Always before, when I would think about writing, I felt like I was really good at the openings, and not too bad at the endings, but I never really visualized the middle of a book. Plotting was beyond me.
This journey has been eye-opening. Now, not only can I plot, I can weave multiple red herrings in and come up with a pretty neat (I think) book. Go, me!
That’s not to say it’s easy, because it’s not, no matter what anyone else tells you. Writing for yourself is one thing, writing something others will want to read is something else entirely. It’s daunting. It’s scary. It’s putting yourself out there in a way you never thought you would. And it’s enormously rewarding. Emotionally, I mean. Financially … well, let’s hope so!
One of the first things I had to learn was “what kind of writer” I am. Am I a pantser (someone who just starts and writes without a plan, by the seat of their pants)? Or am I a planner (which is just what it sounds like – make a plan, have an outline, follow a schedule)? Or maybe I’m a “plantser“, someone with a little of both. Through the course of this past year I’ve discovered I’m a plantser. When I get on a roll, I just go with it, letting the characters and circumstances lead me where they will. But at some point I have to have an outline of the entire book, and a clear path to guide me along the way, whether I strictly stick to it or not.
Oddly enough, I’ve discovered it’s very difficult for me to write if I don’t have a working title. Titles, it turns out, are an important part of my planning.
But, I don’t start with an outline. I start with an idea. Something happens that I observe or experience or hear about that sets my imagination off. Here are some examples:
-A battered, beat-up bus shows up in the neighborhood, parked on a corner.
-An old man drives across country in his pickup, pulling a pop-up camper, his little dog his only companion.
-The atmosphere of a place (in this instance, a river) feels dark and menacing, sparking research.
Typically I title the work next. Yes, even without a premise. In the above examples, I have:
–The Whirly-Gig Man
–Dead Man’s Run
–Whatever Happened to Junie Talbot
Next comes the beginning. I like to think I’m really good with beginnings. They can be atmospheric (usually), humorous (less likely) or just informational. For example, here’s the start of Dead Man’s Run:
Mo knew a storm was coming, his doggy senses finely tuned to feel minute pressure changes in the air. But not today. With a sniff he continued to explore the fascinating woods around the camper.
His master wasn’t around to stop him.
Mo couldn’t tell time, didn’t know when they started on the road in the rickety old truck, pulling a rickety old popup camper. One day was much like another to him. As long as the rickety old man was around, he was fed and watered and petted and talked to. The old man would make sounds with his mouth and Mo would bark or whine, making the old man show his teeth in the way that Mo had learned meant he was happy. Mo liked that part.
Right now, though, he was alone, his tail wagging constantly at the new and varied smells. This was his newspaper, all these smells. They told the story of what had been by and how long ago and where they went. He liked smells. Urine was the best, but some animals left other, puzzling scents. He liked those, too. He thought if he had enough time he might learn what they meant.
His stomach growled, distracting him. He lifted his nose from the ground and looked up. The camper was right over there, the rickety old man inside, waiting to feed him. The newspaper would have to wait. Mo trotted over.
A new smell. Mo almost hurt himself, stopping so suddenly. A smell that raised his hackles and had him emitting a soft growl. A smell that shouldn’t be there. He followed it carefully, slowly, a sense of danger filling him with unease. It led to the camper. Mo’s doggy sense alerted him that something wasn’t right.
In fact, something was very wrong.
If I can’t come up with a title, I jump into the opening, hoping to get some inspiration. Here’s the opening for an untitled book I’m working on:
The girls were just eight when Pa walked them into town and left them at the Baptist church.
The morning started out normally enough. The girls got themselves up and dressed for “school”. They didn’t really go to school—no one would take them—but Pa insisted they dress for the day, so they helped each other with their buttons and buckles and hair and went downstairs for breakfast, which consisted of cold oatmeal and biscuits, leftovers from dinner the night before.
They ate at the little table scrubbed almost white, chairs wobbling. Ruby took the big spoon because she was the oldest by 3 whole minutes. Emmy and Dee used the little spoons. Pa had already eaten and Ma …well. “Least said, soonest mended,” Pa said, but the girls didn’t know what that meant.
When they were done they washed their bowls and spoons, their faces and hands, and headed outside.
The rest of the day was lost to them. Except the part where Pa walked them into town and left them at the Baptist church. They all remembered that.
I work until inspiration runs out, then stop and begin thinking about the rest of the book and the outline I’ll build. It’s such an interesting process!
Are you a writer? I’d love to hear about your process. Are you a pantser, a planner, or a combination? Do you jump in the middle, write scenes out of sequence, begin at the end? Where do you get your ideas for stories?
That’s it for now. I don’t intend to post every day, but hope to about once a week. I hope you remain interested enough to check in once in a while!
Thanks for listening!