Category: Writing

To Outline or Not to Outline

Anyone who participates in the writing community for very long will certainly run into the great debate. Should authors outline before writing or not? I suspect the heat of the discussion stems from academic writing instruction, in which outlines are necessary for structuring arguments and organizing large volumes of factual information.

Certainly outlining can be a helpful tool in fictional worldbuilding as well. For a complex plot involving multiple characters and storylines, keeping track of where everyone and every event fits into the pattern is quite a challenge. Many authors do feel the need to outline their entire plot before getting started just to keep themselves on track.

Many others have a different process altogether. Their stories grow from a visual image, a title idea, a character sketch, or some other small detail, without any clear story to plan. For them, the story develops one person, event, or detail at a time. Each stems from the last like a tree putting out new shoots in spring. Such authors must start writing the beginning before the next step develops. Waiting to start until outlining the plot from beginning to end would mean their stories were never written at all.

As a “pantser” myself (by the seat of my pants – pantser), I acknowledge that this does present certain disadvantages. Where a plotter may have to cut thousands of extra words in the first edit, a pantser often adds thousands to fill in holes caused by meandering creation. Extra edits are often required (at least in my experience) to separate character voices and hone individual character arcs that might have been clearer if planned from the beginning. Writing time itself may be longer; where someone who can outline an entire story may be able to quickly work through their plan, a pantser may have difficulty with continuous writing due to constantly having to figure out the next step of the story.

I have tried outlining stories from the beginning, hoping to discover that clear path to the end, or even the end at all. That effort cost me months of productivity. I simply could not make things happen. So, a pantser I will continue to be, drifting along a piece of a scene at a time, taking the time required for all of the bits of story in my head to put themselves together.

To outline or not to outline, “that is the question.” How do you answer?

Blog Thursday: Description

https://www.writingforward.com/storytelling/42-fiction-writing-tips-for-novelists

What image comes to mind when you hear the word “rock?” Now imagine a rough, mossy rock. If you were told the rock was in a forest, what would you see? Would your vision look different if you read that the rough, mossy rock protruded from the loam in the deep shadows cast by ancient oaks?

Description tends to get a bad rap these days, probably because inexperienced writers often try to describe everything in their world at once without context, forgetting that readers first need a reason to care about what they are seeing. In the process of combating such boredom, others sometimes run to the opposite extreme, insisting that descriptive modifiers should be eliminated. Effective description lies somewhere between the two extremes.

The easiest way to add descriptive words is the way we all learned them in grade school. “The fat white cat lived in the creepy old brown house.” It’s easy, and it communicates facts, but it doesn’t make me want to read more.

“Coconut lay sunning herself on the front step, her round belly white against the brown boards. Her ear flicked at the sound of slow steps on the walk, and her nose twitched. Peanut butter. It was the one called Penelope again, the one who never stayed on the sidewalk like the others.

“Coconut lazily opened one eye, the tip of her tail rising and falling like a long, slow breath. Penelope’s forehead wrinkled, and the tip of her pink tongue protruded through set teeth as she took another hesitant step forward, staring at the weathered door above Coconut’s step. The cat waited until Penelope put a hand on the splintering handrail, then yawned and lurched to a sitting position, wrapping her tail around her haunches and fixing the child with a green-eyed stare. Penelope swallowed loudly, but reached one hand toward Coconut’s head with a weak grin.

“This would never do; Coconut had an image to uphold. Creepy houses did not shelter friendly cats. She arched her back and leaped straight into the air with a yowl that set her own fur on end. Penelope jerked backwards, whimpered something unintelligible, and fled. Mission accomplished, Coconut smoothed her fur with a few well-placed licks and stretched back to full-length in the sun.”

There was nothing technically wrong with the single sentence, but only one of those descriptive modifiers really crossed over to engage the brain’s sensory interpretation. We don’t absorb true sensory information so concisely, instead collecting tidbits of information and compiling them into an impression of our surroundings. That impression then engages an emotional response, allowing us to respond appropriately (or inappropriately) to those surroundings.

The use or lack of descriptive modifiers is not a determining factor for good or bad fiction. Whether or not our descriptive language can be interpreted as sensory information is what matters. Can you picture a cat behaving the way Coconut did? Can you feel the aging wood under your fingertips? Does your pulse quicken with Penelope’s mixed reactions? Can someone live within your world?

Reality Fiction

All my life, I was given the advice to write what I knew and only what I knew. For a long time I thought that meant I should only write about real life things that I had experienced personally, and disagreed with the sentiment strongly. Such an approach to creation stifles imagination, and doesn’t allow for the capacity of the human mind to learn from the experiences of others. Over the years, as I have matured and experienced more of life, I have come to understand that this interpretation could not be farther from the truth.

Have you ever watched a child play? Who do they become? What experiences do they act out? At my house we usually get a blend of superheroes, cartoon characters, and book people. These favorites fight a conglomeration of enemies, get married, hold jobs, have children, and travel. They squabble about things of childish importance with admirably melodramatic adult emotions. This is human creation, taking what we recognize and blending it all into an expression of who we are.

This is writing fiction. Even if a book is about impossible creatures or set in outer space or full of unhistorical characters, it is a reflection of reality. Every headline, every story, every image, every interaction, every moment that left an impression on the writer bleeds onto the page of a new story. Every character holds pieces of the writer and of everyone he or she recognizes in real life. Perhaps those influences are carefully and intentionally journaled. More likely they simply become so much of a part of the writer that he or she subconsciously transfers them to the page.

Write your mage who doesn’t know which side of a conflict to join. Write your space battles between aliens so entrenched in their own ideas they can’t understand each other. Write your sweet but strong-willed heroines, and your misunderstood villains. Write the argument you had with your friend into a flirtatious budding romance. Write your snuggles with your child into a hero who longs for family. Write what you know, and create what everyone can recognize: reality fiction, the human story.