The Process: Plotter or Pantser

If you’re a writer, you know these terms. If you’ve never considered writing fiction, they may mean nothing to you.

I can remember the first time I heard the two words: plotter and pantser. I was at a small-group writing retreat, and we were asked which one we were—plotter or pantser? Intuitively, I knew I was a pantser. In other words, did I outline my story, or did I write by the seat of my pants? I wrote by the seat of my pants.

A structured person by nature, being a pantser was freeing. I found an inner creativity, and it opened my mind to new options. I didn’t have to have my own say in how the story was going to go. I turned the story over to the characters and let them tell me what was happening.

When I began writing The Other Victims, I knew how the story began, a few major actions that would move the story, and I had a vague idea of the outcome. But how my protagonist would get to the ending, I had no idea. I was grateful for my ignorance and willingness to find out.

For me, being a pantser was and still is about TRUST. It’s about letting go and trusting a higher power. It’s about surrendering your control of the story to . . . the characters? To God? Or maybe both. Being a pantser has freed me of the need to get the story right. To have the freedom, as Anne Lamott says, “to write shitty first drafts.”

When writing The Other Victims, I remember the countless times I hit a wall. It would have been so easy to quit. But after having the dream of wanting to write since I was six years old, that wasn't going to happen. How did I continue without the outline that plotters used? I tried various devices or gimmicks to trick me into finding a path forward. I Googled images of a specific scene I was writing about. Or, I skipped to a different part of the story, or wrote a backstory on one of the characters. Anything to keep writing.

Being a pantser gave me that freedom. It was like looking at the novel as a three-dimensional object and viewing it from other perspectives. My goal was not to quit and to write a story that made the readers think.

Another advantage I found of being a pantser was how day-to-day events could trigger a thought about what might happen in my story. Memories would pop up that corresponded with Alice or Florence or another character. Because I’m structured by nature, relying on an outline could have created the potential for the story to become too rigid and formulaic. Being a pantser and relying on my characters as I got to know them, allowed my story to evolve and to be more authentic.

Here are some examples of how the characters told me what to write. I didn’t know how Flory would handle the rejection from her classmates until she met Mitch at Okie Bowl. I didn’t know who Phoebe’s only friend would be until the Nguyen’s granddaughter came with them to Sutton Cards. I didn’t know what the outcome would be of the disastrous thanksgiving weekend until Flory and Rodney told me. I didn’t know the Bennetts’ eighty-year-old neighbor would play a role in the story until she walked across the street in her day dress and oversized cardigan with the big pockets and rapped of the car window where Flory was sitting. Most important, I didn’t know how Alice would get help until her daughter, Phoebe, told me.

Being a pantser worked for me in The Other Victims. I’m counting on it for my next book. Stay tuned!