“You must understand that when you are writing a novel you are not making anything up. It’s all there and you just have to find it.”
-Thomas Harris
Today’s writing quote is brought to you by the author who created one of the most terrifying characters in all literature: the cheerfully demented Dr. Hannibal Lecter. For the half dozen of you who have never heard of the good doctor, let’s just say this is a character who, when he says he’s having you for dinner… well, my advice is: don’t go. Run far, run fast, in fact. Because he means that sentence absolutely literally, and you’re going to have to be both extraordinarily resourceful and careful, because Dr. Lecter’s predilection for consuming humans is matched only by his fiendish brilliance.
(On thoughtful consideration, I’d have to say that watching The Silence of the Lambs was the last time a film --- and its antagonist --- truly shocked and terrified me. Then again, those types of stories aren’t really my cup of tea. So.)
However, my focus today isn’t really on the strangeness (some might say disturbed) mind which could generate such a story, but rather on the comment at the top of this post, which I’m going to use, without any evidence from Mr. Harris himself, to bolster my assertion that pantsing is the way to go when writing a story… in fact, possibly the only way, really. Notice he says you have to find it, not plan it. That’s a very important distinction. I’m not sure if he made it deliberately, but it's there, nonetheless.
Now, now… all the plotters in the audience can just jamb their hands into their mouths and stifle their howls of outrage at this point, thanks very much. I know those of you who count yourselves as dedicated plotters expend much energy crafting carefully planned outlines of how your protagonists goes here, then there, encountering difficulty A, then B, then C, all in brilliantly scripted progression. And I want to assure you that I sympathize with you. Deeply. In fact, to establish my bona fides, I’ll tell you that, in my daytime job of 35 years, I was a secondary school English teacher. And I was a massive plotter --- in terms of being extremely concrete-sequential and efficient about planning out exactly what was going to happen in each day’s classes. Had to be, in order to save my sanity. Because I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how any teacher can get through a single class with 35 hormonal adolescents, let alone a day, without being as carefully planned as the D-Day amphibious landings of World War Two. (Which is not to say I wouldn’t go off-script if a teachable moment presented itself, however; one of the hallmarks of successful teachers is their ability to think fast on their feet and execute nimble maneuvers whenever the opportunity presents itself.)
But…
When it came to my writing, I fairly quickly discovered a pretty major wrinkle in this philosophy: the characters in my stories didn’t want to follow any damned outline, thanks very much. They wanted to strike off and do their own thing, which frequently was at odds with what I’d carefully scripted. They thumbed their noses at me, made rude farting noises and obscene gestures (not unlike some of their real-life student counterparts, come to think of it) and rode cheerfully off in their own chosen directions, leaving me spluttering, red-faced in the dust created by their passing.
(And for those prim types who sniff disdainfully at such comments, rolling their eyes and haughtily saying something to the effect that, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re the writer! They’re fictitious characters! You’re in control, not them!” I would like to respectfully suggest, with tongue firmly in cheek, that you return to your job at the widget factory, because it’s painfully clear that viewing your characters as mindless Pinocchios is holding you back from really creating.)
Pantsing is really just true to life, when you think about it. After all, pretty much every one of us spends our entire lifetime pantsing, don’t we? Oh, sure, we can plan all we want about something going this way or that, but… well, pop quiz, folks: here, fill in the blank at the end of this famous statement by Robbie Burns: “the best-laid plans of mice and men ____________.” Life has a way of making a mockery of our best-laid plans. So if we go through it pantsing, why wouldn’t our characters do the same?
Here’s what happens when you pants your way through your day: an event occurs. You respond to it, choosing from among a number of possible alternatives. (Sometimes you have a reasonable amount of time to analyze and pick an alternative, but quite often, you must make a decision very quickly --- which most of us are terrible at doing. Like, I mean, atrociously bad… especially if life has thrown us some kind of curve ball crisis, which it is often wont to do, bless its black little heart.) And while some of those alternatives are pretty excellent, most are varying degrees of okay, and a few are spectacularly awful. Caveat: you may or may not be in a position to understand which is which… and understanding that something is a bad idea does not, strangely enough, automatically preclude you from doing it anyway. (Sigh.)
Choosing that alternative sets you up (sometimes literally) for another event, which you likewise respond to… and so on… hour after hour, day after day, for… yeah, pretty much your entire life. I know, I know: it can suck like a vacuum cleaner, because it tends to demolish one of the most cherished myths we have about life (and writing): no, not Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy, the other myth: that We Are In Control. The problem is, that’s just as utterly, completely false for you as it is your characters, so you might as well learn to make your peace with it… just like your characters should, too.
I’m not saying you shouldn’t craft plans for your characters; just don’t expect them to work out in textbook fashion… or if they do, perhaps you should reflect on whether that straitjacket is really all that comfortable.
-Thomas Harris
Today’s writing quote is brought to you by the author who created one of the most terrifying characters in all literature: the cheerfully demented Dr. Hannibal Lecter. For the half dozen of you who have never heard of the good doctor, let’s just say this is a character who, when he says he’s having you for dinner… well, my advice is: don’t go. Run far, run fast, in fact. Because he means that sentence absolutely literally, and you’re going to have to be both extraordinarily resourceful and careful, because Dr. Lecter’s predilection for consuming humans is matched only by his fiendish brilliance.
(On thoughtful consideration, I’d have to say that watching The Silence of the Lambs was the last time a film --- and its antagonist --- truly shocked and terrified me. Then again, those types of stories aren’t really my cup of tea. So.)
However, my focus today isn’t really on the strangeness (some might say disturbed) mind which could generate such a story, but rather on the comment at the top of this post, which I’m going to use, without any evidence from Mr. Harris himself, to bolster my assertion that pantsing is the way to go when writing a story… in fact, possibly the only way, really. Notice he says you have to find it, not plan it. That’s a very important distinction. I’m not sure if he made it deliberately, but it's there, nonetheless.
Now, now… all the plotters in the audience can just jamb their hands into their mouths and stifle their howls of outrage at this point, thanks very much. I know those of you who count yourselves as dedicated plotters expend much energy crafting carefully planned outlines of how your protagonists goes here, then there, encountering difficulty A, then B, then C, all in brilliantly scripted progression. And I want to assure you that I sympathize with you. Deeply. In fact, to establish my bona fides, I’ll tell you that, in my daytime job of 35 years, I was a secondary school English teacher. And I was a massive plotter --- in terms of being extremely concrete-sequential and efficient about planning out exactly what was going to happen in each day’s classes. Had to be, in order to save my sanity. Because I cannot, for the life of me, imagine how any teacher can get through a single class with 35 hormonal adolescents, let alone a day, without being as carefully planned as the D-Day amphibious landings of World War Two. (Which is not to say I wouldn’t go off-script if a teachable moment presented itself, however; one of the hallmarks of successful teachers is their ability to think fast on their feet and execute nimble maneuvers whenever the opportunity presents itself.)
But…
When it came to my writing, I fairly quickly discovered a pretty major wrinkle in this philosophy: the characters in my stories didn’t want to follow any damned outline, thanks very much. They wanted to strike off and do their own thing, which frequently was at odds with what I’d carefully scripted. They thumbed their noses at me, made rude farting noises and obscene gestures (not unlike some of their real-life student counterparts, come to think of it) and rode cheerfully off in their own chosen directions, leaving me spluttering, red-faced in the dust created by their passing.
(And for those prim types who sniff disdainfully at such comments, rolling their eyes and haughtily saying something to the effect that, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’re the writer! They’re fictitious characters! You’re in control, not them!” I would like to respectfully suggest, with tongue firmly in cheek, that you return to your job at the widget factory, because it’s painfully clear that viewing your characters as mindless Pinocchios is holding you back from really creating.)
Pantsing is really just true to life, when you think about it. After all, pretty much every one of us spends our entire lifetime pantsing, don’t we? Oh, sure, we can plan all we want about something going this way or that, but… well, pop quiz, folks: here, fill in the blank at the end of this famous statement by Robbie Burns: “the best-laid plans of mice and men ____________.” Life has a way of making a mockery of our best-laid plans. So if we go through it pantsing, why wouldn’t our characters do the same?
Here’s what happens when you pants your way through your day: an event occurs. You respond to it, choosing from among a number of possible alternatives. (Sometimes you have a reasonable amount of time to analyze and pick an alternative, but quite often, you must make a decision very quickly --- which most of us are terrible at doing. Like, I mean, atrociously bad… especially if life has thrown us some kind of curve ball crisis, which it is often wont to do, bless its black little heart.) And while some of those alternatives are pretty excellent, most are varying degrees of okay, and a few are spectacularly awful. Caveat: you may or may not be in a position to understand which is which… and understanding that something is a bad idea does not, strangely enough, automatically preclude you from doing it anyway. (Sigh.)
Choosing that alternative sets you up (sometimes literally) for another event, which you likewise respond to… and so on… hour after hour, day after day, for… yeah, pretty much your entire life. I know, I know: it can suck like a vacuum cleaner, because it tends to demolish one of the most cherished myths we have about life (and writing): no, not Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy, the other myth: that We Are In Control. The problem is, that’s just as utterly, completely false for you as it is your characters, so you might as well learn to make your peace with it… just like your characters should, too.
I’m not saying you shouldn’t craft plans for your characters; just don’t expect them to work out in textbook fashion… or if they do, perhaps you should reflect on whether that straitjacket is really all that comfortable.
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