Perils of the Writer: Composing the Symphony vs. Plot Jazz

In any long term creative endeavor, there is a limit to how much you can really plan out ahead of time.  Of course, you can always make detailed outlines, but the reaches a point of diminishing returns– where what you’re writing is more rough-draft than outline.*
And I’m a big planner, both in terms of individual novels and long-term series plans.  I’m a get-out-the-map-and-figure-out-where-I’m-going guy.  I’ve got outlines for novels I’m still going to write: specifically Books Three for both The Thorn of Dentonhill and A Murder of Mages, as well as Books Two and Three for Holver Alley Crew and Way of the Shield, books themselves that are still waiting in the wings for their time to shine.  And past that, well… let’s just say that as far as I’m concerned, none of those series are intended to end with Book Three.
But outlining is going to have its limits.  For me, a typical outline of a 100k-ish novel is somewhere between 1000 and 1500 words.  That hits the key plot points, but clearly lacks details of character interaction and transitions.  I find that there’s plenty of “Here is Point A” and “There is Point B”, but I still have plenty of chess pieces to move around to have things in place for Point B.
And that’s where the Plot Jazz comes in.
“Plot Jazz” is a term coined by some fans of Deep Space Nine and Farscape to talk about how those shows– shows which never really had a “plan” more than a few episodes ahead– had a great tendency to build off of things set up by throwaway lines or the possibilities a random idea offered up.  An excellent example is in Farscape, where John having hallucinations of Scorpius in “Crackers Don’t Matter”– an episode where everyone is going crazy for spacy-sci-fi-reasons–  triggered the idea that “Hey, maybe Scorpius put a chip in John’s head!”.  That concept ended up being a key factor that shaped the rest of the season, and the series as a whole beyond it.
Plot Jazz, where you play it where it takes you, and hope it sounds good.
Now, what Plot Jazz means to a dyed-in-the-wool outliner like me is that secondary and tertiary characters often become more than they were in the outline.  Not taking over the story, but having more consequence that the outline would have indicated.  And that’s usually because in writing the outline, I don’t necessarily know what I’ll need those characters to do in the specific.  The “what” is in the outline, but not the “why” and “how”, and there is a fair amount of discovery in working that stuff out.
There’s a fair amount of that in Thorn of Dentonhill, where while I was writing I’d realize something like, “Colin needs a friend he can talk to in this scene” or “I need a Constabulary officer to show up here”, and then the character that comes out of that expands into a life of its own.  That’s where, for example, Colin’s crew of Jutie, Hetzer and Tooser or Lt. Benvin came from in Thorn, and those roles ended up being more than could have been predicted in the outline.  Jutie and Lt. Benvin both get mention in the outline for Thorn II, but the details of the how and why with what they do ended up giving them both a crucial role in that book, including realizing I needed to give Lt. Benvin a whole group of constabulary officers under him.
So while I love my outlines and will never, ever let them go… that doesn’t mean I can’t embrace the Plot Jazz when I need it.
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*- I do know of one writer who does write very detailed outlines for his novels, that the outline is around 40K for a 100K novel. He said the main difference between his outline and the novel is dialogue.

Perils of the Writer: Plotting and Crafting Action Scenes

So, I'm a planner and an outliner.  I've made this pretty clear.  Without plotting out a clear path of where I'm going to go in a story, I'm going to get lost in the weeds.

This is doubly true for action sequences.  I can't just know who the players are, who fights or runs away, who wins, who loses, who dies and who is captured.  If I try and write the scene with only that laid out, I'm going to freeze up.  Before I can really write the scene, I need to work it out, beat for beat.

I think this is partly because I approach action scenes, as a writer, from three different angles, all of which are detail oriented.

1. As an RPG Player.  I played a lot of D&D and GURPS back in my youth, and my group was totally that group, that kept adding more and more of the optional rules to make combat more complex.  I never wanted those parts of the game to be just a collection of dice rolls and stats.  I was always of the mind frame that clever choices, playing with the terrain.  A dynamic trick or atypical use of an object was a winner in my book.  
2. As a film student. If you have any familiarity with the process of filmmaking, you know it is a meticulous process, at least if you want to do it well.  Each shot has to be planned, practiced and set up before it's shot, and then edited together into something clean and exciting.  Even with a gifted fighter like Gina Carano, you can't just turn the camera on and let them do their thing.
3. As a stage actor.  In my time on stage, I was in more than my share of stage fights.  I actually had a degree of infamy for being able to take a hit and fall to the ground.  But that was never out of control-- every move was explicitly laid out, step-by-step.  Each performance would be prefaced with a fight rehearsal-- first at half-speed, then three-quarters speed, finally at performance speed.  Get sloppy with that, someone goes to the E/R before the end of the night.  This also gave me a certain amount of practical experience in what one can actually do with their body*, what it feels like to hold a weapon in your hand, the jar on your arm when you block a blow.  Is it true fighting experience?  No, but it's controlled experience, made to look as good as possible. 

So I'm working on one such sequence in Way of the Shield right now, and it wasn't coming together until I plotted it all out: drew a map of the relevant terrain, explicitly noted the positions that Tharek, Lannic and the rest of the patriots take, where Dayne approaches from, where the other Tarians are stuck, and how they get out, and each movement they all take over the course.  I broke it down into four main sections, writing on the map with circles and arrows of different colors, each color representing a stage in the fight.

Having done that, now I know what I need, in terms of terrain, and in terms of who does exactly what, and when.  Which made achieving the end-result I needed, storywise, much easier.  Now that i have that plan in hand, the actual writing of the sequence is coming together very well.

---
*- The director I had for one show prefaced our fight-training, telling us, "Don't tell me, 'I can't do that.'  This is your instrument."  He pointed to his body.  "When you're on stage, you need to know how to play it, or I can't use you." 

Analyzing Flawed Arc Structure, Part 5

Parts one, two, three and four of looking at Star Trek: Enterprise's third season Xindi Arc.

"Home", the third episode* of the fourth season of Star Trek: Enterprise served as an epilogue to the Xindi Arc, primarily by dealing with the emotional fallout of the character subplots.   Specifically, it focused on Capt. Archer, and Trip & T'Pol.  Both of these aspects work fine in terms of the episode itself.  For Archer, he's somewhat broken by the things he did in the Delphic Expanse.  He specifically mentions the theft of the warp core, which as mentioned last week, was his greatest sin.  But beyond that, his optimism about exploration in general is broken, despite the fact that things did end relatively well. This ties into the one other minor plot thread in "Home"-- the Enterprise crew might be hailed as heroes, but there are some people who aren't thrilled with the fact that they had spent two years running around space saying, "Hey, we're from Earth.  Come on over and smack us around, why don't you?"**  For Trip & T'Pol, their subplots of his grief over his dead sister (more or less resolved in "The Forgotten") and her emotional damage due to self-inflicted Trellium exposure*** dovetailed into their semi-romantic friendship.  So they go to Vulcan together, and deal with T'Pol's family drama. 

So, in the end, what worked, and what didn't in the Xindi Arc?

For me, the broad brushstrokes worked: a threat is presented, and to defend themselves from that threat, core principles are challenged and strained.  Despite that, in the end, it is those core principles that saves the day: friendship is achieved with (most of) the Xindi council, creating a lasting peace through conversation. 

What didn't work, though, is how things went in terms of character.  Specifically, character never tied into plot in a real organic way.  The closest was with Archer, who's moral center was challenged, but that balance between what he needed to do and what he had to bring himself to do always came more with an axe instead of a scalpel.  Archer doesn't get a slow descent into darkness.  He gets one questionable moment (putting a pirate in an airlock to get answers) and one really bad no-win scenario (the theft of the warp core).  Beyond that, what does he do?  True, he doesn't blow up the refinery in "The Shipment", but that seems less of a Moral Choice, and more thinking in terms of long-term strategy: going in guns blazing isn't the smartest thing to do if you've only got one shot at that, and you haven't found the right target.  In the final third of the season, Archer seems ready-- even eager-- to die for the cause, but why he's gone semi-suicidal isn't really explored.  Despite Daniels coming from the future TWICE to tell him, "Yeah, you're important, you can't die," he seems hellbent on it anyway.  There is a bit of lip service of not wanting to order someone else to their deaths, but that wasn't something ever really discussed.

What also didn't work was the lack of focus.  Most of the first two-thirds is spent wandering: some of it ties to the Xindi or the Spheres, but the rest is largely irrelevant.  It doesn't move the plot, nor is it called back later.  So it doesn't serve a purpose.  Perhaps if it had done more worldbuilding of the Expanse, creating encounters that mattered, so that they could be called upon at the endgame, then it would have seemed more meaningful.  And that would have also tied into a Trek solution: humans build communities, create allies, so when the chips are down, friends come to their aid.  But no species in the Expanse really were important other than the Xindi and the Spherebuilders.  The Spherebuilders were, at the core, the Big Bad, and the Xindi-- while having solid individual character-actors-- themselves had no definition beyond "five subspecies in fractious alliance". 

As counterpoint, I might present the end of Farscape's second-season.  After two seasons of more or less random encounters-- those stand-alone episodes-- the crew is faced with having to do a Big Crazy Plan.  And to pull it off, John Crichton calls on various species and people they've met along the way.  Now those stand-alone's tie into the solution, and to worldbuilding as a whole. 

But, credit where it's due: they took chances, and in the end, created something that had value.  In my recent re-watch of it all, I was largely entertained.  With a little more streamlining and focus (which, admittedly, in the world of episodic television, especially a decade ago, is challenging), it really could have stood out as something special. 


---
*- The first two episodes had nothing to do with the Xindi storyline.  Instead it involved time-traveling Nazi aliens, and served mostly to tie off the Temporal Cold War storyline, which had never been very well handled.  "Zero Hour" ended with an exceptionally bizarre Hail Mary of a cliffhanger, and those episodes are at best a serviceable affair of digging themselves out of that hole, as well as the entire TCW one. 
**- Though you have to wonder why, when the Xindi weapon showed up, Earth's only defense was, apparently, a single Andorian cruiser.  It made for some satisfying drama, but didn't make much sense.
***- A clumsy drug-addiction metaphor.

Analyzing Flawed Arc Structure, Part 4

Parts one, two and three. 

The third act of the Xindi Arc is pretty action packed.  On some level, it does make up for the heel-dragging and aimlessness of the first two thirds:  Episodes are: "Hatchery", "Azati Prime", "Damage", "The Forgotten", "E2", "The Council", "Countdown" and "Zero Hour".  

Of these eight, really only two are inessential: "Hatchery" and "E2".  But both of them do speak to the character of the Enterprise crew.  Since the one character-arc that's really tied to story-arc is "How far will Archer go?", to a degree "Hatchery" answers the question, "How far will the crew let him go?"  Now, it approaches it from a different angle, where Archer goes to extreme measures to help a creche of Xindi-Insectoid infants, and the crew, sensing something wrong, engage in a mini-mutiny.  As Archer is Being Affected By Something (a Trek staple to avoid actual conflict or responsibility), the real conflict boils down to the crew vs. Major Hayes, since Hayes just follows orders.  This is also the closest thing we get to something resembling focus on the Xindi-Insectoids, who in terms of story never amount to actual characters, simply additional muscle to back up the Reptilians.  "E2" is a kind of fun what-might-be time-travel episode, where the crew meets their descendents from a failed future-version of their mission, but other than turning the screws a bit tighter on the Trip/T'Pol romance, it's largely a placeholder.

That said, the three in between those episodes, "Azati Prime", "Damage" and "The Forgotten" do a very nice job illustrating the Collapse-Retreat-Recovery aspect of the Twelve-Part structure.  The ship is really hammered, but at the same time Archer makes some connection with Degra and the other Xindi-Primates.  It's here that the core Trek principles are pushed to their limits: having discovered the Xindi world-destroyer weapon, the first plan is just to blow it up.  This goes wrong, and Archer gets captured, but in being captured, he uses his knowledge from "Stratagem" to his advantage.  This convinces Degra enough to at least listen, and stop the Reptilians from attacking the Enterprise.  Degra (with the help of the semi-enigmatic Aquatics) returns Archer to the broken ship, and sends message for a secret rendezvous a few light-years away.  The ship being in such a state, making that rendezvous is impossible without a new warp-coil.  Fortunately, there's another damaged ship nearby, and Archer feels forced to take theirs by force in order to make the meeting.  This is without question his lowest point, committing for all intents an act of piracy in the name of saving Earth.  It's very non-Trek, which works excellently for the sake of drama.  Capt. Archer is torn up to do it, but he feels he has no choice.  You could easily see, for example, Cmdr. Adama, John Crichton or Malcolm Reynolds doing the exact same thing under the same circumstances.  The only question is, would they feel the same weight?  As horrible as the act is, it is in service of, ultimately, a Trek-solution: solving the Xindi situation through dialogue instead of violence.

Of course, the cracks in the plotting armor are quite evident.  Degra could have this clandestine meeting somewhere easier for Archer to reach, given that Degra knows the state Enterprise is in.  He even could just go to Enterprise directly, and not even be clandestine.  The need for secrecy from the Reptilians (and Insectoids) is a bit artificial.  And that's a big part of the problem with this plotting, in that it forces Enterprise to go from Point A to Point B (this necessitating the stolen warp coil) and then from Point B to Point C (this using the subspace passage that creates the timetravel accident in E2, which is neatly avoided, meaning the second Enterprise may have "never existed".)  It's mostly hoop-jumping so Degra can use Archer as a surprise in "The Council".

"The Council" is, in theory, Archer presenting his case that Earth is not a danger to the Xindi and that the Sphere-Builders/Guardians have been playing the Xindi for their own purposes.  It's the latter point that is most crucial, since the Guardians are worshiped as deities by the Xindi, though they were unaware of the connection between the Guardians and the Spheres.  While the Xindi Council has five groups, really only three matter: the Arboreals back up the Primates, and the Insectoids back up the Reptilians.  And the Aquatics are the enigmatic deciders.  In terms of character, it really boils down to Degra (Primate) and Dolim (Reptilian). 

It should be noted that Randy Oglesby and Scott MacDonald deserve a lot of praise.  Both are journeyman actors who have done tons of guest roles on various shows, including all four of the modern Treks.*  They do solid work, often under a lot of latex, and you have to respect that kind of actor. In fact the real dramatic centerpiece of "The Council", and to a degree the turning point of the story arc itself, is between these two actors. 

The final wrap-up of "Countdown" and "Zero Hour" is serviceable, in that the Xindi-Reptilians cement their role as the irredeemable villains, who have tied themselves to the Guardians.  The Guardians, of course, want to reshape reality-- terraforming our space, as it were, to one that they can survive in.  The Reptilians are their willing dupes.  Even the Insectoids wise-up, though all they do is wonder why the Spheres are suddenly working to help their efforts to destroy the Earth before the Reptilians sudden-but-inevitable betrayal.  The final push, in which Archer enlists Reed and Hoshi to destroy the weapon, saving the Earth, while Trip, T'Pol and Phlox destroy the Spheres themselves, saving the Xindi (and all of reality)-- is entertaining and fun, but sadly mostly involves pushing buttons and punching aliens.  The highlight in terms of What-Makes-It-Trek is not the bit where annoying-time-travel-exposition-fairy Daniels pulls Archer to the founding of the Federation (to convince Archer not to sacrifice himself, something Archer is pretty hellbent to do).  Instead, it's the moment where the Andorians show up to help defend the Earth.  Jeffery Combs-- another strong member of Trek character-actor stable-- sells the hell out of it as the Andorian Commander Shran, and that's a lot of fun. 

But in the end, it's a Big Finale: Things go Boom, and the Day Is Saved?  Is that all there is?  Is that all there can be?  That's the big question remaining.



--
*- I'm fairly certain that the two of them and Jonathan Frakes are the only actors to appear in all four modern Treks.

Analyzing Flawed Arc Structure, Part 3

A continuation of my analysis of the Xindi-arc of Star Trek: Enterprise.  Parts one and two.

The argument could be made that the first third was a "slow build", putting pieces in play that would be needed later.  While there is some truth to that (Rajiin introduces the idea of the Xindi working on a biological weapon as a Plan B, and Exile has a B-plot in which a connection between the Spheres and the Anomalies is made clear-- but both of those are drops of data in otherwise wheel-spinning exercises.) 

So, onto the middle third of the arc, things should pick up?  Should, yes.  But doesn't.  This middle third batch of episodes are: North Star, Similitude, Carpenter Street, Chosen Realm, Proving Ground, Stratagem, Harbinger and Doctor's Orders.  Of this batch of eight, only three do any heavy lifting in terms of the arc plot, and they're back-to-back-to-back: Proving Ground, Stratagem and Harbinger.  The rest are very mushy mushy-middle stuff. 

The two biggest missteps are North Star and Carpenter Street.  Strictly speaking, Carpenter Street does do some arc-work, but it's not compelling.  Both these bits suffer from having an "neat idea" supersede what the story arc really needs.  In the case of North Star, it was doing an old-school, Original-series style of episode where they come across a planet that's a History Planet instead of an alien world, in this case, the Old West, and it doesn't tie to the Xindi arc at all.  It's disposable.  For Carpenter Street, it's having the characters time-travel to modern-day Earth.  For that, it does tie to the arc, in that they go back to stop Xindi Reptilians in Earth's past who are preparing the biological weapon.  The time travel is so incidental for both parties, it's pure handwavium, and raises more "If they can do that..." questions than the arc wants to answer.  It does, in the end, provide Capt. Archer with something tangible, and that proves important later... but that could have been achieved without the time travel mess.

Chosen Realm is largely disposable, but it throws a small long-term setback into the mix by having all the data they've collected on the Expanse and the spheres deleted from their computer.  It's only small because it doesn't seem to slow them down significantly.  It also introduces the idea of Who Built The Spheres, and that said Builders might be worshiped.  Similitude and Doctor's Orders are also relatively disposable, but both of them are, at least, nice character pieces.  Similitude again pushes the character-arc question for Capt. Archer: how far will he go to succeed?  In this case, he allows a sentient being to be born and live for a short period of time in order to save Trip's life, on the principle that he cannot succeed without Trip.  The plot requires a lot more of sci-fi handwavium (Dr. Phlox happens to have a Morally Questionable Miracle in the back of his cupboard...), but it works if you can swallow that pill.  Doctor's Orders is fun enough, carried largely by John Billingsley's charm.  It does built off the idea that the Spheres are Changing Space, set up in Harbinger, so that helps give it some purpose.

Fortunately, Proving Ground, Stratagem and Harbinger do some good work.  The first two bring the Xindi and the Xindi Weapon into focus, largely through Degra, the Xindi-Primate who is responsible for actually designing the weapon.  An excellent job is done in these episodes changing him from a Nameless Councilmember to a real character, someone who has agreed to do something terrible because he believes it's necessary.  Strategem in particular, is a fun exercise, because it plays the "You don't remember but it's been a few years and we're friends now" trope in reverse-- having our protagonists be the perpetrators of the trick instead of the victims.  But in doing so, Archer gets to know Degra the Man, as opposed to Degra the Weapon Builder, which also helps shift things towards a more Trek-oriented Final Solution.  Harbinger, of these three, does suffer somewhat because it feels more disposable than it actually is: it's mostly character work, filling the time from the travel-with-purpose to Azati Prime (the location of the weapon construction, learned in Strategem) to work on character subplots.  It turns the screws on the Trip/T'Pol romance, as well as the Reed/Hayes hostility.  And, as mentioned, it sets up the Real Villain: The Sphere Builders.  In doing that, the stakes are changed. 

However, one should avoid having the word "disposable" being used too much, especially in the middle third of a storyline.  It leads your audience to wander away and say, "I don't know what's going on, really".  And who wants that?  In terms of twelve-part structure, I feel like this only really brings us to Part Five: Payback (with the Sphere Builders being brought into play showing the real stakes).  Five/twelfths of story when we're two-thirds in?  Problematic.  But it does offer the opportunity for a fast-paced final act.  

Analyzing Flawed Arc Structure, Part 2

As I mentioned earlier, I'm analyzing a flawed structure as part of an exercise to improve my own writing, specifically using the third "Xindi Arc" season of Star Trek: Enterprise.

Now, let's look at the beginning section of the arc, the first third.  This would consist of the second-season finale "The Expanse" as prologue, and the first eight episodes of the third season: "The Xindi", "Anomaly", "Extinction", "Rajiin", "Impulse", "Exile", "The Shipment" and "Twilight".

In three-act parlance, which I'm not a big fan of, this is all Act I.  And, as far as I'm concerned, that's part of the flaw here: these episodes mostly serve to put the pieces on the board, and there really aren't that many pieces.

The Prologue set-up of "The Expanse" does its job relatively effectively, but it doesn't quite hold up to scrutiny.  Earth is the victim of a Pearl Harbor/9-11 style surprise attack, killing seven million people.  The attack comes from a single-occupant probe of unknown origin.  Here's where part of the problem comes in: rather than have Starfleet actual figure out its origins, at least in part, answers are  handed to Capt. Archer by an exposition fairy from the future.  And said answers, as they usual are from poorly conceived exposition fairies, do little more than nudge in the right direction.  In other words, the information they gain could have been gained in a less clunky way, and have been just as useful.  But "The Expanse" sets the tone, puts a name to the adversary (The Xindi) and a place to find the (The Delphic Expanse).  The Expanse, itself, is set up as the equivalent of the "Here Be Dragons" part of the space map: physical laws don't work right there, and it's so dangerous even Vulcans and Klingons steer clear of it.

The true "Act I" of those eight episodes serve to establish a few core elements: the dangers of the Expanse (tied to bizarre spacial anomalies), which may be connected to a mysterious sphere; the stakes for the crew of the Enterprise, personally and globally; the Xindi themselves.  The problem is, only three of these episodes really effectively achieve these establishment goals: Anomaly, The Shipment and Twilight.  The key points in play in this section are tied to what the crew needs and wants.  They want to find the Xindi, but they really don't know where to start looking on once in The Expanse. They need to keep the ship safe from the spacial anomalies they constantly run into in The Expanse.  For the latter, there is a running subplot involving Trellium-D, a substance that will protect the ship, but that solution isn't acceptable: Trellium-D is toxic to T'Pol, so they can't use it.

This ties into the only real character arc in this section: what is Capt. Archer willing to sacrifice to save the Earth?*  His morality takes a bit of a pounding here, at one point torturing a captive pirate to get the information he needs.  He's also willing to pimp out Ens. Sato to a mysterious alien in "Exile", though that's a sacrifice Hoshi volunteers for.  He spends much of these episodes at the end of his rope, because he really doesn't see the mission as anything more than a ridiculous long shot.  IF they can survive the Expanse, and IF they can even find the Xindi, then they'll still be outnumbered and outgunned.  This comes to a head in The Shipment, where they find a Xindi refining facility.  The materials made at this facility were used in the weapon of the initial attack, and Tucker, Reed and Hayes are all ready to start blowing things up.  Archer, instead, decides to get to know one of the Xindi, and reaches an understanding with a decent man who didn't know what his materials were being used for.  Two key things accomplished: The Xindi aren't All Bad, and Archer moral compass veers back towards where Trek's is supposed to be.

The final step in this part is in Twilight, a psuedo-time travel story that nails home the stakes of failure: Earth will be destroyed if the Enterprise doesn't succeed in their mission, which they don't due to Capt. Archer being incapacitated by on of the spacial anomalies.  It is a classic Trek "reset button", but one with a point.  It doesn't just give us craziness and then undo it.

Even still, the big problem with the arc in this part is it mostly just meanders.  It takes eight episodes to do the work of three or four.**  Extinction, Rajiin and Exile are largely pointless, serving only to provide us with funny make-up, cheap titillation and a poor Beauty-and-the-Beast homage, in that order.

When it comes down to it, the first section only really does the work of the first two parts of the Twelve Part Arc Structure, when it should be doing the first four.  Once the situation is Established in The Expanse/The Xindi/Anomaly, we don't get back on point until The Shipment/Twilight to incite the plot to really start moving.  That aimless wandering in between those points is where an audience is lost. 

Next up: the mushy middle of the Xindi Arc.

---
*- The other character arcs set-up here are essentially minor bits of business.  Cmdr. Tucker is assigned the personal loss from the initial attack (his sister was among the seven million), but this mostly serves as an excuse to push him romantically towards T'Pol.  T'Pol's main conflict is resolved in the prologue: the Vulcan High Command don't want her on the mission, but she resigns from the High Command to stay on board.  Of the minor four members of the main cast, only Lt. Reed is given anything: bristling against Maj. Hayes, of the newly added MACO forces.      
**- I'll allow that "Impulse" does a fair amount of work of increasing personal stakes, and ties into what the Enterprise can do to keep themselves safe from the anomalies.

Perils of the Writer: The Slow Process of Getting the Ball Rolling

¡Feliz día de los muertos!  We're now in November, which for some writerly types, means NaNoWriMo, aka Nation Novel Writing Month.  If you aren't in the know, participants pledge to write a 50,000 word novel over the course of November.  This translates to writing approximately 16,666 words a day.  Back in the early days of writing, I participated, but I don't anymore, since every month is Novel Writing Month, and at this point in my life, a pace of 50K a month for 12 months is not something I could ever hope to maintain.  Writing at my own pace is just fine by me.

In my opinion, NaNoWriMo is an excellent exercise in terms of process, in learning how to write a novel... but not one in terms of results.  The novel you write in one month won't be a particularly useful one, not without significant editing.  Briefly: I think it's a wonderful way to crank out a trunk novel.  One of my trunk novels was, in fact, a NaNoWriMo.*

But exercise and process are important, especially when it comes to getting started.  Getting a novel started is, for me, a very slow and deliberate process, in that the path from conception to writing actual text can take quite some time.  I sometimes make the metaphor of my writing brain being like a kitchen, with various projects on front and back burners.  But then there is other stuff in crockpots on back counters, slowly stewing away for years until they are really ready to work.

Phase One: Conception.   
This is, more or less, the Big Idea phase of things, where the thunderstrike of a Shiny New Story smashes across your brainpan.  It's usually the broadest of brushstrokes: Steampunk Airship Flying Through Alternate Universe Texas!  Secret Telepath War In Manhattan!  Abducted Human Wakes from Hibernation Sleep on a Dying Ship Full of other Abducted Aliens!  Cold hard truth: 75-90% of projects never get out of this phase.  It's always a bit fun and exciting, but it's also easy to mistake that Fun and Exciting for "And now I will write the book".  That never works, at least for me.  Though I suspect that many people-- at least non-writers-- believe that this phase is all you need to write the book.**

Phase Two: Setting.
Once I have an idea, I need to build the place where it unfolds.  I'm a worldbuilder, it's what I do.  For me, this phase is all too crucial: it's about placing the gears that will power the engine behind the story.  This phase can often be the longest, because it is filled with working and reworking things out. If it doesn't work, if it doesn't make sense to me, then the center doesn't hold. Case in point: when I initially conceived my Space Opera Setting, back in 2002, I created some initial star maps with colonies and alien homeworlds and such and so forth.  But as I first tried to write, this signal of WRONG WRONG WRONG across my brain was jamming things up.  Why?  It took a while to realize, but I finally hit upon it: the stars of these colonies and alien worlds, while being in close proximity to Earth, had nothing to do with actual stars close to Earth.  Back to the drawing board.

Phase Three-A: Characters.
Phase Three-B: Circumstances.
I put these two together like this because they tend to go hand in hand, but I can't honestly say which one goes first.  Both things are crucial to figuring out what the actual story is: what's happening, and who it's happening to.  It's a strange, intertwined process that, frankly, I haven't quite mastered.  Trying to craft circumstances without knowing character at the center can yield something soulless and mechanical.  But crafting characters without really knowing the story can make an unholy mess, where you end up with numerous people standing around with very little to do.  The best solution I've found is to, at this phase, focus on just the core characters and the ripe circumstances that initiates things, and let it flow from there.

Phase Four: Outline
Now that I've worked out the key elements, who, what, where, when and (to a degree) why, it's a time for a big helping of how.  Of course, I use my Twelve-Part Structure as a base, writing out about a paragraph for each part.  With that finally in hand, THEN I can start Actually Writing.
___
*- I gave it significant editing afterwards.  It's still a trunk novel, and that's what it deserves, frankly.
**- This is where those, "I've got a great idea for a book, so you write it and we'll split the profits!" pitches come from.

Evolving from a Fandom of One

Back at the ArmadilloCon Workshop, the fantastic Mark Finn talked a bit about that moment that many writers dread: when someone approaches you with "the idea". 

Now, in this case, the person with "the idea" wasn't pitching "This is my idea, YOU write it, WE'LL make millions!"  Rather, she was presenting the book that someday she's eventually going to write.  She had a whole binder filled with research material: sketches of maps, worldbuilding and character notes, pictures of actors who fit the characters, other pictures of costumes.  But what was not there was telling: actual text.  And Mark asked, do you have anything of the story written?  Oh no, she said.  I'm not ready.

Mark ended this anecdote by saying, "I'm not sure exactly what you call that, but it's not writing."

I knew what to call it: A Fandom of One.

She was the biggest possible fan of something that existed only in her head.  The problem, as I interpret it, is she didn't know how to move past being a fan of it to being a creator.  She wanted to love it, love it as her new favorite novel series, but could only think about it in fannish terms.  She didn't have the tools to midwife it into being an actual thing.

Now, here's the thing: we all start that way.  Lord knows the characters of Thorn of Dentonhill, Holver Alley Crew, Maradaine Constabulary and Way of the Shield all existed in my head, but more as abstract concepts (as did the city of Maradaine, the nation of Druthal, and the whole rest of that world).  It took time, and real work, to figure out their actual stories.  To figure out what they were all about and what they needed to do.  But I had that same desire: to be a fan of this thing that I thought was so cool.

(Steven Brust, at one ArmadilloCon, made a comment that stuck with me, saying that Every Sequel is Fanfic of Yourself.  This comment received some groans and argument, but he further clarified, saying, "If you're writing a sequel, and are really doing it because you have this driving love to do it, it's because you're being a fan.  You are so geeked out on what you've created, you need to play in it more."  That really resonates.)

But part of that trick is really figuring out what you have to say.  Fandom, and by extension fanfic, is often more interested in theme and character interaction and relationships over the nuts and bolts of plotting and story structure.* 

You have to love your work.  You have to be a fan of it.  But you have to love it enough to slog through the hard parts and actually give it enough for everyone else to join you in your fandom.

--

*- My biggest issue with fanfic is how fandom communities easily embrace lazy writing.  Fanfic writers don't have to do character- or world-building, or much in terms of description, because your reader base already knows it all.  So most fanfic** ends up as vignettes for characters to hang out, rather than have a story with solid structure.  Or worse, elaborate set ups to enable characters to have sex with each other. Yes, I'm sure there's some good stuff, and I know for certain many solid, published authors have their start in fanfic.  It can be a good training ground. But it's a training ground where instead of having grizzled vets telling you to be better, you have teddy bears telling you how great everything is.  
**- From my experience.  I don't really care to hear recommendations or anything.

Loading Up Chekhov's Armory

"If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there."



Anton Chekhov's famous quote, in turns out, wasn't quite what I thought it was.  I had thought it was, "If a gun is hanging on the wall in Act I, it must be fired in Act III.  If it is fired in Act III, it must be seen on the wall in Act I."  The essence is still the same, but Chekov's actual quote emphasizes not setting up foreshadowing that isn't paid off.

Now, this sets up the fundamental difference between the Plotter and the Pantser in terms of foreshadowing-- especially if we're talking about a long-term, multi-part project.  The Plotter has a payoff in mind when the foreshadowing is seeded.  The Pantser seeds something in hopes of a strong payoff coming from it.  I'm not saying one is good and the other is bad, mind you.  I just know which one works for me.  (It's the former.)

But the thing with long term plans (or long term made-up-as-you-go) is "Act III", as it were, could be a long way down the road.  The writer might know how it's going to pay off, but the when is in the foggy horizon.  And that's OK.

With a BIG long-term project, though, you're going to need a lot of guns.  You might not hang them all up on the wall at once, but you know you're going to need them.

This is relevant right now, for me, as I've recently figured out the details of several guns I intend to be shooting much further down the road.  On top of that, I've been asked to fill some more wall space in my current drafts of things.  These two things, combined, present an excellent opportunity.

So I'm off to stock up the armory.

Avengers and Twelve-Part Structure

I had been thinking about movies and the studio-system's somewhat slavish devotion to "three act structure", which more and more I'm seeing as a big problem in modern cinema, and too often I'm seeing that same advice being given to novelists. And that's a shame, because three-act structure is bad advice for movies, and it's downright horrible for novels.

That's partly because "three act structure" is more or less another way of saying "beginning, middle and end".  And that's where a lot of screenwriters and novelists get into trouble: "Act 2 problems" or "the murky middle".  It's because, when you come down to it, "rising action" doesn't really give you a lot to go on.  It's a fancy way of saying "more stuff happens until the finale", but that tends to get translated into wheel-spinning and "refusing the call" (in Campbellian terms) as a way to mark time until the finale happens.* 

This is the problem in using tools of deconstruction and analysis and trying to use them for construction and creation.  They aren't meant to be used that way.  Now, admittedly, I did use deconstruction and analysis to create the Twelve-Part Structure, but I did it as a means of making a tool of construction and creation.

I could probably go on for a bit on the perils of three-act structure and using analysis tools for creation, but I won't.  I will, however, point out how things that succeed at being at engaging don't use three-act structure.  And when I saw the Twelve-Part Structure so evident in Avengers, I was pretty damn gleeful.**

Some spoilers from here on out.

Establishment: Loki shows up out of the Cosmic Cube, enthralls Hawkeye and Dr. Solveig, SHIELD fails to stop him.  With this, we establish the world and the stakes-- namely, this is a world where stuff like this happens.
Incitement: Gather the Team sequences: Fury talks to Cap, Natasha shows her skills and recruits Banner, Coulson talks to Tony.
Challenge: Loki begins his "distraction" plan in Germany, where Hawkeye does the real plan.  Cap fights Loki, and then Tony shows up and subdues him.
Altercation: Thor shows up to take Loki, and then Tony and Thor and Cap all fight each other over essentially jurisdiction issues.
Payback: Loki is locked up, but all the Team squabbles with each other over petty tings.  In other words, Loki's subtle discord is sewn.
Regrouping: Natasha gets info out of Loki, the Team gets a better sense over what's actually happening.
Collapse: Intergroup squabbling reaches a fevered pitch, as they discover SHIELD's plans for the Cosmic Cube. Hawkeye attacks the Helicarrier.
Retreat: Hulk smash, Tony and Cap work on keeping the Helicarrier in the air, Loki escapes and kills Coulson.
Recovery: Tony and Cap fix the Helicarrier, Natasha smacks Hawkeye's head back together, Bruce wakes up with Harry Dean Stanton.
Investment: Coulson's bloody Captain America cards, Tony gives his Big Speech to Loki, and the portal of Alien Destruction opens up.
Confrontation: BIG. DAMN. FIGHT.
Resolution:  Hulk smashes the puny God.  Tony throws a nuke at the aliens. Natasha closes the portal. Loki is captured, Thor brings him home.  Fury gives a speech.  Shawarma.

Yeah, you could break that into "three acts", but you'd be being pretty reductive about what actually happens.  Whedon was essentially given "three acts" by the studio people (namely, "Heroes come together, then they fight each other and split apart, and then they come together for Big Damn Fight").  With a lesser script that could have ended up as more wheelspinning non-action-- or worse, some kind of Plot Coupon collection in lieu of an actual story in the middle.***  Instead, with a more complicated structure, you get a FAR more engaging work.

--
*- Another superhero movie example: Green Lantern.  That's just full of wheel-spinning until the third-act turn where Hal Jordan, the supposedly fearless guy with near-limitless power, finally decides that maybe he should try and do something.  And by "do something" I mean tell a bunch of people he previously blew off that they should do something.  
**- I am NOT claiming that Whedon is aware of my Twelve-Part Structure, or that he necessarily used it or a similar framework.  It's more that Twelve-Part Structure fits as a framework quite nicely.
***- I'm looking at you, Percy Jackson movie.

A Question From My Agent

Last week my agent posted on his blog about "series death", including this question:

What can you as a writer do to hold onto that “core value” of a series?

 Series Death is a thing I think a lot about, especially since I do have a Long Term Plan.  The last thing I want is to drag things on past their sell-by date, or reach the point where I'm just painting in the numbers.  Or, worst of all in my opinion, where I'm just spinning my wheel, filling pages with "nothing happened". 

Two big things causes Series Death, in my opinion:
1. When the writer shifts from being hungry, eager to keep outdoing themselves,  to being lazy, cranking out more books for the sake of more books.
2. Connected to that, when the writer ceases seeing an end-goal for the series, and thus is forever shuffling the board instead of playing for the win.

So what can I do? (Besides the fact that my agent, saints willing, will keep my feet to the fire and not let me get lazy about these things?) 
The big one, for me, will be keeping my eye on the second one.  A series needs a good ending, and it needs to move towards that with every installment.  If the whole series is a journey from Point A to Point Z, every book in the series needs to make significant progress in that journey.  Some series end up dithering around Point Q or R, not sure how to pace out the final journey, since they don't know how many books they're going to write.

Can we raise a small glass to J.K. Rowling, who could have EASILY gone, "I think I'll make this nine or ten books" and dragged things out.  Instead, she planned it at seven, and kept it there.

And that's how you avoid it dying on you: By ending it intentionally. 

Which, according the the Big Crazy Plan, is exactly what I intend to do.

Wheels within wheels

Part of looking at the big picture means not only making plans for further installments, but making sure that those further installments also involve good plotting and storytelling.*  The series has to work, as well as the individual books.

Because, let's face it, we use the term 'series' to describe two very different things.  One type, like Lord of the Rings of The Belgariad, is actually a single story, which happens to be broken down into several separate books, for one reason or another.**  The other type, like Harry Potter, tells an overarching story, but each books stands on its own as an individual unit.  The latter is the type I prefer, and that's what I intend to write. But the overarching story needs to pay off, as well as the individual books.

This is where I go back to the Twelve-Part Structure.  It can apply to whatever grand arc-plot the series has, as well as each individual book.  How much of the twelve-part structure goes into each book, that depends on how many books you plan for your series.*** Trilogies are easy to break down.  Tetrologies work, but come out a bit odd in the twelve-part structure.  Pent- and Heptologies, which seem to be the very popular****, don't necessarily break cleanly, but that isn't a big deal.  But personally, I like the Hexology.  Possibly because it breaks down so cleanly with my twelve-part structure.  So this is how it works for the Hexology, though it's pretty easy to re-work it as you see fit for however many books you think your series should have.

  

Book 1: Establishment and Incitement. This is pretty clear, as any first book in a series need to set establish the players of the larger arc-plot, and lay the hints for the bigger things to come.  On the whole, this story needs to stand on its own the most, for obvious reasons. 

Book 2: Challenge and Altercation.  The plot of this story needs to turn the screws tighter on the larger plot.  Here, really, is where your main characters realize that something bigger is looming, and they will have to deal with it.   More important is, though, is that in Book 2 your main characters need to be challenged far beyond whatever Book 1 did to them, they need to push themselves further than they thought they were capable of, and they should prevail. 

Book 3: Payback and Regrouping.  On some level, Book 3 should be a dark mirror of Book 1.  In the grand scheme of things, Book 1 is a romp (even if it leaves plenty of bodies on the floor).  Book 3 should make the problems of Book 1 look like fun and games.  But even with that, it can feel like conclusion, in terms of the arc.  It can feel like, despite the things your heroes go through, everything is going to be all right.

Book 4: Collapse and Retreat.  Everything isn't going to be all right.  This is where the hammer drops. On whatever sliding scale you use, Books One through Three were walks in the park.  Book 4 doesn't leave scars, it leaves walking wounded.  This phase of your arc needs to be about despair.  Even if the individual plot of Book Four can be considered a "victory" for your heroes, it's a Pyrrhic one at best.  Things will not be the same after this.

Book 5: Recovery and Investment.  The arc is in a dark place in the beginning of Book 5.  The dark place is the "new normal" that the characters need to believe they live in, and the plot of Book 5 needs to be their fight back to the light.  This is where they consider quitting. This is where they decide they can't do that.

Book 6: Confrontation and Resolution.  The last book is, of course, about wrapping up the arc plot. 

That's how I break it into six books, but like I said, it's easy to shift and shuffle that for however many books your series is.  Take, for example, a classic example of seven: Harry Potter.

Sorcerer's Stone (Establishment and Incitement): Harry learns about the magical world and his history (Establishment) and makes the decision that he stands against Voldemort and what he represents (Incitement).

Chamber of Secrets (Challenge and Altercation): Harry learns that the legacy of Voldemort has deeper roots than he expected, and it's still effecting his life (Challenge), and in facing Tom Riddle and the basilisk, he steps up to actively fight that legacy (Altercation).

Prisoner of Azkhaban (Payback and Regrouping): Harry faces uncomfortable truths about his parents, having to confront his own fears directly (Payback).  He stands up to those fears, masters the Patronus, is able to fight off the Dementors, and gains some apparent stability through his relationship with Sirius (Regrouping).

Goblet of Fire (Collapse): Voldemort is back and Cedric is dead.  Things just got serious.

Order of the Phoenix (Retreat and Recovery): Harry is devastated, ridiculed and tormented over the events of Goblet, and through Umbridge, the system itself is against him (Retreat).  Despite that, he pulls it together and creates Dumbledore's Army, and refuses to go along with the lies of the Ministry (Recovery).

Half-Blood Prince (Investment): In learning the full scope of what it will take to stop Voldemort, and losing Dumbledore, Harry decides it is his responsibility to defeat Voldemort.

Deathly Hallows (Confrontation and Resolution): Harry goes after the horcruxes (Confrontation), and then faces Voldemort in the Battle of Hogwarts. (Resolution).

See?  The structure of the arc is there, yet each of those seven books also have their own story structure.  I haven't gone through to figure out if each of the seven books individually match the twelve-part structure, but I bet they come close.

__

*- This is, of course, getting ahead of myself, but I always like to keep looking at the map while I'm on the road.

**- I've heard that, in the case of LotR, it had to do with binding machines at the time wouldn't be able to handle the full text.  For the Belgariad, it was pure business- Lester del Ray could make more money selling five books instead of three, as Eddings had originally planned.

***- I will not go on a rant about series that have indeterminate lengths.

****- Why is that?  Is it the prime numbers?

Stepping Back to look at the Big Picture

This weekend was spent, in part, organizing and purging.  This tied, in part, to deciding to rename the warrior orders in Druthal.  Going through documents, finding outdated info, changing the names of things, purging out needless duplicates of paperwork.  (It's amazing how many times I've, frankly, thoughtlessly re-printed the same info.)  But I'm working on putting together both clean working files to reference (in Scrivener format primarily, though exporting that to a text format as well, in case of disaster), as well as a single, easy hard copy to go to if I need it.  It also involves digging through random handwritten notes (as I will jot down ideas just about anywhere) and making sure I've transcribed them somewhere where they'll do some good.

Part of this, of course, involved taking a good, hard look at the bigger picture of things.  I've made no secret of the fact that I have four different "heroes of Maradaine" series mapped out, with Thorn of Dentonhill, Holver Alley Crew, Maradaine Constabulary and Way of the Shield each representing the first of their own respective series.  Each of these four books stands alone just fine, though I've made a point of including hints and connections that pay off for readers who read everything. 

Now, I have a big crazy plan for each and all of these series, which I've worked to some degree.  Part of this weekend's process involved finding more detail to fill in, which then filtered back into the final bits of the Maradaine Constabulry re-write. 

On some level, I know that it's completely crazy to even be contemplating the level of plan that I have.  But I think in terms of epic.  And hopefully, I'll be able to make that pay off.

It occurs to me that this particular blog is coming off just a hair short of a total box of crazy.  Which is how stepping back and looking at my whole big-picture plan makes me feel, sometimes.  The scope of what I want to do is so huge, it feels like a tidal wave that I have to hold back.  It's almost the opposite of writer's block: there's so MUCH you can't get out. If I just let it go, it would be an intelligible word-salad of madness.  An unsolved jigsaw puzzle, dumped out on the floor.

Thus: Plan.  Organize.  Focus.  Build the edges of the puzzle first.  I've got three sides almost done, and I'm starting to build the fourth. 

This whole thing will probably make no sense to you, or it makes perfect sense, in which case you should probably be scared for your sanity.  Mine's toast. 

Off to the word mines.

Using Structure to Best Effect

Like I've always said, I'm a planner and an outliner. I can't just wing my way through a novel.I need my big picture.

Part of having that big picture outlook is knowing what the meat and bones of the story are ahead of time.  The dressing, the sinew, the sauce (depending on which metaphor you feel like using), that always comes out in the writing itself.  Sometimes on the second draft.  (Case in point, in the currently-wrapping-up Maradaine Constabulary, I've found Minox's whole extended family, something that didn't exist before.  Taking him out of the standard 'loner' trope has had some interesting effects.) 

But a problem I've run into, almost every time, is that desire to write those "meat and bones" scenes, making it something of a challenge to write those "sinewy tissue" scenes, that are just as necessary.  Each time, on Thorn, on Holver Alley, and on Maradaine Constabulary, I reached a point where, in frustration, I would write a [SCENE ABOUT THIS] notation and move ahead. 

And that's fine.  I think every writer needs to learn their own particular process, and accept how they work it.  It took me a while to realize I had to be a planner.  I had many, many crash-and-burns romanticizing the "just write and see where it takes me" method.  It doesn't work for me. 

(If that works for you, excellent.  I'm not knocking on any one person's methods.  If your methods work for you, then continue with what works.  Though I think people should always analyze whether something REALLY works for them, or they just THINK it does.)

Anyhow, I've now accepted that simply writing straight through in a linear way doesn't work for me.  I need to satisfy those urges to write the big tentpole sequences that hold the story up, and then use the ropes and canvas to hold it all together.

(I'm just throwing all sorts of metaphors around, aren't I?)

So, this is the experiment with Way of the Shield.  It'll also be my first attempt at writing a novel entirely on Scrivener.  Scrivener, of course, it's quite useful in non-linear writing.  Scenes can be written individually, and then assembled in the desired order, new scenes stuck in-between, and so forth.  I believe that this will yield faster results, as my finish-by goal for the rough draft is May 15th.

Down to the word mines I go.

Dismantling the Structure

With two next-draft projects on my plate, I thought I'd take a look at what next-drafting entails.  It boils down to three things: editing, re-writing and adding new material.  The first two tend to be relatively easy, and in many cases, it's mostly a matter of tweaking and fine-tuning.  I like to go through that stuff first, fixing the stuff that's easy.  In the case of Holver Alley Crew, a lot of that was just me being a bit sloppy: a few instances of "through" instead of "threw", a few sentences where I dropped a crucial word.  Embarrassing, sloppy stuff.  But that part is easy.

Then I go through again and note the stuff that needs more serious work.  I don't tackle that work, not just yet.  Just make notes.  Then I make a timeline of the book.  This part is crucial in adding new material, as it helps identify points where additional material could be weaved in. 

Next step: remove all the chapter breaks.

This is crucial for me, for the way I write.  See, when I first write the rough draft, I don't write in chapters.  I  don't really think in chapters.  For me, it's all scenes.  Once I'm done, I go through it scene by scene and find the chapter breaks.  If I need to pepper new scenes throughout, it's a lot easier for me not to think about how it affects the size and sequence of chapters. 

It's purely psychological, I know.  But, for me, it feels a lot more natural to take the whole thing apart, and then rebuild something newer and stronger, than it is to try and slip and pry new things into an existing structure.

Structure vs. formula

There is always going to be the great Planner vs. Pantser argument amongst writers.  Of late, I've been seeing threads of hostility amongst the planners towards the pantsers.  Not open scorn, but a certain degree of, "Well, how is not planning REALLY working out for you?"  And I can see the argument behind the ideas that, if you're a "pantser", but don't finish things, or you write a couple hundred pages that you have to scrap and re-do, then you might consider the merits of some planning.

I, for one, am a planner through and through, because I've learned that's what works for me.  If a pantser finds that just going headfirst into the story and seeing where it goes works for them, power to them.  But I do wonder if a number of professed pantsers really need to be planners, but they don't know how to plan, or they're afraid of what it might mean.

Part of that, I think, is confusing structure with formula.  Planning out a story based on structure is just figuring out the bones, placing the signposts that will guide the writing. I'm all about structure. Formula, on the other hand, is a different beast.  There, you're talking about exact points, executed at exact moments, to re-create something else that already succeeded.  I've been told that for Hollywood Screenplays, one needs to follow a rather exacting formula (to the level of, "On Page 15, THIS has to happen.  Then on page 18, THIS has to happen.")  That's no way to generate a dynamic, creative work. 

Structure, for me, gives me the skeleton, and I've come up with one that helps me put my stories together.  I've talked about it before (previous posts on my Twelve-Part Outline), and I'll be talking about it more in the near future.

What sort of structure do you use?  Or is it pure pantsing?  If it is, I'm really curious to hear how that works better.

Reader question answered

OK, this is actually the first time I've had a Reader Question in which to answer. So why not make a post of it?

I forgot to ask: do you use any tools like Scrivener, or do you just use a good ol' fashioned word processor (or the even more good and more ol' fashioned yellow legal pad)?

I essentially use Microsoft Word for actual writing. I occasionally will work longhand, as it's sometimes a good way to get cobwebs out... though I prefer a lined notebook to a legal pad. Something about turning the pages instead of flipping them over the top appeals to my sense of aesthetics. Of course, in a desk drawer I have about twelve such pads with a ton of unorganized notes. Most of those have been typed in, so they are essentially redundant.
I have tried out Scrivener, and was more or less underwhelmed. When I first saw the pitch for it, I found it interesting, and yet vaguely offensive. They've since changed the pitch, from what I can tell, but at the time it was along the lines of, "You can't actually write on MS Word, because that doesn't make sense to your writer brain. Here's some software that thinks like YOU do."
I've never quite understood the complaints with MS Word as a writer's tool. I've, personally, found it completely functional for my needs. I can do whatever I need on it, write how I want to, move text around, re-format in a snap. I don't see what's non-functional about it. Maybe someone else can explain it to me.
Anyway, back to Scrivener. I think it is probably a perfectly fine tool for helping one organize ones thoughts and materials. The thing is, I already have my thoughts and materials organized my own way, so the act of transferring it all into Scrivener seemed more work than it was worth. On top of that, most of what Scrivener actually DOES is take anything you put into there and make it into text files. Scrivener just allows you to look at text files in different ways. Again, I'm sure that helps a lot of people, but it's not particularly useful to me. At least, not MORE useful than what I already do.
Like I said, I use MS Word to actually write, as well as most of my notes are done on MS Word. On any project, on top of the actual Rough Draft file, I make three other files: Outline, Dramatis Personae and Facepage.
The Outline I already have a template document, in MS Word, using Notebook Layout mode. Twelve sections for the twelve parts of the outline.
The Dramatis Personae is just that: a list of all the characters, with a basic description of who they are and their relation to anyone else in the piece.
The Facepage is a word document with just headshot pictures of the characters with their names. Collecting said headshots is part of the prep process.
Worldbuilding is done on MS Word, with MS Excel, Filemaker Pro and Adobe Photoshop all playing a role. Also, with my Space Opera worldbuilding (for USS Banshee) a wonderful star-system program call ChView has proven invaluable.
But sometimes it's just a notebook and a pen, of course.

Fantasy Manifesto #3

3. Enough with The Chosen One already.

Miracle babies who are destined to destroy the evil warlord. Hidden princes, raised humbly on some tiny farm, who will grow up to reclaim the throne. Prophecies that foretell their coming.

Been done. To death.

For one big reason: it kills tension. If someone is the Destined Hero, then you've already told us he's going to win. Now, I go into most fantasy books, pretty much figuring the heroes are going to win. But I want to feel they earned it. If you lay out this huge prophecy of destiny of how said person will do everything… well, then, you’re just giving us the outline right off the bat, aren’t you? If you just make it obvious that your characters are chess pieces in a big, planned out game, with no choices of their own to make… then you’ve lost me.

Now, I have to admit, one well-worn trope I love is a prophecy of defeat. The best are the ones that seem to be a declaration of immortality, but are, in truth, telling someone exactly how their defeat is going to happen. Those then give you the satisfying “I am no man!” or “Macduff from his mother’s womb was untimely ripped!” moments.

You know what I’d love to see—and maybe it’s out there—is for the humble, goodhearted farmboy to be the Chosen One of Prophecy… but he is destined to become the Dark Lord. And in the end of the book, that’s exactly what happens. Is there anything like that out there?