In praise of Fiction.

Plotting or Pantsing? Is this a measure of confidence?

slug wearing a kimono

If you attend a dinner party, you might find yourself talking to someone with whom you think you have nothing in common.

“This is Andrea. She’s a writer.”

You hadn’t noticed Andrea before. She stands just outside one of the chattering groups. But close enough that the hostess’ periodic room scan might conclude she is participating. Occasional nods of agreement suggest she is following the gist of the conversation. Unlike some of the other guests, she isn’t primped to the Nines. Her shoes are flat and comfy rather than elevated, a stray thread hangs from her cardigan and not all of her hair was captured when she ‘put her hair up’.

You extend your hand in greeting and smile weakly. Nothing about Andrea would have compelled you to say ‘hello’ without the hostess’ prompting.

Basic human politeness feeds you words and phrases for the first few minutes. Gradually, you realise she is observing you in detail. Gathering myriad facts which could be put together, Sherlock Holmes-like, to reveal the nature of your employment, whether you have a dog, if you are married and if you spend leisure time out of doors.

You see, writers are endlessly observant. Each tiny interaction with the world is filed away in case it proves useful in some future story. It might be the way somebody moves; their dress sense, how they hold themselves – in short, the body language they display in different circumstances. Do they hold your gaze? Do they look away if embarrassed or while thinking of an answer which would suit dinner party mores?

Some write for themselves. Their work is not intended to be seen by others. Instead, it is their way of ordering their memories, soothing the raging seas of their minds before sleep. These are the diarists. They have the writers’ need to record innermost thoughts and wonderings, but for them, the relief of honesty on a secret page is enough reward.

Others seek the somatotropic rush of publication – seeing their work available to the public. But even here, there are two categories.

Writers of non-fiction can frame their offering as helpful explanation of a physical feature or phenomenon of the world. I agree this is revelatory, but revealing only the topic of the article or book, not anything much about the writer. Ok, there might be an ‘About the Author’ section at the end, a sort of curriculum vitae which the writer thinks appropriate for the piece. But it doesn’t usually give insight into the author themselves; their personality, their character.

People who write fiction, though, truly open the Kimono of their innermost being. Even those who are penning ‘fan fiction’ or ‘world-building’ with imaginary creatures are showing you some parts of their soul. The romantic novelist, writers of mysteries or thrillers all use their own feelings and experiences as a basic framework for their story. They clothe it with a lifetime’s observation of others and might fill in the gaps with utterly made-up events. But if you peel away that camouflage, the very core of their being can be found.

Writers of non-fiction, especially those writing for academia, carefully outline the arc of topics to bring the reader to an overall appreciation of their subject.

The author of fictional stories, though, might not be so organised. In Writers’ Groups, participants sometimes discuss whether each works out the plot of their book or essay in advance. Others assert that their protagonist leads them through their world. They feel themselves to be followers. A typical group contribution might be an author asking for ideas as to how to rescue his hero from a sinking ship or a locked room or some other literary cul-de-sac.

You may have heard the terms ‘Plotter’ and ‘Pantser’ used in this context. Plotters work out the main points of their story in advance. Pantsers write ‘by the seat of their pants’ – when they sit at their writing desk, they don’t know where their story is about to go.

Both are said sometimes to get stuck – suffering so-called ‘writers’ block’. But the Pantser, I think, is less susceptible. After all, if you just sit down and begin to write, the very act of writing unlocks that well-spring of personal experience and feeling I referred to above. Soon, the writer will see some part of him or herself displayed on the page. Now, what can be done with that outpouring is another matter!

I conclude that the Pantser shows you more of themselves when they write than the Plotter. That said, reading a book which has been crafted to fit a well-proven formula can be more rewarding to follow than a piece which wanders all over the place. Perhaps there’s a happy medium between these extremes: plotting with flair and ordered meanderings should be equally pleasurable to read.

My own style tends to the Pantser. It fuelled my story of Patrick Field’s struggles against the terrorist Al Sharika group. I found words poured from my fingers as I recorded episode after episode. I’d not move from my chair for hours, frantic to get down the words before they evaporated. The whole story extended into four volumes, each of over 90,000 words. It is easier to use this style if the writer has lived a bit – after all, most of us need a fund of experiences to seed our imagination. And that lived experience has given me confidence to open my Kimono more often. It lets me write much more easily about events which annoy or infuriate as much as those in which I have delighted.

Which is why I share with you my fury at the continuing damage wrought by the slugs in the garden. This is not confected ire. If you had gone to the trouble of buying seeds, germinating and planting them out in enriched beds of carefully-raked soil, you too would be hopping mad when the tender shoots of your labours were consumed by these slimy invaders. Right now I’m keeping a beady eye on the second courgette (‘zucchini’) to manage to form on one of the three surviving plants which made it to young adulthood. At the first sign of a slimy nibble, I’ll nab it. The first one ended up sliced thinly onto a mixed salad with a light tarragon vinegar dressing. Delicious!

These days, it takes little to wind me up. The constant diet of bad news tending to disaster which flows through our screens and speakers perhaps makes me over-sensitive to anything turning against me. Even as I write this and prepare to admit I’m well on the way to joining the Grumpy Old Men Club, my mood is lightened by my dog, Arrow. He clock-watches, you see. Now is the usual time for us to sally forth in search of squirrels and rabbits in a nearby wood. I welcome his approach, of course, as it gives relief from the sewer flow of news. He’s never more than five minutes out, either. He just came to put his paw on my knee and turn on his Collie Mind Magnet.

I hope you understand I cannot do anything else now other than take him for a walk. As the famous phrase goes, ‘Resistance is futile’

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