Balancing choices

Writing a novel is a balancing act. It starts with the Big Three (characterization, setting/world-building, plot). Each of those usually has the potential to expand exponentially in several different directions at once. At the start (and sometimes all the way through the middle), it seems as if there is more room than one could possibly ever fill…and then one suddenly realizes that one has more story-stuff than will fit in this one book, and it will have to be either cut or turned into a series.

Somehow, one seldom reaches this point during the planning-and-prewriting stage. Indeed, the planning stage is often where one comes up with all the fascinating characters (and their various and equally fascinating quirks, backstories, relationships, and potential personal development), the cool worldbuilding and the surprising twists that got it where it is, and the multitude of possible plotlines and stories one could tell (but not all in the same book). At this point, a novel’s worth of word-count seems as if it will have room enough for anything.

Then comes reality, as reflected in the saying, “You can do anything you want, but you can’t do everything all at once.” There is always a point at which the writer has to make decisions: what has to go in, what should go with it, what needs to be cut, what needs to be cut but is important or interesting enough to rate its own story, which pieces fit together and which don’t. Ideally, the writer makes all these choices up front, but it never, ever works that way in real life. The story develops as it goes along; new possibilities arise and ones that seemed like the clear way to go just fall flat in the execution. Plot twists and character development are too easy, too hard, too sudden, or too drawn out, and everything is complicated because what the writer wanted to do isn’t always how things turn out in the execution.

One of the first decisions the writer has to make is what kind of story they want to write, and how badly they want to write it. Knowing whether this book is supposed to be a mystery, an action-adventure, a character/relationship study, etc. is key to all the other decisions. Knowing how badly one wants to write exactly that thing is key to deciding, in mid-book, whether or not to put in that fascinating plot twist or character revelation that you only just thought up, even though following the new bit to its logical conclusion will change the story you are writing into something you hadn’t intended. (Most of the time, following the change will get the writer a more interesting story, but only if that writer isn’t constantly hankering after their original plotline/characterization/backstory and trying to force the story “back on track.” If you honestly can’t let go of the original plan and move in the new direction, there are no further decisions to be made.)

Knowing that one is capable of being flexible—of letting go—does not actually affect the next decision, which is whether or not one should let go of the original direction of the story. Roger Zelazny’s admonition to “trust your demon” requires some judgement in the application. “Miserable middles” got that name for a reason; sometimes, it can feel as if chasing a secondary character down a spiffy newly-invented character arc or subplot will be far more fun than plodding through the next few scenes moving the main plot forward. Unfortunately, the subplot will eventually reach its own miserable middle, tempting the writer to hare off after yet another newly-invented thing. The writer can easily end up at the far end of a long chain of unresolved subplots, unfinished character arcs, and only-partially-integrated backstory/worldbuilding bits, wondering where the protagonist is.

On the other hand, realizing in mid-scene that a particular character, as written so far, absolutely would not do the thing the original plot requires—betray the protagonist, sacrifice themselves for the group, ask the question, take the chance, agree to the proposition—requires one to stop and reevaluate. At least ninety percent of the time, sticking with what the character would do (refuse to betray anybody, run away, keep silent, etc.) will take the story in a whole new (and more believable, and often more original and effective) direction than going back and rewriting that character so that he/she is the sort who would do as originally planned. The same goes for realizing suddenly that the protagonist has a third or fourth possible option, in addition to the ones the writer thought of originally, and that one of those newly-recognized options will, again, take the story off the rails into a fascinating new jungle of possibilities. Likewise, suddenly realizing that some throwaway bit of worldbuilding has potentially cool explanation that will, if one adds it to the story, totally change how some of the characters react to some of the planned situations, which can in turn change everything else.

The answer to “should I hare off in this totally new direction that just occurred to me?” is seldom based on logic alone. There are times when one can recognize that this cool new idea just doesn’t belong in this story, times when the new thing is terribly tempting but one knows in one’s heart that it is just an excuse to avoid writing the upcoming *$%&! Council Scene (or whatever your personal hate-to-write-that-scene is), times when that secondary character’s plot arc deserves its own book. Those are usually times to not follow the rabbit trail. But sometimes, the writer has an inexplicable urge to dive into the jungle and see what happens, even though they have a deadline and bills and they kind of think it’s a bad idea and they’re not sure this won’t end up being a colossal waste of time. That’s when trusting your demon comes into play. Intuition is a thing.