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Planning a Novel, Part 2: Pre-Writing

The second installment of a series I'm writing for The Master's Artist. Enjoy!

In Part 1, we considered the "grid," the conceptual landscape of the novel you're about to write. It's divided into chapters and scenes, and we superimposed a dramatic structure, which gave us a rough sense of what should happen when. (Or rather, what sort of thing should happen when, since we haven't quite reached the what.) You might think of the grid as an old-fashioned card catalog that's been emptied out for your use. It's a set of pigeonholes, nothing more. The real work begins when you try to fill them.

Sometimes a story writes itself. You begin on the first page, stringing one word after another, and before you know it the book takes on a life of its own. The planning, if there is any, happens subconsciously. The writing experience is ecstatic and it carries you forward to the rollicking conclusion. I'm guessing this is how many first novels are written, and some of them go on to be published, though not the vast majority. What happens, though, when you attempt a follow-up and the story doesn't magically happen? That's the dilemma I found myself in. My first novel, written in the heady days of college, was one of those late-night osmosis affairs. The stack of pages grew and grew, and it all seemed so outrageously simple. I was convinced I must be some kind of genius. Then, in grad school, I tried to knock out a more ambitious kind of novel, and I ended up stymied for something like eight years. I knew very well how to write a novel, but I didn't know how to plan one, so the more ambitious the story became, the less able I felt to grapple it down onto the page.

Planning a Novel, Part 1: The Grid

This is the first installment in a series I'm writing for The Master's Artist. I'll be cross-posting the material at Write About Now, since it's practical, writing-related stuff. If you have a comment, you can post it here or there, whichever you prefer!

Planning the Novel, Part 1: The Grid

In honor of National Novel Writing Month, I'd like to begin a series of posts about how to plan a novel. Notice I said plan, not write. Over the next few weeks, I want to consider the thought process that goes into the novel before the writing begins. I realize that, for many of us, that amounts to approximately nothing. We start planning a few minutes after we start writing! Even so, the things I'll be discussing might prove helpful -- if not as action steps, at least as a conceptual framework to keep at the back of your mind.

Planning a novel is not like drawing up plans for a house. You're not going to create a blueprint, perfect in every way, that can then be executed. Instead, planning a novel is like planning a military campaign. You're going to marshall your forces, get your supply lines sorted out, and do everything you can to make sure that, on the day, you can improvise as needed.

Like a battle, your novel has a landscape. It's going to take up space, so we'll start by thinking about the conceptual landscape of your book. I'm going to call this the grid, for reasons that will become clear in a moment. So, what's the grid?

A False Notion?

Here's something to think about, from Dana Thomas's Deluxe: How Luxury Lost its Luster:

All this leaves Jacques Polge resigned. "I hear the briefs of [perfume] brands that declare that they want to create a 'classic,' like [Chanel] No. 5," he says with a sigh. "This is a false notion. We should try to create a perfume of its time, and perhaps it can become a classic." (p. 154)

Polge is the "nose" at Chanel. The question is, does the same thing apply to novels? We talk about writing for the ages, but books aren't classics when they're written or published. That takes time, and it's a process over which we have little control.

Great Writer, Rich Writer

From today's NYTBR:

[Ken] Follett was the subject of a profile recently in USA Today in which he recounted this conversation with a friend, the novelist and playwright Hanif Kureishi: "We were talking about what readers like," Follett said. "He said, 'I never think about readers.' I told him, 'That's why you are a great writer, and that's why I am a rich writer.'"

The Office

I have some cousins who can sleep anywhere, and I've always envied that. Me, I need a bed. When it comes to writing, I'm the same way. I have friends who can happily jot sentences wherever they happen to be, but me, I need a desk.

In fact, I need more than a desk. I need an office. But until now I've never really had one. Sure, I've staked out a few square feet in the domestic sphere, converting spare bedrooms, empty corners, and at one point the kitchen table into writing space. This is hardly ideal, though. Inspired by my artist friends, I've always dreamed of finding a dedicated studio. Back in August, I began a half-hearted search, and now I've got bamboo floors underfoot, exposed ductwork overhead, and David Bowie playing on the stereo.

I have an office, in other words.

In the photo, you can see the desk, chair, and filing cabinet that used to be shoehorned into my "study" in the apartment. The bookcases are at the other end of the room, and more will soon join them. Laurie will set up her stuff on the opposite wall, and we'll have a big table (my massive old desk from corporate days) in the center of the room for extra work space. My window has an appropriately garret-like view of the back alley.

All that's left now is to drive the four hours to IKEA for more shelves, chairs, and lamps. That's the paradox of living in the middle of nowhere: real estate is affordable, but there's nothing to put in it!