board.
Another story about last weekend’s conference: the title of the revision panel was “The Agony of Revision.” I kicked it off by saying that we should have named it “The Consolations of Revision” since it’s actually one of the more rewarding aspects of writing, since you’ve already mastered the always daunting and often terrifying blank page. (And as I advise my students: Writing is rewriting. But you can’t revise what you haven’t written.)
All three panelists agreed that revision was actually an encouraging if not always enjoyable process.
Afterward, Kathryn Petrocelli, who puts the conference together, reminded me that “The Agony of Revision” was actually the title that Guess Who had come up with.
Personally, I think following a rigid structure is actually a good thing for new writers who are overwhelmed by the very idea of writing a full length novel. It’s a great tool for beginners. I’m also fully behind the more experienced writers who choose to continue on that path. As most of those posting here have already said, each writer has a process that works best for them.
I’m more of a hybrid writer who uses some of the basic principles for plotting just to write a loose synopsis before I proceed with a book. I rarely stick close to it, but I like having a rough map to follow that will help me get my bearings.
As for the surprises, that’s one of my favorite parts. I have a game I play with myself that I call “planting easter eggs.” The eggs are small details loosely associated with the scene I’m writing which I hope to use at a later point in the story. At the time I drop the egg I have a general idea how I might use it, but that will depend on how things develop later in the story. I don’t overthink it because I know I can go back and get rid of it later if it doesn’t work.
It’s basically Chekov’s gun, except that I know when I plant it there’s a chance it will never get used. I just enjoy knowing it’s there, and pondering what I might do with it later. Talk about fun! I get butterflies just thinking about it.
Hi, Karen:
I agree that three-act structure can really help beginning writers organize their thoughts so that the mess of scenes and events they’ve accumulated (or merely conceived) can be shaped into a story. So many students I teach have “ideas” that really reduce to a situation and a lot of related stuff without the core structure of a story.
I love the “Easter egg” strategy, particularly since you have no idea how it may play out.
Wow – epic post, David! Getting to your point feels just like the exploration it commends. Nicely done.
I really enjoyed meeting Steven and seeing him speak at the Writer’s Digest conference this year. He got me thinking then, and you’ve spurred on my thoughts about my own work today. I guess sort of like you and Don were both heading across country—presumably to at least a general destination (as in a city, or at least a distant coastline)—I feel like it was a real boon to me to have a general destination in mind, story-wise.
When I first started researching Goths and Romans, I was all about Alaric. I was fascinated by the fact that he was highborn, was literate, and fought for Rome on several occasions. In fact, it was to demand payment and recognition for his service to Rome in the Battle of Frigidus, putting down the Frankish usurper Arbogast (fighting alongside the imperial general Stilicho, who later became his nemesis), that he first marched on Rome. Finding himself locked out, he laid siege to the city, and hence famously became the first “barbarian” to sack it.
It’s sort of funny that I set out, a bit over a decade ago, thinking I was on a course that led to a fictional version of the life of Alaric. During the setup and the initial twists and turns, I found myself further back in history (by about a hundred years). And even after five manuscripts, I’ve yet to even get to Alaric’s birth. I always think how lucky I am that he’s still out there, waiting for me to get to his story. And even though I know my destination, not just for each manuscript, but for the entire series, I’m still routinely delighted and often surprised by what I encounter each and every writing day.
So, what should I call it? Big picture historical plot goals by way of pantsing navigation? Not sure, but I’m still having a blast. Thanks for another epic essay and the usual insightful conversation in the comments your posts seem to generate. Wishing you safe travels with wonder at every serendipitous turn.
Hi, Vaughn.
Thanks as always for your uniquely kind and encouraging words.
I don’t imagine anyone starts writing a book with absolutely no idea where it is going. Isabel Allende this weekend said she often starts a book simply with the opening line, with no idea where it leads. But she’s already done incredible research and thoughts about the story in some detail.
In your case, the story seems to have evolved from a recognition that the so-called barbarian was quite possible the noblest character in these seldom-understood events. With that as a beacon of light in the darkness, you began youor greater exploration of how the supposed citadel (Rome) came to be in the state it was at that time, and who these supposed barbarous people really were, so Alaric could stand at the pinnacle.
Now, I’m just spit-balling with that, but it seems your story emerged from a unique insight, and the writing emerged from that. There’s always a germ of structure in any idea–it depends on one’s own strengths and weaknesses as to whether that structure gets fleshed out first or is used in revision to shape the story to its greatest effect.
Now that’s some damn fine spit-balling. Great food for writerly existential thought (in a sort of David Byrne-esque, “Well, how did I get here?”) Thanks again for your insight!
Excellent post, David. I’m a pantser who sees the virtues of thinking ahead (not necessarily the same as planning ahead). I’ve tried to learn about and apply techniques of “plotting,” but have failed. I end up feeling restricted–no, more than that, the story becomes mechanical in a “do this” then “do that” way. I do agree with you that there is a bit of a false dichotomy between plotters and pantsers–we are, after all, discovering the story as we go along. As for me, I’m always pleased when a character surprises me with what he does. Keeps it interesting. Thanks again.
Thanks, Ray. Will I be seeing you next February in San Miguel?
Fascinating (and surprising!) post that has put to rest at last the niggling worries about my inability to plot ahead of time. You’ve helped me ban my “should’ve outlined” devil, even if it means wading through the resulting messy morass.
Easier to outline first? Maybe for some, but like our side trip to the LBJ ranch on our cross country move, the 20-mile winding back road elucidated more about Texas than the interstate ever could.
And THEN, Josh Mohr pops up! Yes! As he also says: “F*ck Easy!”
One of my other favorite lines from Josh: “Nobody skips dialogue.”
As for Texas, we were traveling from Amarillo to Shreveport as part of a longer trip, and managed to pass through both Chillicothe (where there is a roadside market with a sign reading “Darn Good Candy!” with absolutely the most delicious pecans and pecan pie in the known world) and Quanah (where we bought a lariat-twirling, Stetson-bedecked crocodile made out of stamped tin).
The only reason to take the Interstate through Texas is to get to an adjoining state as quickly as possible. (And if that state is Oklahoma, I’d humbly suggest that, on reflection, you’re likely to realize that there’s really no big rush.)
Just to add something else about how different our processes can be: I attended the Colorado Gold Writers Conference this past weekend. The lovely Diana Gabaldon was the keynote and she facilitated several workshops as well. I attended most of them because I’m intrigued by what she has to say. In one workshop, she talked in detail about her writing process. Gabaldon does not write short books, and each one is terrifically complex, so one would assume she has a methodical approach to plotting. One would be very wrong. Gabaldon is methodical, but she’s also a pantser.
She writes her scenes out of order, and then knits them together later. She does not write first drafts; when she finishes a book, there is no revision. However, a scene can take her days to complete and she revises as she writes. Her process is to take the kernel of an idea, which becomes the core of her scene, and write around that.
I’m not saying her process is right or wrong, but she’s very confident in her approach and I hung on every word of her talks because I found it fascinating. Would I write this way? No. But I love how she talked about it, how her eyes lit up and how animated she became as she described her process to us. She’s a brilliant woman, a talented writer, and a professor of science with multiple PhDs.
Good discussion, David. Thank you for bringing up the topic.
Diana Gabaldon is a wonder. I remember Laurie King, another brilliant woman, once commenting on Diana’s process and finding it almost jaw-droppingly incomprehensible. Different strokes, as they say.
Thanks for your post, David. So timely. I’ve always been a pantser and love the amazing twists of plot and feats of character than present themselves. But I’m now writing the 2nd book of my 5 book series…for the third time. The plot, especially since it involves time travel, is just to big to wander through with clarity. After stopping for serious mapping, I’m adding and cutting scenes. This is new territory for me. I’ve enhanced and trimmed scenes before, of course, but inserting full plot points is tough.
Since part of my new process involved deciding what happens in my character’s future and pretty much how it will end, I’ve been wringing my hands about the next 3 books becoming stiff and predictable. I’ve just decided to draft book 3 in a similar manner as I’ve always written. I’ll refer to my basic ideas to aim for, but I’ll take the journey where my linearly winding path leads and keep an eye out for unexpected and interesting stops along the way. The Witty Miss Livingstone will continue to have her dinosaur-inspired moments.
Thanks again!
Hi, Sheri:
Time travel is always a bear. It creates logic problems that can turn your brain into a pretzel. And I can see how that would effect what you see happening in subsequent books. (Possible escape: Just because your character has been to the future doesn’t mean she fully understood what was happening. What she believes took place is only a very small part of a much bigger picture, and it’s what was “outside the frame” that you’ll be exploring when you write.)
I think it’s wise to trust your process. Good luck with the dinosaurs.
In a fine post with lots of nuggets, this quotation:
“Learn to respect the pages the reader will never see.”
–Joshua Mohr
Cursed with the unfounded notion that every page I turn out must be worth preserving and maybe even publishable (is there a better formula for writer’s block?), I have taken that quote and run with it. The unseen pages I generate are worthy of my respect, even of my cherishing. More pages = more respect? And more pages to follow, with respect and cherishing to await them. Thanks, David.
It was one of the smartest things I’ve ever heard about writing. When I said it at the revision panel, Hallie Ephron remarked, “Oh, that’s good.”
My only regret is that I didn’t come up with it myself.
Hi David! As the student whose outline apparently helped inspire the comment that inspired this post, I have some admittedly complex feelings about my role in this discussion.
As a writer, I’ve always leaned much farther to the “plotter” end of the spectrum than the “pantser” – as a bit of a control freak perfectionist with limited writing time, I feel as though some semblance of where I’m going story-wise serves me well. :)
This story, however, had resisted all attempts at a coherent narrative until you posted the discussion about the Unique Structure of the Love Story – and it was like something clicked in my head. It definitely felt like a breakthrough – I had a (bare-bones to be sure) structure for the first time in this story’s life! Cue excitement and renewed confidence!
And yet…after reading this I feel as though I missed the mark badly, and only managed to box myself into a Boring and Predictable Plot(TM) – the very last thing I wanted to do. As I mentioned in the class, I want to get everything right the first time (even though intellectually I know that’s just not possible), and it bothers me to no end to think I’ve made a mistake.
Hey, Tish:
First, welcome to Writer Unboxed. So nice to see you not only at Litreactor but here.
I have to admit, I’m of two minds about all of this, especially after such wonderful input from so many others. I stand by what I said, with the understanding there are beaucoup de caveats.
Remember what Max said when she offered her advice. You really were trying to apply some structure AFTER having thrashed around with your characters and story. So you weren’t marching your as-yet-unrealized characters in lock-step to some structural diktat. You were looking for a way to provide structure to a story you were already building, imagining, and exploring. I think that’s not only acceptable, it’s admirable–and I think most of the people commenting here would absolutely agree.
You will get locked into a boring plot only if you throw what you’ve already discovered and explored with your characters overboard for the sake of some artificially applied device. I don’t see you doing that — just as I didn’t see it when you used the guidelines I offered to shore up your story line.
So — you have not made a mistake. Rid that despicable thought from your lovely mind. More importantly, given who your characters are and their unique natures, the manner in which you fit their story into the general guidelines spares you from that Boring and Predictable Plot, because the way they meet those plot demands is rooted uniquely in them, not some artificially imposed mechanism.
Does that help?
Thank you David – that’s actually tremendously helpful. I was afraid I was being used as an example of “what not to do”, rather than “this is one way to do it – your mileage may vary”. I do appreciate the clarification, and the reassurance.
I’ll be on the lookout for your “Character of Plot” class at LitReactor – in the meantime, I’ll keep reminding myself that no matter how much my brain wants to say otherwise, success can be measured in progress, not perfection. :)
Before beginning this journey in fiction writing, I’d written–and still write–what must by now be hundreds of thousands of words of non-fiction. About half of that has been journaling, beginning with my first “Dear Diary” entry 55 years ago. The other half is mostly commentary, research, and reports (and a two-year stint reporting on a local governing body for a weekly newspaper). While journaling is, obviously, seat-of-the-pants writing, for other NF writing (eg. summarizing how a committee reached a particular conclusion) structure is a given.
When I began writing fiction it was because I wanted to try my hand at being creative, writing freely, so I began as a pantser. 4,000 words into the first story, 9,000 words into the second story, and (thankfully) 1900 words into the third one I was completely lost, feeling like an idiot, and ready to quit. And, honestly, if I hadn’t promised those stories to my grandchildren, I probably would have.
Fortunately, by then I had been reading WU for over two years, and knew that (1) frustration was common, and (2) there was at least one other way to write a story. After studying a few approaches to plotting, I re-started the first story, beginning with a ridiculously detailed outline. A few pages into that draft I realized I’d had more fun creating the outline than I was writing the story, and worse, as I wrote, new (better) ideas kept popping up, making it impossible to stick closely to the outline.
Now, like many writers here, my writing seems to be evolving into a hybrid of pantsing and plotting. I don’t seem to need a detailed map, just a general lay of the land and a destination–the point of the story, even if that point is as simple and time-worn as “look before you leap”, otherwise I’m a runaway train and likely to write right past it.
A most entertaining post today, David. I’ve been enjoying all the WU stories inspired by vacation traveling. Traveling does make a wonderful analogy for so many things. Thanks for sharing and for inspiring others to share their writing journeys, too. I swear, I continue to gain as much insight into my writing here as I have from books, classes, and workshops.
P.S. As a 63 resident of Colorado, it’s GlenWOOD Springs, where, once upon another life, I honeymooned.
Ack! No sooner did I read “GlenWOOD Springs” than I, like the dotard I am, thought: “But that’s what I wrote!”
Not.
Ahem.
My apologies.
Oh, and I think your journey in writing will resonate with just about everyone here. Thanks for sharing it.