Category: Plotting & Outlines

Essential blueprinting for your fiction enterprise.

Failure to Plan = Planning to Fail

r-avatarThe 8-page synopsis we talked about last week has spawned a bouncing baby outline, a whopping 26 pages long (!). Once you get back up from your fainting couch, let us hasten to explain. This is an incredibly detailed outline, including almost everything we know about the story and its characters.

Also, this is not an outline that your English teacher would approve of. It does not follow proper outline formatting. There are many instances of sections having a single subheading (an A with no B, for instance). We’re not concerned with getting a good grade on this, we’re concerned with arranging all of our plot knowledge into something like chronological order. Our notes included a lot of backstory, so we had to determine where in the action it made the most sense to introduce that information.

Some writers might feel like so many steps are unnecessary. Why do we need to have extensive notes, plus a Plot Rainbow, plus a multi-page synopsis, PLUS an outline? (And we haven’t even gotten to stubs yet.) Each iteration presents the plot in a different way, and each exposes areas where there are still questions, or where there is magical thinking going on. A solo writer might get away with being a little more seat-of-the-pants, but when you’re working with a writing partner, it’s vital that you both have a clear picture of what’s going on. You both have to agree on how everything is handled, and you have to be able to put your individual pieces together to form a coherent picture. If you’re working from different sets of assumptions, your prose jigsaw will be extremely frustrating indeed.

Taste the Rainbow

r-avatarAnd as the seasons change, so to does the focus of our work sessions. The majority of our sub-zero, knee-deep-snow-filled winter was spent in the auxiliary writing cave (aka the family room). Along with delicious hot beverages, a wood fire, and cuddling on the sofa, we indulged in copious brainstorming sessions. We filled an entire steno pad with notes before we were done. We used our brand new Apple TV to view some interesting research materials (and binge on Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt). We talked and talked and talked. And talked.

After all of that, we were finally ready to lay the whole plot out in a colorful grid formation that we call the Plot Rainbow. We’ve talked about the Rainbow before, but here’s a brief refresher: Each major character is assigned a colored column in the grid. We proceed chronologically through the plot, filling in what we know of each characters’ actions on coordinating note paper. Each beat gets its own row.

Here’s what our first pass with Son of Music Novel looked like:Rainbow1

(Please excuse the dog hair. Lady Marzipan is an olympic-calibre shedder.)

This plot has a large number of beats, which made the Rainbow particularly long. We laid it out in the hallway so we would have enough room. That probably looks like a lot of story beats, but we can assure you that they don’t all warrant scenes. Often one scene per row will cover the participation of all the characters. Other times, we make a card to note what a character is doing off-page. It helps us keep track of where everyone is and what they’re up to, even if it doesn’t merit inclusion in the final story.

RotatedRainbowWe spent an evening carefully combing through that first Rainbow, making notes about points that were still vague, or questions that were still unanswered. Then we retired to the auxiliary writing cave and filled in all of the missing information.

When it was time to lay out the rainbow again, we abandoned the hallway. Lady Marzipan is far, far too helpful, what with all the sniffing and tail wagging and walking all over everything, and it was much easier to just shut her out of the room. Conveniently, the auxiliary writing cave is just barely wide enough to contain the entirety of the New and Improved Rainbow. We added columns for a couple of secondary characters (bright pink and yellow there at the right of the pic). We added a few rows where we clarified some of the action. Throughout we edited cards and sometimes even replaced them with updated information. A few holes were filled in.

The New and Improved Rainbow gives a much clearer picture of the story we will write. It even held up to scrutiny when we gave it a thorough going-over.

When we stack it all up, it strains the capacity of the largest binder clip we currently have in the house.Stack

When Jen typed it all up into a semi-coherent prose outline/synopsis it ran 8 pages. Single spaced.

Next week we’ll talk about turning that pile of colorful paper and 8-page document into an actual outline.

 

Tightening Up The Geese

r-avatarOur outline is coming into shape. We know the overall structure and we have a reasonable idea of the way everything begins and ends. Of course, the vast majority of the details are still loosey-goosey.

That’s a problem, sometimes. So, as mentioned in the previous post, we occasionally delve into fairly granular levels of detail while working on an outline, even though things can’t be carved in stone yet. We need to manage the looseness of the gooses because there’s a compounding effect to the uncertainty in each scene. “Not sure how this one ends,” becomes, “or how the next one starts.” Leaving everything vague in your outline leaves you with only the mirage of an outline. It won’t have enough structure to serve as a useful guide when you start writing, and you’ll be pantsing it despite all the time you spent supposedly outlining.

So, on a shelf in the same closet where you keep your weasel-stomping boots, you should have a goose-wrench. But whereas those boots are made for stompin’ — no weasels when you’re done — the wrench should be applied selectively, and judiciously. Having some loosey-goosey areas is desirable; you just don’t want the entire outline flopping around. Identify the points through which your story must pass, and crank them down just tight enough so they don’t shift (although the rest of the tale can still pivot around them).

Naturally, this is yet another activity made easier by working with the right partner. Active discussion is an excellent way to figure out which story beats need the wrench, and how tightly to pin them down.

Undisclosed Locations

r-avatarWe continue to have our nightly discussions about the new novel. This past week, we debugged an action sequence that will probably be the tent-pole moment setting things up for the climax. In the process, we ended up kinda-sorta actually writing some of the details, even though that’s not what we set out to accomplish. Things started to crystallize, so we rolled with it.

The thing we did set out to accomplish also came together. Without giving anything away, we can describe the issue. This sequence takes place at an alternate locale from most of the book, a place that’s only known by one of the main characters. So from the moment we decided to set things there, we were saying, “Snuffy offers to let Clarence use the place for the meet-up,” because you see Clarence needs to do things covertly and Snuffy is the one with the connection to a secluded venue. But when we examined this, it didn’t sit right. Not that Snuffy wouldn’t extend the invitation, but Clarence really wants this whole thing kept quiet, so much so that it makes no sense to tell anybody (even dear, dependable Snuffy). We will instead have Clarence opportunistically arrange the meet-up at Snuffy’s place without telling him. The actions fit the personalities a lot better, plus it lays the groundwork quite elegantly for the major misunderstandings and inhuman acts of violence that follow.

It’s still possible to imagine doing some parts of novel-writing solo. The actual writing, for example, and mostly the editing and revising, too. However, for us it’s become nigh-impossible to conceive of coming up with — and ironing out — the plot by any other method than talking it through with a partner. It’s not just load sharing or divvying things up, it’s an interactive process that depends fundamentally on teamwork.

Like Riding a Bike (in the snow)

r-avatarLast week was the first time in what felt like forever that we managed to have a meeting of our critique group. It also marked the first meeting since the shifting of the group’s attention to someone else’s work, which led to some embarrassment when Kent started setting up to take notes rather than give feedback.

But it wasn’t difficult at all to get into the proper mode, and it felt damn good to flex some muscles that hadn’t seen a lot of use in the past year or so. Unless you count the fact that Kent and Jen give each other feedback almost daily… but that’s not really the same thing.

On the way to the car, we were chatting with our fellow author whose latest revisions are now the group’s focus. We talked about process a bit, bringing him up to speed on our status (still brainstorming, but we have about one-third of a preliminary outline now!). The conversation inevitably slid into mutual admiration. He shook his head in bewilderment about how we coordinate everything, while we stood in awe that he does it all by himself.

This week, we generated some (probably apocryphal) prose. It was the first new fiction either of us had written in quite some time, and just like with the crit session it felt fantastic to return to something that we hadn’t done in a while.

The outside temp might be eleventy-below, but with all this newness and fresh starts it’s feeling a little like spring in the Writing Cave.

Fools Rush In

r-avatarRune Skelley uses an extensive outlining process, predicated on the theory that well begun is mostly done. We devote a large amount of time up front and reap the benefits later. Kent finds this philosophy a natural fit for any kind of moderate- to large-scale project, because it’s a key tenet of best-practices software development: don’t rush into coding, because changes are much more expensive to do in code than on a whiteboard. And there will be changes.

So in fiction, don’t rush into prose. Writing is rewriting, and it’s wise to budget your heavy lifting for the places where it will pay off. Think of it this way: you’d rather spend money on an addition for your house than shoring up a sagging foundation. You expect the foundation to be solid, and if you need to work on it after the house is standing then something has gone terribly wrong.

It’s easy to imagine scrapping an entire chapter, say, once you discover where a story is going. That could happen no matter how detailed your outline was, but it’s more likely you’d be scrapping a line from your outline and never need to compose the chapter in the first place. There are more insidious traps that lack of preparation can create for you, though. Worse than a superfluous chapter is one that’s needed, and has much in it that you’re in love with, but suffers some systemic flaw. The main character’s voice finally coalesces in your head, and now there are passages that simply aren’t in that voice. The subject matter of a conversation needs to change, but you already worked so hard on that dialogue that you can’t hear it any other way.

There are people who extol writing with less structure, and there certainly are writers who have success via a totally unstructured process. Words like “fluid, creative, unhindered,” tend to get thrown around. Just bear in mind these three things:

  1. a sound plan is not the antithesis of creativity; you still need to make stuff up, and an outline doesn’t breathe life into your characters for you — you still have the opportunity to perform
  2. in the words of Dwight Eisenhower, “Plans are worthless, but planning is everything,” a phrase which here means your outline will certainly undergo substantial changes once you get started writing, and that’s okay
  3. given a large enough sample of writers, you could find successful ones following any process imaginable; choose or invent a process that speaks to you, but don’t be swayed by anybody else’s results

We’re not asserting that the best writers never have to throw anything away, or he writes best who writes least. Far from it. In addition to an outline, we often generate many pages of apocrypha, prose that’s never intended as part of the manuscript. It helps us get our ear in for the voices, among other things. A lesson we’ve learned is that it’s better not to use our first chapters as the getting-acquainted phase of that relationship, for the reasons mentioned a few paragraphs ago. It’s a ton of work, no mistake, but it’s a smarter-not-harder scenario. Having a good process increases the rewards, although it won’t necessarily reduce the efforts.

How do you approach the initial stages of a new project? What level of structure works best for you?

Substance Over Style

r-avatarOur current round of brainstorming is pointing out yet again why having a coauthor is such a marvelous thing. We’ve been kickin’ it old school, writing out notes longhand in a steno pad. It’s a great way to wake up different parts of the brain, but it’s also a great way to get a hand cramp. On those days when your fingers need a break, your collaborator can pry the quill from your gnarled fist and take over the scrivening duties. As long as you both have moderately legible handwriting, you’re saved!

A good writing partner has many uses besides that overly literal interpretation of the term. We know in broad strokes how the plot of our new novel will go, so right now we’re concentrating on fleshing out the major characters, filling in their backstories. Most of what we’ve been talking about won’t appear on the page, but it will inform the characters’ actions. We need to know who these people are and how they got that way. It’s the only way to make them feel real and fully formed. Details from their pasts often prompt plot points when we get to the outline stage.

So we’ve been flitting from character to character, having a grand old time gossiping about their secrets and what-have-you, until last night. That’s when we realized we’d been avoiding talking about the villain. He’s not a total stranger, mind you. We know several very important things about him, like his name, and what he’ll be doing in the novel. We know that he’s a very bad person, we just didn’t know how he got that way.

After chatting and throwing out wild ideas we whittled our list down to two possibilities. Option 1 has a really striking visual, and can probably be made to play nicely with the facts we already “know” about this guy and his MO. Option 2 is a bit more mundane, but opens up some really nice avenues for a character arc and some theme elements.

Obviously we chose Option 2, but the striking visual of Option 1 was very enticing. It’s over the top and gross and operatic. It represents a chance to really show off. It’s got style. Repulsive, dangerous style. Jen was having a hard time letting go, but luckily she has a writing partner. Kent was able to stuff his fingers in his ears and ignore the siren song. He argued for Option 2, for boring old plot momentum and character cohesion. And he’s right. The story overall will be much better if we opt for substance over style.

Never fear, Option 2 isn’t actually boring. It’s plenty disturbing and violent and sick. It’s just tame in comparison to the much bloodier Option 1. And we’ve filed Option 1 away for future use.

So maybe fear a little bit.

Madness In Our Method, But Not Like Back Then

r-avatarWe recently devoted an entire meeting of our critique group to the Rune Skelley Method. Jen and Kent brought the rainbow, and a hard-copy of the outline, and a few sample stubs. Our fellow authors were keen to hear details of how we use all these components in our process. How we do things, of course, is not necessarily what will work best for you. (But details are available at the links above, if you’re interested.)

The key is that we have a process.

You know you’re supposed to have an outline. You know that the more you road-test your plot before you start writing prose, the less likely you’ll get stuck. You know you’re supposed to get enough sleep, and eat your veggies, and not run with scissors. We certainly hope you’re heeding at least some of that advice, but knowing what you should do and doing it consistently are not the same thing.

That’s another hidden strength of writing in a partnership: you can’t get away with winging it, which forces discipline upon you. It makes you actually do the things you know you’re supposed to.

The conversation at our critique meeting spanned the entire Rune Skelley career. We didn’t always have a defined process — we didn’t know we wouldn’t get away with winging it, and wing it we did. We ran, with and without scissors. We wrote much of our first novel from inspiration, letting the characters find their ways into more and more trouble with little supervision. It built up effortlessly into a top-heavy mess. There was no outline, just a vague sort of mission statement for how it was all supposed to end. For a while, it ended in tears and an abandoned manuscript. We had to put it aside for a year. A year. We just stopped writing it. When we did go back, we largely started over. It took a long time and a gigantic amount of work to figure that book out.

What we know now is that all those impulsive maneuvers our characters came up with, which we spent months transcribing into elaborate prose, should have been explored in brainstorming sessions where they could be be debugged quickly, and where potentially better alternatives could more easily be considered. By doing all the exploration in long-form text (written longhand, BTW) we gave ourselves a huge disincentive to think about changing it. So when it became clear that we didn’t have a way forward from where we were, that something had to change, we needed that year off before we could face the task.

In contrast, Novel #5 worked the first time. There’s still work to be done, but it came out the proper overall shape in one go. We devoted a considerable amount of time up front to documenting what was supposed to happen, and fleshing out the setting, and analyzing the characters’ psyches. Considerable time, but way less than a year. And we didn’t have cry about it.

Time Lapse

r-avatarOne of the joys of collaborating on a writing project is how quickly you can accomplish things. With two sets of hands typing, the combined output can set a blistering pace.

After fumbling our way back into the writing process after being AWOL for a while, we’ve hit our stride. Each of us dove in on some of the scenes that had been patiently waiting, and our word-counter was a blur.

As is inevitable, we reached a part of the story that wasn’t amenable to tandem work. The plot was at a very kinetic point, with one scene cascading into the next like a chain of dominos. Even with our thorough outline and our scene stubs to guide us, the clockwork precision required to make everything seamless ruled out the ambidextrous approach. Sure, we could have winged it and smoothed out the transitions on an editing pass, but we chose a different method.

Since Jen is the resident stub-maker, she leapt in on those while Kent attended to the actual prose composition.

We’ve come out the other side of the tentpole moment with no time wasted, and a roadmap that will lead us to the very end of the story.

There are 14 scenes left to write. If we each tackle one per day, we’ll be done in a week.

Spoiler alert: We will not be done in a week.

Fine-Grained Collaboration

r-avatarUsually when Rune Skelley is writing a novel, the workload is divided up by scene. Kent and Jen work in parallel, each at his or her own desk, on his or her own computer, writing his or her own scene. We have both gotten pretty good at writing in the Rune Skelley voice, and our personal idiosyncrasies are smoothed out during editing. The Kent scenes become more Jen, the Jen scenes become more Kent.

Our current project has introduced a new wrinkle to our writing partnership. In a move that seems to be related to creating stubs, Jen has recently started writing little micro-scenes and then handing them over to Kent to finish. These differ from stubs in that they are, more or less, fully formed prose. Really brief sections of fully formed prose.

The first one was a seduction. Jen knew exactly how a pivotal point in the characters’ interaction would play out. Rather than risk losing its spark by summarizing it, or losing it altogether by backburnering it until it was time to write the whole scene, she typed up the part she knew, capturing the eroticism of the moment beautifully.

Kent had the challenge of working up to that exact moment, and then back out of it again, without disturbing it. He did a brilliant job, which emboldened Jen to write up several more micro-scenes that were rattling around in her head.

It’s a tricky way to work when you’re collaborating. A solo author can do exactly as he or she wants at any given point in the composition process. When you’re working with a writing partner, you need to be mindful about too many constrictions.

We believe that boundaries spark creativity, but too many boundaries can cause paralysis. A partner is a boundary of sorts, placing constraints on what you write, but in a good partnership that limitation paradoxically becomes a source of greater inspiration.