I’m finally getting caught up after two trips and a week of house guests. One of the things that took me longest was unpacking. I dislike unpacking partly because it reminds me of how much stuff I lugged along that I didn’t need … and how many things I forgot to pack and had to buy along the way.
Starting a story is a lot like packing for a trip. What you need depends on where you think you’re going, how long you think you’ll be gone, and what you intend to do while you’re away. If you’re heading to the beach for the weekend, you don’t pack hiking boots or a parka; if you’re spending six weeks in Alaska in January, a parka is pretty much required, but you probably won’t get much wear out of a tank top and shorts.
Packing involves thinking about the future. Not necessarily planning for it, because every story is to some extent a leap into the unknown. Stuff always happens that you can’t plan for, whether it’s your main character suddenly refusing to get out of the nice hot bath after a tough day, or the real-life plumbing emergency on the day you’d intended to spend writing that key scene. Some planning is involved, but how much and what kind is not always clear.
The first question, though, is usually how long? Packing for two days is different from packing for three weeks; packing for a short story is different from packing for a novel or a multi-book story arc. With a short story, you may have a clearer picture of the thing-as-a-whole before you begin. One of my friends claims that she works out her short fiction in her head to such an extent that the writing part is more like taking dictation than composing. Improvising and experimenting feel less unnerving with short fiction, because if you take a wrong turn, you usually only have to go back a couple of paragraphs or pages. It doesn’t feel like such a huge investment of time and energy, even if it actually takes more time-per-page than most of my novels.
A novel, on the other hand, is largely unknown territory, and a lot of it. Even if you have a map, big chunks of it are labeled “Here be dragons” and covered in heavy fog. You don’t know whether you’re preparing for a hike in the desert, a hunt for the pass through a mountain range, or a maze of city streets blocked off by construction work or parades. What you need in your mental backpack is stuff that will be useful no matter what you end up facing. The exact contents will depend to a degree on your personal process, but here are some suggestions.
A habit, routine, or schedule. The most salient characteristic of a novel is that it is long. Writing a novel is not something one can do in two or three sessions, even if the sessions are sixteen hours long. The most effective way of getting a novel written is to come back to it on a regular basis. A daily writing habit, even a short one, works really well for the vast majority of writers, but “a regular basis” can also be once or twice a week or even once a month if that’s all one’s life obligations allow.
Something that pings your backbrain. This could be something physical, like the real-life Chinese fan from the garage sale that is just what your heroine would use for social intimidation in a good cause. It could be a Pinterest board of pictures of places or people that you collected because they made you think “That’s what X looks like!” or “That’s what my hero is trying to get to!” It could be the song or poem or fairy tale or image that set your backbrain fizzing about this story in the first place, or a note to yourself reminding you that “I want to write about Madeleine’s struggle for identity,” or a phrase that got you going. Whatever it is, it’s a reminder of the thing that started you off down this road/novel, or possibly a thing that you know will give you a boost on down the road when you need it.
Something that you know gets you back on track when things go wrong. Explorers take a compass; this is the writer’s equivalent. It might be something you do, like making chocolate chip cookies or taking a walk in the woods. It might be a playlist of music that cheers you up when you’re stressed out. It might be a favorite book. It might be meditation or prayer. It might be coffee-and-venting with a friend. Note that “when things go wrong” is not limited to the novel you’re writing; having the electricity go out or needing to take the cat to the emergency vet can wreck your writing week just as thoroughly as realizing that your main character should have said “No” instead of “Yes” two chapters back and now you have to rewrite a bunch of plot-critical material.
One or more people you can always call, text, or email about anything. Whether you need to vent about the electricity, brainstorm the next plot twist, discuss your writing or your plan for your garden, or rejoice with you over the cat not needing surgery or you finishing the big “hump” scene, it is always good to have someone to share with. The right friend(s) can help calm you down or rev you up when you need it, provide criticism or encouragement as necessary, give you an extra set of eyes to catch problems, or get a party together to celebrate and acknowledge your latest big achievement. This is your support system. Everyone needs one. More is better.
A list of things you enjoy doing. Even when everything is going well, people need to recharge now and then. When you’re chest-deep in a story, it can be hard to pull your attention out far enough to pause for a minute, much less to remember what else you like to do. Having a list of possibilities makes it easier to take the break you need, especially if you have a variety of choices (a cup of tea for a five-minute break; a walk outside for a half-hour; a whole morning with the next book in your reading stack).
What would you pack in your mental backpack, that your future self might find useful for getting all the way through a novel?
I love the analogy, and I don’t even write fiction. I just like to know how people make things, including fiction.
My backpack is pretty much empty. I go charging into the metaphorical wilderness carrying nothing but a knife and a toothbrush I’ll likely lose along the way.
It’s not a method I’d necessarily recommend, but it works for me.
This is very timely, since I’m just starting a new novel. So far, I’ve done a little research into real world things (like the Forbidden City) that I’ll use as guides for elements in my fantasy world, a little outlining of the crimes committed by various villains (WIP is a mystery set), and some language research to help me structure names and titles in my culture. WIP is a sequel, so I’ve re-read Book One in order to refresh my memory regarding my characters. (They are traveling, so the setting is new to both them and me.)
Those are all things specific to this WIP. But I like the more general resources listed here: schedule, touchstone, first aid, support network, and replenishment ideas. I’ve got 3 of those 5 items; I’m going to think about aids for getting back on track, as well as ways to fill the creative well.
I’m always thrown when people talk about short story writing as significantly different from novel writing. I mean, obviously a novel is longer, and generally more complex, but to me the process is the same, only more so. The difference is quantitative, not qualitative.
That said, I love these suggestions, particularly the idea of a list for recharging. This is a thing I lose sight of all too easily when head-down in a project. I may need to make an actual physical list, and stick it up somewhere obvious. And perhaps instruct the housemate to point firmly to it when I start pacing and gnawing at the furniture.
Room to pace is essential for writing.