Storytelling for Pantsers

by Annalisa Parent

Oregano. How much? Umm, a pinch, maybe a little more. Stir it and see.

  Garlic. How much? Well, a lot. (We are Italian, remember?) A clove, another clove, then some more…

  You get the picture. The same is true for all the ingredients. (You didn’t think I was actually going to give you the recipe, did you? What, do I want to get disowned?)

  This sauce simmers (and makes all of us drool) for a minimum of 24 hours and every hour or so, Ma gets up, stirs the pot thoroughly, takes a taste off the wooden spoon, adds a pinch of this, a shake of that, stirs again, replaces the lid, and moves on.

  This thing we do—writing, being a pantser—is a lot like Ma’s sauce.

  I can write an entire chapter on oregano, its merits, why it’s essential to sauce, the ratio of oregano to garlic, but what?

  1. It’s only one ingredient. You have to understand them all and how they play together before you’re really ready to make a sauce.

  2. You’ve got to keep going back and tasting, tweaking and revising. Add a little character, a pinch of pacing...

  Now, I know I’ve made you hungry and you’ve already called Antonio’s for a reservation tonight, but here’s the bottom line: This idea is the most important one in this book:

  You don’t need a checklist or a recipe or a—anything else.

  Ma knows the sauce is done when she tastes that it’s done. The sculptor knows she’s done when she feels it.

  Give yourself permission to be an artist. Feel within your piece. Breathe with it and sense it.

  It might sound a little out there, but the more you can have a sense for the pulse of your piece, in other words how all these elements are working together, the better your writing will become, and the easier.

  Don’t be afraid to go back and taste. I go back and reread what I’ve written as a regular part of the process, to get the flavor for where I’ve been, and where I want to go next.

  Also, be patient with yourself. Ma was not born knowing how to make sauce—no matter what she tells you about her Italian blood.

  There were times, I’m sure, where there was too much garlic, not enough oregano—over time and through making sauce, she learned when to add this, when to turn up the heat, etc.

  So, too, will you learn the nuances of writing through active practice. This is why writing is the most important thing you can do to become a writer.

  How to use this book

  Because of the vortex nature of the writing process and because there’s no formula for writing a fiction book, I strongly suggest that you read through the book in its entirety once, and then go through a second and third time as you apply the elements to your current writing project.

  One of the things you’ll notice about this book is it follows the course of that vortex. So, we’ll talk about characters, for example, in the section called “character.” (Genius, that, no?) Then, because the string swings round and round again, we’ll talk about how character evolves throughout your writing process.

  We will continue to revisit craft and advance it to the next level.

  Now before you turn the page, I want you to do one teensy little thing for me: Give up on the dream that you’re just going to sit down and write a novel from beginning to end. That’s not the way your brain works, and that’s ok.

  (Have I mentioned that you’re a pantser?)

  In my own process, once I got over the drive to work through a novel in a linear fashion or, more importantly, the belief that that’s the way it was “supposed” to be done, I was able to be far more productive and the drafting process became a whole lot more fun.

  Let’s talk about your brain.

  Part II

  Mind & Gray Matter

  OPTIMIZING YOUR BRAIN’S INNATE POWER

  DO YOU EVEN KNOW where you are? Most writers do not because they don’t know the connection between writing and the brain. Well, you’re in luck for having chosen this book. I’m about to show you the secret world of your brain.

  The writing process is broken into two distinct phases, and one of the biggest mistakes even experienced writers make is confusing the two. Look, I don’t make this stuff up: It’s neuroscience. As pantsers it is of especial importance to honor the way the brain works.

  The Creative Zone

  Creativity is like play. When you were a child making up games or narratives for your figurines to act out, you didn’t stop yourself or say, “Oh no, Fun Loving Malibu Barbie would never do that.” Right? You just went with the flow, hunting imaginary dragons, fighting imaginary cowboys without questioning: “Will this work?” “Does that make sense?” “Am I getting enough symbolism in here?”

  Yet as adults, as writers, that’s exactly what we do to ourselves: We place limits when we ought to allow ourselves the joy of play.

  I suspect that time is a huge factor here. Who has the time to just play with dolls and let them do what they do?

  Yup. I get it.

  And yet, and yet, it is that very task that is essential, the daydreaming, the free write, the letting characters lead the way.

  The irony here is that in doing so, we ultimately save ourselves time in the revision process because we get a firm idea of who our character is and where she’s going.

  Believe me: Dealing with these types of questions when you believe yourself to be finished, only to find that your entire novel needs an overhaul is not a happy place to be. It’s not untenable, but it’s certainly discouraging, and many an author has given up when faced with that daunting task.

  When is it time to invite the inner critic in for dinner?

  We’ve talked about the creative phase as a distinct entity, which by logical extension means that the revision phase is also a distinct, separate entity.

  People: These are dynamite and fire! Do not mix them up unless you want an explosion that will blow your writing ambitions right up.

  As I mentioned, confusing the creation and revision phases is one of the biggest mistakes I see. It is not irreparable, but like a bad relationship mistake, sometimes the damage is difficult to undo or overcome.

  That’s because you’ve taught your neurons certain pathways that are difficult to undo once set.

  I’m not just making this up for giggles and if you don’t want to believe me, let’s take a look at neuroscience.

  This is your brain.

  This is your brain on drugs.

  Let’s take a side trip. The Ancient Roman Poet Horace once said: “Mix a little foolishness with your prudence: It’s good to be silly at the right moment.” Remember what I said about creativity and play? What I did with the brain there was just plain silly. Absurdly silly, but let it be a model for you. You play in your way; maybe your brand of play is different from mine. The point is to allow yourself to frolic in the play, to get in touch with your inner child, and channel that energy into your writing.

  And now you know that as a child, I had the same cheesy sense of humor I have as an adult. Send your condolences to my family.

  Right. The brain.

  CAUTION: SCIENCE AHEAD

  If you’re having trouble tapping into your creativity, take heart—no, literally.

  Consider this: Your brain from its very origins was made to be in creative flow.

  What am I talking about?

  Think of a chocolate-covered cherry. It’s got three main components: the gooey sweet stuff inside the cherry, the cherry, and the chocolate on top.

  Your brain is a lot like this treat. The gooey inside is the oldest part of your brain, from an evolutionary standpoint. It is your reptilian brain, and it’s in charge of survival. The cherry, as it were, is your limbic brain. It evolved later, and is the seat of emotion. Lastly is the delicious dark chocolate of thought: your neocortex.

  Not only are these areas layered this way, but, like the rings on a tree, they show us the course of our own evolution. They also show us why and how sometimes we are our own worst enemy.

  Play, creativity, being in creative flow, those are a
ll seated in your limbic system. (The cherry, if you will.)

  It is your thinking brain, your neocortex, that steps in and censors, that asks, “Will this work?” “Does that make sense?” “Am I getting enough symbolism in here?”

  The work that I do with writers optimizes the balance between these two parts of your brain. In short, we work with the brain’s flow and take into account when it’s time to frolic, and when it’s time to invite the inner critic in for dinner.

  Knowing the difference between these two phases is an essential key not only to finishing a book, but finishing it in flow, in a happy place, instead of the drudgery that so many writers feel.

  As you work, keep in mind that fundamentally, at your core, in the deepest part of your brain, of you, lives your creativity, the person you’re meant to be.

  But wait, there’s more.

  Did I mention there were three parts of the brain?

  Ah yes, the reptilian brain. You’ve got a lizard in your head. (Only kidding. But seriously...)

  As I said (wrote?), the reptilian brain is the oldest part of your brain (from an evolutionary standpoint), and it’s very important to understand how it works.

  Here’s what you need to know: The reptilian brain is in charge of survival. See a lion? RUN. See a deer? Dinner. (It’s very basic, this reptile brain.)

  What I am talking about here is fight or flight. As you know, and as I mentioned above with the lion/deer thingie, fight or flight is your survival response to a stimulus.

  In today’s world, there aren’t a whole lot of us running around being chased by lions or pursuing dinner in the forest on a daily basis. But, like our appendix, we’re still stuck with the part, even if we’ve evolved not to need it—at least in the same way. (There are still, admittedly, dangers it is wise to run from.)

  The problem is, sometimes this little bugger gets confused. It puts us into fight or flight mode when it’s totally unwarranted. Have you ever yelled at your spouse and later said, “Honey, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  You’ve been a victim of your brain.

  Emotional Hijacking

  “Emotional Hijacking” is a term coined by psychologist Daniel Goleman in his book Emotional Intelligence: Why It Can Matter More Than IQ.

  Your brain is smart. (Duh!) It’s set up so that if you’re walking down the street, say, and a guy steps out of a doorway and draws a knife on you, you don’t stand there thinking, “Could this guy be dangerous? Well, it is a small knife. And he kind of looks like cousin Harry, and he’s a nice guy, so...Ooo, I wonder where he bought that hoodie. I’ve been looking for one in that color.”

  Chances are you’d be dead with a brain like that.

  Now, if that guy stepped out of the doorway with a bag of groceries, the thought process above would be appropriate. Why? The guy’s not posing a threat.

  When your brain perceives a threat, it skips the rational brain (neocortex), and goes straight to an emotional evaluation (limbic system) and into fight or flight mode (reptilian brain). This is emotional hijacking.

  Umm, Annalisa, this isn’t a science book.

  Yes, yes, I know. I am getting to the point.

  This fight or flight response can be triggered in the writing process. Yup.

  Don’t believe me?

  Think back to the time you left that free writing group, peeved, seething, ready to kick something and toss your manuscript.

  Emotional hijacking.

  Now, think of how your body reacted. Adrenaline rush. Raised heart rate. Inability to think clearly. Frantic.

  Does that sound like the kind of mindset that’s going to lead to good writing?

  A. Yes

  B. No

  C. Bananas

  Good. You answered B. You’ve passed your first quiz.

  Pat yourself on the back.

  No. Really. Do it. Now.

  So, if you see that it doesn’t work, why would you keep going back to that group and expecting better results? Why not find something that optimizes the way your brain functions?

  Braggy-brag moment

  I have always been a writer and a teacher. I feel blessed to have had a vocation from the start and always to have known what I was born to do.

  Before I was a full-time writing coach, I was a teacher and a professor. I’ve studied the learning process—specifically how the brain learns best—for over 20 years. I’ve taught every grade from preschool to graduate school (except eighth grade, which is just weird), and one of the most amazing moments—no matter the grade, no matter the subject—is that a-ha moment: the moment when someone understands something in a new way or acquires a new skill.

  There are many great teachers out there, and I am proud to be among them. My own secret sauce to create as many a-ha moments as possible was to dig deep into how the brain works, so that I could tailor instruction to each student, to how he learned best. My use of neuroscientific principles in the classroom led to two Teacher of the Year nominations and, more importantly, a treasure of students who learned something in their time with me, and had a heck of a good time doing it.

  That’s what writing should be, can be. Is it work? Yes. But does it have to be hard? No.

  Using your brain in the way it’s intended to work is one of the most important tools a writer can have in his toolkit.

  FINDING THE CONFIDENCE TO WRITE

  Is My Writing Good Enough?

  Let’s talk about the writing mindset.

  One question that keeps writers staring at the ceiling at 2 AM is: “Is my writing good enough?” This is something that plagues all writers, and I do mean all writers.

  There are many pressures that writers place on themselves:

  Why is it taking me so long to finish my manuscript?

  I’ve been writing for so long. Haven’t I gotten it right yet?

  What’s the right way to write?

  Why is it taking me so long to finish my manuscript?

  Because fiction is art, and art takes time.

  Consider the Sistine Chapel, painted by Michelangelo. It took four and a half years for him to complete that masterpiece, which—frankly, if you’ve seen the level of detail—you know it’s astonishing he completed it so quickly.

  What else?

  The Washington Monument took thirty years to construct; thirty full years.

  Let’s think about more writing-related references.

  It took Victor Hugo twelve years to write Les Miserables and Harper Lee spent two and a half years writing To Kill a Mockingbird.

  Fiction writing is art, and art takes time. Completing your manuscript is not going to happen overnight, not because there’s something wrong with you, but because you are an artist.

  My writing mentor, award-winning author of In the Time of the Butterflies (among others) Julia Alvarez, wasn’t the first one to say it, but she was the first one to say it to me: Being a writer is 90% applying butt to chair.

  I’ve been writing for so long. Haven’t I gotten it right yet?

  We learned to write at an early age, right? Many of us, very early on in elementary school, were writing some type of stories as part of our school curriculum. Storytelling is something we’ve been doing for a long time and, therefore, is something we’ve been getting feedback on for a long time.

  Ergo, we’ve had a really long time to be overly critical of ourselves, or to let feedback that wasn’t helpful seep in and become that recording that we tell ourselves about the world and our own writing.

  Here’s the real deal: Your elementary school teachers, your middle school teachers, and probably even your high school teachers meant well. I hope for you that somewhere along the way, you found someone who really understood story, who took you under his or her wing and really worked with you on the principles of writing.

  That said, there are many of us who didn’t have that mentor. Now, before we get all blamey-blamey on our teachers, the school board, and the entire educational system in America
going down the tubes, and…

  Take a deep breath. Remember that your English teachers’ job wasn’t necessarily to teach you about the the finer points of how to construct a story. In fact, they might not have even known those things for themselves. They had other objectives. They were there to teach you about syntax, or the different parts of speech, or how to respond to Dostoyevsky.

  They had other objectives that were set forth for them by the state, by their local school board, by national standards, whatever the case may be, but their objectives weren’t about the art of quality writing.

  Not to go all Frozen on you (because that is so 2013), but let it go.

  We all have a story to tell about something that happened in the fourth grade, or the eighth grade, where someone didn’t believe in our writing, and that’s ok. It isn’t personal. Your teacher had a lot to do—I can tell you that for sure—and their teaching objective didn’t match the learning objective you set for yourself on this amazing journey to the Land of Published Authors.

  It’s ok. Put it in your locker. Slam the door. Walk away. You’ve graduated. It’s time to move on.

  What’s the right way to write?

  Look people, let’s just clear this one up once and for all.

  There is no right way to get this thing called writing done. There are more efficient ways. There are ways that are more faithful to principles of craft. There are ways that are a better fit for you and your brain, and the way you think. But there is no “right” way.

  It’s ok to write a quick first draft and spend a long time revising.

  Flip that around.