Plotting a course
This past weekend, I had to write a plot summary for a book, and suddenly, I found myself back in my undergraduate computer science classes. Huh? I realized that I was a whisker away from making one of those flow charts they always (back then, anyway) taught you to make when you were designing a program. This kind of flow chart is a series of statements, questions, and answers, organized into a diagram designed to show you the entire structure of a program, including—you hope—all the different situations that could come up, and what should happen if they do. If you do it correctly, the program most likely will do what you want it to. Leave a step out, or neglect to include all the possible answers to the questions, and the program will fail, and you have to figure out why.
I’ve written in earlier essays that I generally start a book with a setting; once I know that, I know who will be there and why and what’s at stake, et cetera. I don’t generally outline right away; when I do, it’s near the middle of the writing process, a list of things I have to have happen before the ending (which I often know). With this book, I started with the characters and a “what-if,” began noodling around, and realized that the complexity of the story required that I come up with an outline sooner rather than later.
When I started making individual timelines for the characters, to see who finds out what when, I knew I had to start making decisions. Who’s in league with whom, how the big revelation occurs, what leads to the next thing. And that’s when I remembered the flow charts.
(Mind you, this is a memory from more than twenty years ago, back when monitors were monochrome and you had to pick the pterodactyl poop out of the keyboard. Now, run, go get Grandma another Cosmo, and crank up The Cure while you’re at it.)
All plotting comes down to asking questions and making decisions. I know this. I emphasize this when I teach classes on writing. It’s the basis of panels I’ve done at Mayhem in the Midlands and the New England Crime Bake, where the panelists make up a story based on questions asked by the moderator—who’s the main character, what does he look like, how does he get embroiled in the murder mystery, who is the villain, why, etc. It’s the scene I love so well from Shakespeare in Love, when Kit’s helping Will figure out Romeo by making decisions, starting with the known (his name is Romeo) and working toward the unknown (who is he in love with?). Every writer knows this—so what was the big revelation?
Apparently the visual metaphor I use to plot a story makes a difference to me. Who knew something that subtle could make that big a difference? An outline—something that looks like the table of contents of a book—only took me so far. The flow chart struck me as a more fluid, structured model. It has the logic, timing, and order of operations built right into it. It’s still tough to figure out all that logic, but at the end, I had a more organized vision of what, how, and when things had to happen.
It’s what every writer will tell you: you have to figure out what works for you. I’m still learning. Stay tuned.
I’ve written in earlier essays that I generally start a book with a setting; once I know that, I know who will be there and why and what’s at stake, et cetera. I don’t generally outline right away; when I do, it’s near the middle of the writing process, a list of things I have to have happen before the ending (which I often know). With this book, I started with the characters and a “what-if,” began noodling around, and realized that the complexity of the story required that I come up with an outline sooner rather than later.
When I started making individual timelines for the characters, to see who finds out what when, I knew I had to start making decisions. Who’s in league with whom, how the big revelation occurs, what leads to the next thing. And that’s when I remembered the flow charts.
(Mind you, this is a memory from more than twenty years ago, back when monitors were monochrome and you had to pick the pterodactyl poop out of the keyboard. Now, run, go get Grandma another Cosmo, and crank up The Cure while you’re at it.)
All plotting comes down to asking questions and making decisions. I know this. I emphasize this when I teach classes on writing. It’s the basis of panels I’ve done at Mayhem in the Midlands and the New England Crime Bake, where the panelists make up a story based on questions asked by the moderator—who’s the main character, what does he look like, how does he get embroiled in the murder mystery, who is the villain, why, etc. It’s the scene I love so well from Shakespeare in Love, when Kit’s helping Will figure out Romeo by making decisions, starting with the known (his name is Romeo) and working toward the unknown (who is he in love with?). Every writer knows this—so what was the big revelation?
Apparently the visual metaphor I use to plot a story makes a difference to me. Who knew something that subtle could make that big a difference? An outline—something that looks like the table of contents of a book—only took me so far. The flow chart struck me as a more fluid, structured model. It has the logic, timing, and order of operations built right into it. It’s still tough to figure out all that logic, but at the end, I had a more organized vision of what, how, and when things had to happen.
It’s what every writer will tell you: you have to figure out what works for you. I’m still learning. Stay tuned.
posted by Dana | 6:46 AM
2 Comments:
Hi Dana,
Your post reminded me of a couple of paragraphs from John Sayles' book "Thinking in Pictures" where he lays out the struggle he goes through with scripting a shooting day:
.....It's 1:45 in the afternoon and lunch is scheduled for 2:00. You're three shots behind what was planned for the morning. You're in the middle of an exterior shot and it looks like it might start raining in an hour or so. The actress is in the next shot scheduled as well, but she'll need a change of hair and clothes that will take 45 minutes. The one you're in now is very emotional, and it's taking quite a while to get her face back in shape after each take. The crew went into overtime last night, it's late in the week and they're tired and hungry. The only cover set if it does rain is an interior that needs an hour or more prep by the art and props people, but you need them here for the next two shots. Another actor supposed to shoot in the afternoon has a plane to catch at 7:00, taking him to another movie commitment that will keep him away for a full two weeks. The leaves on the trees in the background, acres and acres of them, are supposed to all change color in the next day or so. The first shot tomorrow needs to be at sunrise and if you go into overtime tonight there won't be enough turnaround time to make it. The last take convinced you the shot would be better with a wider lens, but a wider lens will reveal the production trucks and craft services table set up at the other end of town, and the unit manager's walkie talkie is on the blink, and a decision has to be made in the next ten minutes whether to rent a crane for the that dawn shot tomorrow or not....
Who lives in the red house?
The number of variables and pressures that figure into a shooting day are like those word problems in math, only there is no correct answer. Each decision you make brings a whole new set of variables into play. This makes it doubly important to have your priorities set before you start shooting. Which sequences, which shots, are the most important? How far behind schedule can you afford to get? What comes next and how does what you're doing now affect it?.........
Hey Roy,
I adore John Sayles. Yes, I recognize that. It's a lot like archaeology, when you're juggling weather, crews, visitor schedules, what pits are open when, and who can or cannot dig in them if their supervisor is also leading a tour of bigwigs. The great thing about writing is that everyone is on paper: much easier to herd. Theoretically.
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