I had a story in my head, and was obsessed by it, but was scared to commit myself to being a ‘writer‘.  I’d jumped in before; put one of my daydreams on paper, and had been horrified by my own writing. I didn’t know then it was okay to write badly because there was something called editing. So I put the story points in a spreadsheet to get the details out of my head.

That was too slow. I dumped the spreadsheet and the paragraphs started flowing. Short on time, I chose prose over plotting, letting the story tell itself while I committed it to the page. That was my first novel, finished in 8 months and as of now, it’s buried somewhere.

I was then convinced I didn’t need plotting.  Which is probably why my next two novels took so long, and were rewritten so many times. 

With my current work in progress, I got half-way through and because I’d taken a year off work, felt I had the luxury, to try things I’d always skimmed over: namely plotting, and research.  While ultimately the writing is better, it’s also been infinitely easier. 

I’ll never again try to write a novel or any long work without thinking through what I’m trying to accomplish in each scene, chapter, even paragraph.

I plot loosely, and always deviate from it, but the investment in that step is invaluable. Writing fiction without a plot for me is having to create a world out of thin air while trying to write about it.  Plotting breaks up the process.  I create the framework and roadmap through plotting, then fill in the blanks, let story live and steer itself when I write. 

What works best for you and why? 

The clues were there.

As a child growing up in the 70’s I read constantly, and watched too much television, while my thirsty imagination was insatiable. To fill the drought, I crafted novels in my head. I didn’t know that’s what they were. To me they were a destination, an escape from my boring life. My secret garden–my shame, kept my mind engaged, while feeding and fueling my natural gifting.

What I used as a way to cope with my lonely and monotonous childhood was the breeding ground of my anointing.

Had I understood myself better, I would have studied creative writing in college and gotten more from the experience. Instead I studied business and couldn’t wait to escape.

Once in the real world, I tried to pack my creative toybox away, like old Barbie dolls. The tendency kept cropping up, however, everyday life providing fuel for new stories. I didn’t understand or acknowledge it, but suppressing that part of myself kept me frustrated, and displaced until…

Finally, when I was in my forties, I found the courage to take the story out of my head and commit it to the page.

I found myself and peace and it all made sense.