The Plot Thickens

I confess. I’m a self-taught writer. Actually, I’ve been taught by the hundreds of people whose books and stories I’ve read. Technique, more properly speaking, is what I taught myself.

From my earliest days I wanted to be a writer, but didn’t say so for two reasons: 1) it sounded a little too arrogant, and 2) it sounded a little too much like John Boy Walton. But write I did.

When it comes to laying out plots I often stumble. The overall trajectory of a novel is clear in my mind from the beginning, but as I write things begin to morph: the character I thought I knew intimately turns out to be somewhat of a diffident stranger, I resolve crises too quickly, an event I never anticipated enters the story.

Am I writing or being written?

I’ve heard of writers who spend vast amounts of time sketching out their plots in meticulous detail. These are the writers, I expect, who don’t have to work cruddy little jobs to keep their sorry-assed spirits hitched to their weary hides. In my universe the plots are compelled to invent themselves.

It’s not that I can’t think up convoluted plots; I made up bed-time stories every night for my daughter for nearly a decade. But in this world of non-professional writers, who has that kind of time? Besides, writing should be an adventure. Tony ate pink. Bet you didn’t see that one coming!

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K. Marvin Bruce

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