Showing posts with label pantsers and plotters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pantsers and plotters. Show all posts

Friday, 16 September 2022

To plop or to plot ...

To plop or to plot … that is the question. Well, mine anyway. I’m currently writing my next book and I’m excited and filled with hope about a new idea. My natural instinct is to launch right in, to plop myself down in the middle of a comfy chair and race into the start of the story (and eat the last of the biscuits). Such is my keenness to inhabit any new idea, to look and see what I might discover there - rather like a visit to a continental supermarket - that impatience can get the better of me.

Similarly, I’m a technical-manual-refuser. A gung ho gah-I’ll-learn-as-I-go gal. Give me a manual and my eyes will soon glaze and blur in much the same way they did at school in subjects that weren’t History or English (sincere apologies, Notre Dame Comprehensive, Sheffield). It's why I still can’t operate anything that hosts buttons and flashing lights in my house. 

Losing the story plot
Which is fine, I can live with the inability to change channels remotely. But with writing - more often than not - I find that if I do just plop into a new story without some serious plotting first, I risk officially losing the plot.

And so, for my past two novels, I’ve been purposefully increasing my pre-plotting time. I’ve found – for me anyway – it not only helps develop my story structure, but it can really boost better idea generation. More ideas help to form a tighter structure; a tighter structure often enables more ideas. 

Therefore, fresh from a summer of plotting and filling up more notebooks than Nancy Drew, here are some of the crafting exercises and activities I have employed to help me avoid too much plopping …

Plotting exercises

📗Charts: I do lots of these as I begin forming a story. They can include charting key Strands, Character Arcs, pivotal Crisis ChoicesCause & Effect.

📘Craft books: re-reading screenwriting books such as ‘Story’ and ‘Into the Woods’ – I find guides that set out the science of our craft can really help develop structure and brainstorm ideas.

📙The 3Cs: Conflict, Choices & Change. A bit of a cross-check for acts and chapters against these critical 3Cs.

📕Story analysis: In my plotting period, I tend to analyse and critique more books and films. Assessing their midpoints, climaxes, motifs, character arcs ... and reflecting on my own.

📗The Circle: I get a bit addicted to drawing circles, lots of them. I quarter them into four acts and review how my story comes full circle, how scenes might mirror one another, how characters develop over time.

📘Map of Connections: I map settings, external and internal, present, past or imagination and I chart connections between these settings and the characters’ journey arcs.

📙Layer Trifle: I layer up revelations like a trifle, with key twists until the final reveal.

📕Stage set: I often draw key scenes as if they were stage sets, examining where characters are in relation to each other and to the audience (the reader).

📗Remember the Reader: possibly the most important part of plotting. I ask myself how the reader might engage with my story. What do they expect? How can I subvert expectations? What questions do I want them to ask? How will this make them feel? 


As Kevin Costner said, almost, Plot and the ideas will come. So, these days, I’m a reformed plopper; a born-again plotter through and through. However, technical manuals? I believe I’ll continue to press my remote control like it’s run out of batteries and wait for one of my teenagers to come home.

     

      Alex Cotter’s middle-grade novel THE MERMAID CALL was published on 7 July 2022 with Nosy Crow. She has also written THE HOUSE ON THE EDGE. Find her at www.alexcotter.co.uk or on Twitter: @AlexFCotter

Tuesday, 15 March 2022

Template synopses Part III: the sense of an ending - Rowena House





Six weeks into a concentrated period of plotting my PhD novel-in-progress, a psychological drama based on a seventeenth century witch trial, I’ve drawn two main conclusions about using synopsis templates as planning tools.

Firstly, it’s about timing and knowing when to grab that favourite guide off the shelf or open that e-book. Second, and this is related to the first point, it’s about knowing where you most need help.

Example 1: for my debut novel, The Goose Road, synopsis templates – and the planning systems that underpin them – came to my rescue after I’d got a comprehensive rejection email from Andersen Press, a generous analysis of my MA manuscript which proved to be an invaluable editing tool.

An anxious six months later, Walker’s Mara Bergman, a wonderful editor, offered a raft of great suggestions about how to make Angelique’s story publishable.

It was the combination of Andersen’s and Mara’s advice and my own imaginative ‘knowledge’ of the story that got The Goose Road over the publishing line, but only because I’d learnt by then how to order these new elements ‘properly’.

Basically, the templates I needed back then were those that helped me to spot what was missing in the narrative and, as a consequence, why the story flagged.

With the help of James Scott Bell’s Complex Plot Grid from his Plot and Structure guide, for example, I re-wrote the manuscript so it told a staged but linear story, with all its energy and drive focused on Angelique’s journey.

This structural/development edit didn’t create the story, however. Nor did vast amounts of work with plotting systems and template synopses save the umpteen failed book twos I’ve started and discarded since then.

Why, then, have the past six weeks working with template synopses been so exciting?

That’s example 2. 



The plotting systems I’m finding useful now aren’t spotting gaps; they’re talking about overall structure and how to arrive at the best end possible. They work, I think, because two years of research, character building and experimentation with voice have provided a wealth of specific ideas to test out against their templates.

The PhD itself is handling all sorts of other stuff, like why I’m writing this story at all, and what I hope to achieve with it; I’d also delivered to my supervisors an outline for a dual narrative and twin timeframe, which got their thumbs up, before setting out on this current voyage of discovery.

Meanwhile ABBA blogs, plus notes on my Facebook author page, offer a means to analyse my writing processes in a non-judgmental way.

What was missing was the cool professional voice which say, yeah, that’s okay, but that bit sucks.

Enter the story gurus and their synopses. 



Past experience has proved that writing my way into a story is guaranteed to end in a hellish place of confusion and disappointment. Thus, when instinct suggested synopsis templates as a subject for the January ABBA post, I believe that was my subconscious saying, hey, dopey, here’s what you’ve got to do next.

That’s what I mean about timing. Last time I needed help after rejection. This time, before drafting a full manuscript. Next time (if there is one) maybe it will be after a first draft or whenever the brain yells, Stop! You need help, girl. Go find some.

This, I suspect, is why Bell’s Complex Plot Grid didn’t come up trumps this time. I’m asking different questions, and can’t expect answers from the same places (although his Writing Your Novel from the Middle again proved a good cross-reference for other guidance about midpoints).

Story Grid, on the other hand, once re-read in full, simplified a complex structure of time shifts, jump cuts and dual narratives into a logical sequence of external and internal progressions spanning five acts. I had faith it could be done; Shawn Coyne helped me figure out how.

In the past two posts I’ve gone on enough about Jeff Lyons’ plotting systems for anyone to think I’m his PR agent, so I won’t mention him again except to say my fandom extends to shelling out $325 to do his Anatomy of a Premise Line online course. Starting Wednesday. Ye-ha. That’s not to say he is the ultimate guru; it’s just his system is a good fit for the work-in-progress.

Last month I was struggling for a metaphor to describe this process of using templates as test beds for creative ideas. On Twitter, I suggested it’s futile to invent the wheel for each story, so nab someone else’s and give it a spin.

Lately, I’ve stolen another image: a mansion of many rooms. Open each template door and see if you like the layout and décor. If you do, go in and sit awhile, then design your own room.

Or maybe it’s best to stick with Stephen King and his On Writing toolbox. Template synopses are gadgets that help make stories better. When you need one, dip in.

For what it’s worth, at the start of this plotting process I thought I would be ‘nailing the story down’ and wrestling my work into shape. The story itself felt like a force of antagonism I had to get under control.

It’s not been like that in practice. And it’s not been about solving technical questions, either.

Working with plotting systems has been fluid, creative, and energizing. It’s been about opening some doors and closing others. It’s been about making more informed choices about the material I’ve got and finding out where I need more.

Working deliberately and carefully with these guides has also silenced the inner demon that insists planning is procrastination and makes snide remarks about how few words I’ve written. The story will be better for thinking first and writing second. I’m sure of it.

Twitter: @HouseRowena

Facebook: Rowena House Author

Website: rowenahouse.wordpress.com

PS I’ll close this series on synopses and plotting now, without, as promised, talking about the OCEAN-based character arc system until I figure out if it’s useful again this time around. ''ll post links to the original ABBA articles about it on my FB author page in case anyone is interested.






Wednesday, 15 July 2020

What versus How: chicken & egg or plotting duet? - by Rowena House



The other day, while re-reading notes from a 2017 Arvon week on writing non-fiction, an idea for the structure of my fictional work-in-progress suddenly jumped off the page.

Why not start with Act III, where the conflict is at its most direct and life-threatening for the protagonist, and reveal the build-up of Acts I and II during the final climactic days of the story?

Up till then I’d been wedded to a linear, chronological narrative so this was radical stuff. But, like many writers, I’ve learned to trust flashes of inspiration; they’re not necessarily the answer to a creative problem, but usually they flag up something important, like signals from the subconscious warning of trouble ahead.

Now, it turns out that the ramifications of such a major structural shift are far wider than I’d anticipated (more about that in a bit) but what helped most in terms of understanding my own writing process was a second eureka moment.

This second epiphany came courtesy of Emma Darwin’s PhD thesis which I’ve downloaded from the British Library to flesh out her excellent introductory guide and aide memoire, Get Started in Writing Historical Fiction.

In her thesis, she quotes David Lodge’s introduction to After Bakhtin: Essays in Fiction & Criticism published back in 1990. In it he says creative decisions about structure and voice are taken “prior to, or at a deeper level than, the articulation of the text in a sequence of sentences”.

Emma Darwin links this to “problem finding” as discussed by Richard Sennet in his 2008 book The Craftsman: “Formulating a rational question is one method of problem finding, since the answer may be supplied from the deeper level by intuition.”

Thus, being aware of the need to find problems is a way to combine rational thinking about a story with the intuitive creative process which taps into our deeper levels of consciousness.

As a story planning technique, problem finding is therefore neither plotting nor pantsing but a fusion of both.

Which sounds pretty damn useful to me.

To test out this intriguing approach, I decided to apply problem finding to my Arvon-inspired, intuitive structural ‘solution’ and see where it led.

The first step was to turn the issue at hand into rational questions. So here goes...


1st rational question: if my subconscious is offering me a solution to a problem which I hadn’t even begun to think about consciously, what is the problem?

Answer: a linear narrative will take too long to get to the central conflict.

2nd rational question: OK, accepting that for the moment, is starting at the final act necessarily the best solution to this problem?

Answer: I haven’t a clue.

3rd rational question: Can I find out?

Answer: sure thing. Back in a bit…

Now, it’ll take quite a while to work through the plot implications of reworking the action of the story into a series of revelations, plus flashbacks, within a tight timeframe.

Perhaps more importantly, however, exploring these two structural options is highlighting major questions about the core of the story itself.

For example, for my Story Grid (thank you, Shawn Coyne) Voyage and Return is pencilled in as the internal plot/genre. The Voyage is my protagonist’s journey of discovery and his Return the consequences of what he’s learnt.

I had imagined keeping the reader close to his lived experience of this journey, learning ‘truths’ alongside him. This would be Plot A.

The external genre, an Historical Why-dunnit, was in some respects meant to be a feeder plot to the primary story, providing the specific historical context for a timeless psychological journey.

In other words, the real story would be in the subtext, rather than the obvious historic events.

But what if a revelatory, unfolding plot could deliver this story in a more compelling, dramatic way than a slower, linear journey? Should the psychological narrative be the main story after all?

Certainly, whydunnits are mystery plots and therefore natural habitats for revelations and unfolding, unravelling stories. And my 17th century mystery is rich in political machinations, desires and betrayals, especially among characters other than the protagonist.

 And aren’t desires, machinations and betrayals more fun that tortured inner journeys?

What if [scary rational thought] my subconscious knows a lot more about storytelling than ‘I’ do, and is wildly signally at me to stop being so bloody pretentious?

Which makes sense really. *every other writer rolls their eyes at this point and mutters, Just get on with the damn thing* [Which I would do had I the time and headspace as per the last ABBA blog.]

Anyhow, whatever the outcome of the structural debate, this episode has resolved a perennial chicken-and-egg dilemma: which comes first, content or structure, the What or the How of the story?

Neither, it turns out, not for this work-in-progress at any rate. The What and the How are a duet. Definitely. 100%. I just need to find out what song they’re singing.

Twitter: @HouseRowena
Website: rowenahouse.com
Facebook: Rowena House Author 


Wednesday, 11 December 2019

Shh! I have a plan - Kelly McCaughrain


I have recently undergone a religious conversion. Having been an Orthodox Pantser all my life, recently I’ve been having doubts (forgive me, St Kerouac for I have Planned).

When I think about it, was I ever really that committed to Pantsing? If asked, I’d have given the standard answers about why I write by the seat of my pants. Ie:

  • Story comes from character
  • If I plan it, I’ll lose interest in writing it
  • Planning leads to formulaic fiction

In the Plantser Wars, Pantsers have tended to be disparaging about Planners. Stephen King said, “Outlines are the last resort of bad fiction writers who wish to God they were writing masters’ theses.” Margaret Atwood said, “I couldn’t write the other way round, with structure first. It would be too much like paint-by-numbers.”


I honestly did believe all the above reasons for my Pantsing. Flying Tips really did feel to me like it was written by my main character, I was just along for the ride. But, as Pantser Pierce Brown says, this kind of writing is great when it works. “I sit down at my computer every day praying for a lightening strike.” The thing about lightening strikes is they’re rare (and actually, never strike the same place twice? Which might explain why I’ve been having a nightmare for the last couple of years trying to recreate that experience.)

Also, I suspect my first book was written that way because I had no idea how to plan a novel when I wrote it. It was only after I finished it that I discovered things like Midpoints and Inciting Incidents. Never heard of them before (despite having studied an undergrad degree in creative writing – universities don’t believe in Planning. They’re firmly on the snooty side of the Plantser Wars and only teach you how to write beautiful sentences and esoteric short stories and experimental prose poems that you can send off to all those publishers just crying out for such things. Oh no, wait…)


Chuck Wendig suggests, “…some writers are natural pantsers, others are pantsers-by-default, pantsers-by-laziness. They do not plan, they do not outline. They don’t because it’s hard. And frustrating. And irritating. That’s why I didn’t used to do it.”

I may have been a Panter-by-default, purely because I didn’t know any other way of doing it.

Somehow I got lucky with Flying Tips. The structure was fine without me thinking much about it. I suspect that all writers do know intuitively how to structure a story, and I’m not saying that it’s something you need to go and learn.

What I am saying is that, if you’re doing it without consciously thinking about it, then it’s like being let loose in a city, in rush hour traffic, blindfolded, having been told to find a Starbucks, as opposed to being given a map and a bus pass.

And make no mistake, you are doing it. 99% of even the most experimental fiction by the snobbiest Pantsers has exactly the same bones as genre fiction. So if you’re going to end up in the same place anyway… why not take the map?

(And anyway, we’re writing for kids, and if there’s one thing we know about kids, it’s that they like structure. They’re psychologically damaged by the lack of it in their lives, so maybe they like a bit of it in their fiction too? You can write scary for kids, but you have to do it within a safe structure.)

I think the fear of Planning is rooted in a fear that the story will become cardboard if you overthink it. I get that, and I’ve avoided planning for that reason. But I've also spent the last few years stumbling around blindfolded, being hit by trucks and expending much time and energy trying to magically stumble onto the right path and the truth is I am tired and bruised.

So I read Into the Woods by John Yorke.

 

 And Lo...

First of all, the book is just a fascinating read. Even if you’ve no intention of planning your novel, you should read it, in the same way that artists study human anatomy with no intention of ever performing surgery. We all know that something in our brains is hardwired to find certain structures satisfying. This book explains why and how those structures work, and it uses a lot of film examples (because everyone is familiar with them) so it’s easy to follow.

I’ve had an idea for a story in the back of my mind for years now. I’d written about 30K words, I knew who the main characters were and, very roughly, what would happen. But I hadn’t launched into it, mainly because I was struggling through something else, and partly because I was just overwhelmed by the idea of putting on the blindfold and heading out there again. 

This is an extremely inefficient way to get around

But as I read Into the Woods, I started thinking about it. And taking notes. In the chapter about plot points, I identified all of mine and wrote them down. When it talked about symmetry and mirroring, I examined my plot and discovered how I could do that. I ended up writing 25 pages of notes on the plot.

As well as clarifying my idea, this also filled in several gaps for me. For example, my story seemed to fit the 5 Act Structure really well, but I’d assumed a particular event would be my Third Turning Point. Having read Into the Woods, I realised it wasn’t, it was my Midpoint. Normally I’d have tried writing it, got to the 60K word mark, decided it didn’t work (I do this a lot) and gone back to the start, over and over, wasting months of my life and getting more and more tired before I stumbled on the right answer.

 

My characters also became clearer. I knew how I wanted one of them to emerge at the end of the novel, but that meant she had to be the opposite of that in the beginning. I could have written most of the book without realising this and had to start again.

I took my notes off to a hotel in Galway for a few days. I brought Into the Woods, my notes, all the research I’d done (I spent a month just reading about the subject matter), and an old roll of wallpaper and a pack of index cards. Three days later I emerged with 5 acts, laid out in order, each act containing its own mini-inciting incident, crisis and climax. 

Et Voila!
I’ve identified all the ways the characters/themes/scenes mirror/foreshadow/highlight each other. I know what the purpose of each event is in relation to the whole novel. I’ve made sure the character arcs are complete and keep pace with each other. I know that the ending answers the questions posed in the beginning. I know which questions to ask in the beginning. I know which themes to emphasise and where to emphasise them and I’ve identified which threads/characters didn’t go anywhere and now I won’t waste weeks writing them.

And I still feel enthusiastic about writing this book. In fact, I feel more enthusiastic because I don’t have that sense of dread and ‘what if I’m about to waste a year of my life’ going in. I’ve never felt so confident and excited about beginning a book.


Pantsers like to say that Planners write plot-based novels as opposed to character-based ones and that they’re too reliant on plot rather than emotional development or actual writing. I actually think it’s the opposite.

I think I’ve always avoided planning because I’m not that interested in plot. I hate trying to develop plot, I find it really hard. The idea of writing a whole plot in advance is scary. So I’ve always launched into character and let the plot unfold in its own torturously bumpy way.

But having created a plot plan in advance (and had the help of a guide to do it) has taken all the pain out of that process and I feel like I’m now going to be able to really enjoy the writing and the characters because I don’t have to think about plot. For the first time in a long time I feel really excited about getting to write something, and that feels incredible and long overdue.

The emotional arc of your characters is as subject to structure as anything else. The reason a character’s emotional journey feels believable, feels ‘right’ to us, is because it follows that structure. The reason we find certain structures satisfying comes from psychology. Structure doesn’t constrain the character’s emotional journey, it’s a product of our innate knowledge of how believable human beings react to things.

I am absolutely not saying that I’m married to this plot plan or that you can’t break the rules when you start writing. And I didn’t start making the plan until I had the characters' voices established and I’d written the opening and knew roughly where they wanted to go. Character will always be more important to me than plot, but I doubt any Planner writes their plot plan before they create their characters.

Probably everyone's somewhere on the Plantsing spectrum. Apparently a lot of committed Pantsers are also Pants-on-fire-sers. 

 

Vonnegut claimed he wrote his books in one-off sessions, but his son says that he’s found loads of planning notes and drafts among his papers. Kerouac’s stream of drug-induced consciousness actually took him nine years from conception to actually sitting down to write.

Plans for The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

Plans for a short story by Jennifer Egan

Norman Mailer's Character Timeline

Faulkner's outline for his Pulitzer Prize winning story 'A Fable' on his office wall

Joseph Heller's Catch 22

and of course, JK's Order of the Phoenix
See, they're all doing it.

I guess everyone has to just do what works for them. But it’s crazy to say you’re a Pantser just because you’ve never actually looked into story structure, and vice versa. Stephen King compared Planners to “bad fiction writers who wish to God they were writing masters’ theses.” Well, the thing is, I’m really good at academic writing. I wish I were writing a masters’ thesis. Because that’s a process I’ve always been able to handle. But I went into fiction writing thinking it must be very different. ‘Real’ writers never make notes or graphs, surely. That’s for our sworn enemies, the mathematicians. Real writers turn up in a floaty nightie, light a candle, sacrifice a small animal and let the muses come. 

Remember to also be pretty and use a typewriter
But why shouldn’t I use a process that I know works for me? (And what’s wrong with academic writing anyway? The best non-fiction writing is as much about structure and storytelling as fiction is).

So my crisis of faith has led me here, to a point where I have a plot plan ready to go and I’ll be starting to write over Christmas (taking occasional breaks to evangelise all my writing friends). I’m hoping it’ll save me time, energy and tears. 



Of course, this is all theoretical and a big experiment so far and I won’t know if it works until I actually write the book, but I’ll keep you updated on my progress (I think you could hardly avoid hearing about my progress, soz).

Wow, this was a long post. Would love to hear your thoughts. Sorry I’ve rambled on! I didn’t plan to.




Kelly McCaughrain is the author of the Children's Books Ireland Book of the Year,

She is the Children's Writing Fellow for Northern Ireland #CWFNI

She also blogs at The Blank Page

@KMcCaughrain