Where Am I on the Spectrum of Plotting vs. Pantsing?
If you’ve spent any time in writers’ circles, you may have heard writers describe themselves as either a Plotter or Pantser. Or you may have heard writers deny the Plotter/ Pantser binary, insisting that we’re all really Plantsers at heart. I think perhaps we all really want to be Plantsers at heart. But often our creative impulses lean heavily in one direction or another.
For any readers unfamiliar with the terms, a Plotter is a writer who plans out her novel in detail in advance and has a clear sense of the story structure and character arcs before she starts writing. George R. R. Martin compares Plotters to architects, crafting careful blueprints before they ever move to the building stage. Because of all the pre-writing thought work, Plotters’ first draft often holds together fairly well. Here are some examples of Authors Who Are Plotters:
John Grisham (The Firm)
J.K. Rowling (The Harry Potter series)
Elizabeth George (A Great Deliverance)
Suzanne Collins (The Hunger Games)
Gillian Flynn (Gone Girl)
I admire Plotters tremendously. I could never, in a million years, do what they do. Which is not to say I haven’t tried. I’ve tried to outline my stories in advance many times. I’ve taken numerous writing workshops on plot and story structure. My bookshelf contains volumes focused on those craft elements, most of which, I have to admit, I’ve only half-read because I find the subject matter so intimidating. (But they’re still on my shelf because I still intend to read them.) Sometimes I stumble upon story outlines, even chapter by chapter breakdowns of an entire novel, that I’ve written. I’m inevitably amazed, thinking, “My goodness, how could I ever have thought the story was going to go in that direction?”
I have been a Pantser trying to be a Plotter, but I remain a Pantser. A Pantser is defined as a writer who writes by the seat of her pants. This means she figures out the story as she writes it. She starts with a character or an image or a conversation or a setting and asks herself, “What’s happening there?” and then she puts her pen to paper to begin a journey of discovery. Here are some examples of Authors Who Are Pantsers:
Mark Twain (The Prince and the Pauper)
Diana Gabaldon (Outlander)
Margaret Atwood (The Handmaid’s Tale)
Stephen King (The Shining)
Hilary Mantel (Wolf Hall)
Pantsers often write a full draft of a novel and then mull over what works and what doesn’t work. And then they write another full draft. And then another full draft, hoping, and in the best of all worlds, finding that each draft brings the story closer to its true essence. It’s not very efficient, I’ll admit, but that is how I write. I hope someday to produce a novel or five or ten this way.
I imagine my stories as living and breathing sculptures hidden within heavy blocks of marble. Before I start chipping away there are certain things I know. For example, for Hello, Honeymoon, the novel I’m working on (draft 2), I know the setting: part of the story takes place in Manhattan and part of it takes place at Pine Lodge (the setting of Fire Boy) and part of it takes place in the small town of Chestnut Falls in upstate New York.
I know the characters: the heroine is Marybeth, her best friend is Stacey, her brother is Henry, her parents are Mason and Beverly. The hero is Geoff, his best friend is Gabe, his sister is Claire, his mother is Priscilla, his nephew is Billy.
I know the time frame: the story starts in May and ends in August.
Somehow I know those things. And then, I’m standing before a big block of marble and I have a delicate file (if that’s what sculptors use on marble– I have no idea) and I start chipping away asking, “Is this what she wants?” “Is this what she’s afraid of?” “Is this what’s getting in his way?” “Is this how their relationship develops?” “Is this what threatens their love?” “Is this what they have to overcome?” As I make my way inside the big block, the marble softens into clay, and I’m able to put down the file and mold the story with my fingers, pinching here and smoothing there, trying to feel my way.
Last spring, I gave my first draft to my beta readers and learned that I didn’t unearth the full living, breathing story, though there were moments that resonated and felt true. Then I took a year-long break, partly to get out my book of stories and partly for health reasons. Now, I find myself facing a newly recreated big block of marble. I’ve started chipping away again, asking my characters, “Is this what you're dreaming of?” “Is this the reason it’s so hard for you to let someone in?” “Is this what you’re going to fight for?” “Is this what you need to discover about yourself?” “Is this your story?”
I’m eager to find out.