Planning vs. Pantsing

I was in grade 5 when I first decided to get serious as an author.

I made it forty pages into my first manuscript before getting bored and deciding to move onto a new project. I tried out some different ideas, figuring that sooner or later I would manage to write the next New York Times bestseller, but no such luck. The problem I kept running into was that I only wanted to write the scenes where my characters found themselves in mortal peril. All the extra fluff—like plot and character development—wasn’t of much interest to me. Needless to say, each new idea eventually fizzled and died.

Eighth grade me recognized the pattern. She did something revolutionary, something she would thank herself for for the rest of her life: she made a plan.

I made up my mind that I wouldn’t allow myself to start writing my next book until I had filled my notebook, cover to cover, with plans. Over the coming weeks, I poured myself into that little notebook, filling it with drawings of characters, notes on the setting and history of the fantasy world I was creating, and lists of events that would take place in the story.

Eventually, the notebook was full. I started writing the book.

Three years later, I finished.

I had done it. An entire manuscript, beginning to end. All mine.

The only catch? It sucked.

Later, I was so embarrassed by my flowery writing, flat characters, and underlying teenage angst that I deleted every copy of the book I had. I literally have no record of it, other than that notebook full of handwritten plans, which I kept as a memento.

Here’s the thing: I’m so glad I wrote that awful book. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, even if I never want to read it again.

Because in the end, it wasn’t about the book itself. It was about learning how to write a book. The effort. The focus. The perseverance. It was about becoming the type of person who finishes what she starts. Maybe most important of all, it was about learning to love the process, not the final product.

I tackled my next manuscript during my final year of university. It started off as a fun side-project that I did alongside a couple of students at the middle school where I was completing my last teaching practicum. There was a challenge: write a novel in the month of November—or at least start one. The kids and I sat in a classroom and typed away for a handful of minutes each week. I didn’t get much done. By the end of November, I think I had a chapter, not a novel—but I was hooked. I’d gotten a fresh taste of the writing process and had stumbled across a story that I was suddenly dying to tell. I kept working on the book, finishing the first draft a year later.

The key difference between this book and the one I’d written in high school (other than being significantly less cringy): I hadn’t planned this one out.

I suppose I knew who my villain was. I had a picture of the climax in my head. But by and large, I really didn’t know much about what was going to happen. I didn’t know what my villain’s plan was, let alone what my hero was going to do about it.

Marvelous things happened. I think it was the first time I had experienced the sheer delight of being surprised by my own characters. I would be working on a scene and then suddenly, an idea would pop into my head—something unexpected that my protagonist was going to say or do. Sometimes, it was a little thing; sometimes it would add a twist that I hadn’t scene coming.

I was enamored with my protagonist. I was fascinated by his personality, his experiences, his motivations. To this day, I still am.

The problem? The plot was a mess. The theme had gotten lost. Basically, the idea in my head—the way I wanted to describe the book to an agent—simply didn’t line up with what I had come up with on the page.

I have edited that book more than any of my other projects, possibly all of them put together. I’ve genuinely lost count of the drafts I’ve gone through. I have saved nearly a hundred pages of deleted material, much of which was pulled from alternative versions of the plot. Still, I am determined that one day, I will write the story in a way that finally makes sense to me and gives my character the storyline he deserves.

So, why am I going on about all this? If I haven’t already started to sound like the teacher from Charlie Brown, then stay with me a little longer as I get to the point.

If you are a writer, you’ve probably come across the terms planning and pantsing as descriptors of the creative process. Planners…well, make a plan. Eighth grade me was a planner. Devise a plan; execute the plan. Pantsers improvise, making things up as they go along. They fly by the seat of their pants, so to speak. University me was a pantser. Have fun and let the characters do whatever they want. The fact that you have no idea what’s going on is all part of charm.

Here’s the thing: I actually think both methods come with enormous benefits. Planning lends itself to clarity and organization; pantsing can spark life and authenticity.

Since my first two manuscripts, I have settled into a combination of planning and pantsing. Now, I like to start a book by planning out the important events. I typically write these down by hand in a notebook (I still do a lot of my planning in notebooks). The roadmap of events helps me to tell a story that actually makes a lick of sense.

But I hold everything that happens between the main events loosely. I still love when characters catch me off-guard, saying or doing something that takes the story in an unexpected direction. I’ve made up entire characters on a whim partway through a manuscript. I didn’t see them coming, didn’t plan for their presence, but am delighted to find them elbowing their way into the story, sometimes going on to have a significant influence on the protagonist and their journey.

My advice: experiment.

Try some planning; play with pantsing. Every time you sit down to write—no matter what your method—it is an opportunity to learn. Perhaps, after trying it both ways, you will agree with me that the best writing comes from a marriage of both structure and chaos, the known and the unknown. It’s a bit like a garden: it has a life of its own, but you will need to step in to keep it from becoming an overgrown jumble. Enjoy getting your hands in the dirt. Plant some seeds and see what grows.