Looking as you leap: The pros and cons of plotting a novel on the fly
During the decade or so since its conception, the story had acquired a number of notations that had been tagged piecemeal onto the end. Among these was the outline for a new opening paragraph that went on to become chapter one. A sketch of a scene that was intended to amount to nothing more than a couple of paragraphs, swelled to immense proportions and became chapter three, which remains my favourite part of the book.
There was a point where I had to make a decision: Do I cram the story back into the vaults, or do I continue adding to it, in the knowledge that it is too large for any literary journal to even consider, and with the likelihood that no publisher will be willing to accept it. It boiled down to whether I was willing to make a long-term commitment to an undertaking that was unlikely to bear any fruit, and was in fact liable to be widely ignored.
There was a point where I had to make a decision: Do I cram the story back into the vaults, or do I continue adding to it, in the knowledge that it is too large for any literary journal to even consider, and with the likelihood that no publisher will be willing to accept it. It boiled down to whether I was willing to make a long-term commitment to an undertaking that was unlikely to bear any fruit, and was in fact liable to be widely ignored.
For several years I had been submitting pieces of writing to literary journals with modest success. What had once been a source of creative impetus had become a treadmill. I felt constricted by wordcounts and the feeling that I had to present ideas in a certain format for them to be accepted. In some ways the literary scene at this level is incredibly diverse. In other ways it is very narrow-minded and self-censorious. I had written rather a lot of material that I felt would be rejected purely on the basis of its content, and that might even result in a black mark being put against my name. Finishing the book was a way of breaking free from these restrictions. It allowed me to produce writing on my terms, that remained consistent with my creative vision and with my belief that people should be able to say whatever the hell they want.
The novella that emerged is called The Missionary Dune. It was eventually self-published through Amazon, as an eBook for the Kindle, and more recently as a paperback. I am thinking of producing a proof copy for a hardback, just to get a sense of what the quality and challenges are when it comes to working in that format. However, I will not put it into circulation. I don't think there is really any demand for it.
With the book behind me, and my attention focused largely upon its successor, I can look back on the process with a degree of objectivity. I can see where I was naïve and where I acted too soon. I can determine my errors in judgement and also the foundations of some of these mistakes. There are things that I did when writing this book that I do not wish to repeat.
The foundation of The Missionary Dune was a collection of disjointed scenes, largely absent any plot or character, initially labouring under the title The Desert Song of Mayfair, and subsequently as The Sands of Oxford Street. Because there was already a reasonably-sized chunk of text already in existence, I cut out a few things that I regarded as superfluous and moved a few other things around. The scene that originally opened the story (the cabinet safes dangling precariously from winches out of high windows) is now a part of chapter five.
I had cooked up a vague, over-arcing plot-line that did not incorporate a definitive ending. This should have concerned me more than it did. Generally, when I sit down to write something, I will know the beginning and the end in advance, along with the general themes that I want to put across. This gap in my knowledge caused issues later, which took time to resolve.
The book was written mostly on the fly, with any detailed plotting being dealt with as it was required. There were points when I had to temporarily cease writing and backtrack, so that I could work out timelines and ensure consistency in the narrative.
The result was a book with a very odd structure, consisting of five lengthy chapters:
The novella that emerged is called The Missionary Dune. It was eventually self-published through Amazon, as an eBook for the Kindle, and more recently as a paperback. I am thinking of producing a proof copy for a hardback, just to get a sense of what the quality and challenges are when it comes to working in that format. However, I will not put it into circulation. I don't think there is really any demand for it.
With the book behind me, and my attention focused largely upon its successor, I can look back on the process with a degree of objectivity. I can see where I was naïve and where I acted too soon. I can determine my errors in judgement and also the foundations of some of these mistakes. There are things that I did when writing this book that I do not wish to repeat.
~
The foundation of The Missionary Dune was a collection of disjointed scenes, largely absent any plot or character, initially labouring under the title The Desert Song of Mayfair, and subsequently as The Sands of Oxford Street. Because there was already a reasonably-sized chunk of text already in existence, I cut out a few things that I regarded as superfluous and moved a few other things around. The scene that originally opened the story (the cabinet safes dangling precariously from winches out of high windows) is now a part of chapter five.
I had cooked up a vague, over-arcing plot-line that did not incorporate a definitive ending. This should have concerned me more than it did. Generally, when I sit down to write something, I will know the beginning and the end in advance, along with the general themes that I want to put across. This gap in my knowledge caused issues later, which took time to resolve.
The book was written mostly on the fly, with any detailed plotting being dealt with as it was required. There were points when I had to temporarily cease writing and backtrack, so that I could work out timelines and ensure consistency in the narrative.
The result was a book with a very odd structure, consisting of five lengthy chapters:
The first of these introduces the protagonist. The reader learns something of his character. There is also some heavy foreshadowing.
Chapter two acquaints the protagonist with the antagonist. The core plot-line of the novel is introduced.
Chapter three is an interval – a flashback that provides more insight into the protagonist and contextualises his decisions and his actions, both in the previous chapters and in those that follow.
Chapter four brings the deadlock between the protagonist and antagonist to a head.
Chapter five is essentially an extended coda, in which the protagonist reconciles himself with the fallout of everything that has occurred.
Naturally, there are some pacing issues; though given that the novella inhabits the space where the meandering currents of mysticism lap against the frayed edges of human existence, maybe these can be excused. A far bigger problem with the story was the difficulty that I had in summing-up what the book is about for a cover blurb, without dovetailing into metaphysics.
I have since pondered on might have been, had I plotted the book from scratch. I think that it would be longer. There would be more chapters, and more back and froth between the protagonist and the antagonist, though the latter might not be a good thing: The antagonist is man who cycles through people, singling-out those who catch his eye and callously discarding anyone who does not adhere to his rigid criteria. All encounters with him are necessarily brief. There is also an ambiguity surrounding him – whether he knows what the outcome of his actions will be, or if he is a man no longer in control, desperately clutching at straws. Showing too much of him may have rubbed off some of this ambiguity.
One morning, a few weeks ago, I lay in bed, mentally mapping out a version of the book written in the third person. It might have worked. However, the novella in its present incarnation is an account of a young man trying to find his purpose in life. It needs to be a personal account, presented by the individual at the heart of the story, as opposed to a detached observer.
In March, 2020, I tentatively submitted The Missionary Dune to a publishing house that was willing to accept novellas. Less than a month later, I received an email from an editor thanking me for my offering, but declining the book on the basis that it did not fit in with their current list. Given the speed of the response I took that as a hard 'no.'
While I was considering what to do next, I overhauled the final chapter of the book, which lengthened considerably as a result. The ending remained a weak point and it was clear that I needed to come up with something better. A common trope in this type of story – one that I wanted to avoid – is a conclusion that is so ambiguous, that it is obvious the author didn't have the faintest idea as to how to tie the strands of their plot together, and threw out something vague and abstract in the hope that their audience would mistake hot air for intelligence and then fill in the gaps themselves. A pertinent example of this is the finale of the TV show Lost. I was aiming for something more in the vein of David Lynch, who will provide enough information for his audience to gain a notion of what might be happening, while retaining an air of mystery.
In the end, the simplest solution happened to be the best. I worked out a conclusion that is sympathetic to the opening of the novel. The absurd inspiration for this was the keyring to the backdoor of the garage in my home – a circle of thin wire that had been pulled out of shape so that the ends were separated and misaligned. This became the final structure of my novella – an imperfect circle, incapable of reliably securing a figurative set of keys.
In June, I self-published the novella as an eBook Kindle. A few months later, as I began grappling with the minutiae of laying out a paperback version. I decided that the book required an epilogue. I was happy with the way that I had left things with the protagonist, but I wanted something after, that would place what had unfolded in the context of a wider world, and that would also act as a kind of palette cleanser.
What I ended up writing was much longer than I had planned – just over 5000 words. Unlike the rest of the book, it is presented in the third person. I wanted to convey the impression that the story was slowly moving away from the reader and becoming less personal. The focus is on a minor character in the novella, who I wanted to give a proper send off.
This supplementary chapter also expands upon the lives of Shemjem and Hamjem El-Gazzaway, both of whom maintain a shadowy presence throughout the book. In the back of my mind I had modelled them on two of Noah's three sons, who, in the context of the story, had failed to grow old and die (no idea what happened to Japeth) and who had formed a formidable alliance, prior to falling out over their religious differences.
Incorporated into this final chapter is an exploration of the themes of the book that I am currently in the process of writing, which is a sequel in the loosest terms imaginable. The opening sentence of this book appears in the epilogue to The Missionary Dune, albeit in a different context.
Of course, having made these additions, I had to revisit the eBook and add-in the new material so there was parity between the different formats.
One benefit to plotting my novella as I went along was the opportunity to scatter in symbolism at will rather than using it as a kind of garnish later. I like imagery of this kind to be rubbed into the grain of the story where a reader won't notice it, unless they are looking for it, and it does its work subconsciously.
The Missionary Dune opens with a man reassembling fragments of ancient pottery in the basement of the British Museum. One of the characters is capable of seeding holy dunes, one grain of sand at a time. Another man manipulates granules of sugar on the table of a cafe as if he rearranging the constellations in the heavens. These men, who impose their will over physical matter, are builders and repairers. At times they are portrayed as almost godlike.
Conversely, members of the Munnoch household announce their permanent exit from the book with the sound of their footsteps on gravel. This is a family in decline who walk on ruins and make no effort to either rebuild what has been lost, or to build anew.
There are certain books that benefit from a stream of consciousness approach to writing. Jack Kerouac's mostly-autobiographical novels are a case in point, documenting his galloping internal monologue, and conveying a sense of what it was like to be a part of one of his madcap social outings, which are sometimes exhausting to read. There is a character in Desolation Angels - a poet, whose name escapes me, but who is, of course, modelled on a real-life person - who is so utterly exasperating that I longed to travel backwards in time so that I could punch him in the face.
I grew up reading the Beats and I still enjoy their work. That being said, I don't think I can create good writing that is so spontaneous in nature.
Chapter two acquaints the protagonist with the antagonist. The core plot-line of the novel is introduced.
Chapter three is an interval – a flashback that provides more insight into the protagonist and contextualises his decisions and his actions, both in the previous chapters and in those that follow.
Chapter four brings the deadlock between the protagonist and antagonist to a head.
Chapter five is essentially an extended coda, in which the protagonist reconciles himself with the fallout of everything that has occurred.
Naturally, there are some pacing issues; though given that the novella inhabits the space where the meandering currents of mysticism lap against the frayed edges of human existence, maybe these can be excused. A far bigger problem with the story was the difficulty that I had in summing-up what the book is about for a cover blurb, without dovetailing into metaphysics.
I have since pondered on might have been, had I plotted the book from scratch. I think that it would be longer. There would be more chapters, and more back and froth between the protagonist and the antagonist, though the latter might not be a good thing: The antagonist is man who cycles through people, singling-out those who catch his eye and callously discarding anyone who does not adhere to his rigid criteria. All encounters with him are necessarily brief. There is also an ambiguity surrounding him – whether he knows what the outcome of his actions will be, or if he is a man no longer in control, desperately clutching at straws. Showing too much of him may have rubbed off some of this ambiguity.
One morning, a few weeks ago, I lay in bed, mentally mapping out a version of the book written in the third person. It might have worked. However, the novella in its present incarnation is an account of a young man trying to find his purpose in life. It needs to be a personal account, presented by the individual at the heart of the story, as opposed to a detached observer.
~
While I was considering what to do next, I overhauled the final chapter of the book, which lengthened considerably as a result. The ending remained a weak point and it was clear that I needed to come up with something better. A common trope in this type of story – one that I wanted to avoid – is a conclusion that is so ambiguous, that it is obvious the author didn't have the faintest idea as to how to tie the strands of their plot together, and threw out something vague and abstract in the hope that their audience would mistake hot air for intelligence and then fill in the gaps themselves. A pertinent example of this is the finale of the TV show Lost. I was aiming for something more in the vein of David Lynch, who will provide enough information for his audience to gain a notion of what might be happening, while retaining an air of mystery.
In the end, the simplest solution happened to be the best. I worked out a conclusion that is sympathetic to the opening of the novel. The absurd inspiration for this was the keyring to the backdoor of the garage in my home – a circle of thin wire that had been pulled out of shape so that the ends were separated and misaligned. This became the final structure of my novella – an imperfect circle, incapable of reliably securing a figurative set of keys.
In June, I self-published the novella as an eBook Kindle. A few months later, as I began grappling with the minutiae of laying out a paperback version. I decided that the book required an epilogue. I was happy with the way that I had left things with the protagonist, but I wanted something after, that would place what had unfolded in the context of a wider world, and that would also act as a kind of palette cleanser.
What I ended up writing was much longer than I had planned – just over 5000 words. Unlike the rest of the book, it is presented in the third person. I wanted to convey the impression that the story was slowly moving away from the reader and becoming less personal. The focus is on a minor character in the novella, who I wanted to give a proper send off.
This supplementary chapter also expands upon the lives of Shemjem and Hamjem El-Gazzaway, both of whom maintain a shadowy presence throughout the book. In the back of my mind I had modelled them on two of Noah's three sons, who, in the context of the story, had failed to grow old and die (no idea what happened to Japeth) and who had formed a formidable alliance, prior to falling out over their religious differences.
Incorporated into this final chapter is an exploration of the themes of the book that I am currently in the process of writing, which is a sequel in the loosest terms imaginable. The opening sentence of this book appears in the epilogue to The Missionary Dune, albeit in a different context.
Of course, having made these additions, I had to revisit the eBook and add-in the new material so there was parity between the different formats.
~
One benefit to plotting my novella as I went along was the opportunity to scatter in symbolism at will rather than using it as a kind of garnish later. I like imagery of this kind to be rubbed into the grain of the story where a reader won't notice it, unless they are looking for it, and it does its work subconsciously.
The Missionary Dune opens with a man reassembling fragments of ancient pottery in the basement of the British Museum. One of the characters is capable of seeding holy dunes, one grain of sand at a time. Another man manipulates granules of sugar on the table of a cafe as if he rearranging the constellations in the heavens. These men, who impose their will over physical matter, are builders and repairers. At times they are portrayed as almost godlike.
Conversely, members of the Munnoch household announce their permanent exit from the book with the sound of their footsteps on gravel. This is a family in decline who walk on ruins and make no effort to either rebuild what has been lost, or to build anew.
~
There are certain books that benefit from a stream of consciousness approach to writing. Jack Kerouac's mostly-autobiographical novels are a case in point, documenting his galloping internal monologue, and conveying a sense of what it was like to be a part of one of his madcap social outings, which are sometimes exhausting to read. There is a character in Desolation Angels - a poet, whose name escapes me, but who is, of course, modelled on a real-life person - who is so utterly exasperating that I longed to travel backwards in time so that I could punch him in the face.
I grew up reading the Beats and I still enjoy their work. That being said, I don't think I can create good writing that is so spontaneous in nature.
The novel I am currently working on has plot and character notes that are probably longer than the book will be when it is finished. It is a standard there act drama, spread across 13 chapters. I won't even break ground on it until the middle of June at the earliest. When I do, I will know everything about the story and I will be able to hit the ground running. The only drawback to this method that I have noted thus far, is a tendency for the optimistic parts of the story under consideration to wane the longer I spend planning it, as the shadows lengthen and the darkness in the narrative grows.
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