Early last year, I read The Queens of Crime, a novel by one of my favorite authors, Marie Benedict. She primarily writes historical fiction, so although I don’t know a lot about her process, she clearly has to approach a project with a pretty firm grasp on her subject. Her characters are typically well-known people from the past, with The Queens of Crime thrusting Agatha Christy and several of her contemporary authors into the investigation of a true-life murder. In this and Ms. Benedict’s other works I’ve enjoyed, it’s obvious she does her share of research and takes great care to keep her plot accurate while maintaining creative license.
Thus, it somewhat surprised me to read her admission in her author’s note at the end that the longer she spent on the book, the “more I realized that these [elements already mentioned] weren’t the only reasons I was drawn to the story.” She added, “It seemed as though, in order to solve one mystery, I had to address another. And this odyssey felt familiar and urgent to me, especially at this stage of my life.”
How can that be? Don’t writers go into a book, knowing exactly what type of book they’re going to create? How can it change halfway through?
Though I didn’t expect this from Ms. Benedict, I can actually relate. In the writing world, I’m termed a “pantster” as opposed to a “plotter,” meaning that I put the story together as it comes out of me—write by the seat of my pants, if you will—rather than using an outline or the like to plan it out. Because of this, I understand how a project evolves over the course of making it, even if it sticks to the original concept you had in mind on day one.
How does this happen? Again, I can’t speak for “plotters,” but no matter what our process may be, we’re all human. Whether a project takes us sixteen days, sixteen months, or sixteen years to complete, we’re living our own real storylines during that time. When things remain status quo, we’re likely to keep the basic premise the way we intended. When changes occur or various developments unfold, however, we’re bound to reflect some of that in our writing.
As I mentioned in my release blog for my latest book, Undeveloped Memories, I experienced some heavy challenges throughout the two years I worked on the manuscript. None of the book’s elements mirrored my real-life struggles, yet those struggles shaped much of the overall tone and certain aspects. More than that, it helped me heal, allowing me to soak in my emotions while also infusing me with the same hope I was depicting on the pages.
When this transformation is happening, however, we ought to be careful not to let it completely take the story off track. We wouldn’t want readers to feel like the plot has turned into a whole different story. Just like a painter wants to hide where they might’ve run out of paint or quit for the day, we should do our best to conceal the change of tone. We can do much of this in editing, where we might adjust the beginning to match our later work. Still, we may also choose to incorporate those differences in another project altogether if they truly don’t fit in our current work.
Yes, writing is a gift, providing an invaluable outlet to release whatever emotions stir inside us. When we channel those feelings in the right way through our writing, readers will experience them along with us, making the story more poignant. As an accomplished chef may toss in different ingredients according to his/her mood that day, we can season our writing with those real feelings… just as long as we don’t overpower the main dish.
KarinaBartow.com 