Clea Simon: On structure

“Do you outline?”

I may get this question more often than some other writers because, at this point, I’m writing mysteries, and mysteries tend to be plot-oriented. For most people, the obvious point of a mystery (crime novel, whodunit, thriller, call it what you will) is to find out who did what.

Of course, I and my “sisters in crime” may also get that question more than some of our author colleagues because we are classed as genre fiction, along with romances, fantasy, Westerns, etc. We turn out product specifically designed for entertainment, as opposed to any higher purpose. And thus we are usually assumed to be more formulaic and less literary. More craftsmen than artists. Hacks.

Okay, I won’t go further with that – not today – but I do want to talk about process here, and today that means how we build our book. Outline, storyboard, seat of the pants, or whatnot. After all, if the book doesn’t move forward, it’s not a book – it’s an extended character sketch. It can also become formless. A good friend is working on a manuscript that, at last count, topped 1,000 pages. She loves her characters and keeps finding new subplots. She wants to crawl into that book and live in it. But at the rate she’s going, I doubt she’ll ever finish it – or that anyone will ever read it if she does. She needs a plan, or some kind of outline.

Now, I’m not a huge advocate of outlining. I know it works for some writers I admire, and is particularly useful for those on tight deadlines. But I tried drawing up an outline for my second mystery. It made things easier – you don’t forget about a character, for example – but the process felt forced to me. I began to feel that the effort I was putting into the outline was draining the juice out of the book, and I ended up abandoning it halfway through.

But I’m not a real fan of simply winging it, either. I did that, more or less, with Shades of Grey and while it was fun, I felt that I basically wrote three or four books and over the course of several years had to work extra hard to extract the main story from the wreckage.

I’m not alone in this: I had the pleasure of interviewing Edgar-winner Tana French not long after her second mystery, The Likeness, came out and we got to talking about process:

“When I start writing, I don’t have a clue as to what happens,” she told me. (You can read the interview here.) “I have a premise, a narrator, and a load of caffeine, and that’s it. ... It makes for a huge amount of rewriting.”

What I’ve found works for me is something in between. I like to start with a premise – a problem or a conflict – and I sort of know how it might resolve. And then I start writing. To get this into manageable form, I now have to the right of my desk a big, white board. On it, I draw a rough timeline. And on that timeline, I stick Post-It notes with bits of dialogue I’ve dreamed, plot twists, character names, and crises. All the tidbits that start to come out once you get into a story. (Some of these read: “Red leaf, red hat!” “Annoying students,” and “He knew I liked ‘pretty things.’”) Sometimes I refer to my board, sometimes not. But the process of jotting down these notes seems to help.

Why does this work for me? I’m not sure, but it does help me process and it has shown me what I care about in terms of plotting. Plus, over time, I’ve come to realize that much of what I and my mystery colleagues call “plotting” is the same as what non-genre writers call “structure.” That is, the underpinning that holds the book together and propels the reader. In a mystery, the basic thrust is usually seen as involving finding the solution to a crime, whereas in a more general (I’m resisting saying “literary”) novel, it may be more about some inner motive: finding oneself, resolving a conflict. Finding girl, losing girl, and finding girl again. But, you know what? They’re all pretty much the same. A mystery that doesn’t engage the characters’ hearts won’t capture the readers, either. As much as the reader wants to know who did the crime, she or he also wants to know why the crime happened – and why the protagonist/cop/ amateur PI/housewife-spy cares. And a non-mystery has to have something happen, too, even if the action is entirely internal or imaginary or subtle. In both cases, what we’re really doing is looking for the big “why?” The reason for the book, and that is what will propel both us and our readers from beginning to end. That is why, ultimately, we will have written our book.

Several years ago, I was on a panel with Leslie Meier, the quite lovely author of such mysteries as Star-Spangled Murder. She was incredibly sweet and encouraging, even though I was then a fledgling, flogging my very first mystery, and she was the established author of a successful series. And when I told her, in confidence, that I wasn’t sure of my plotting yet, she leaned over to me and said, “Plotting is the hardest part for all of us, dear.” Okay, I’m not entirely sure she said “dear,” but that was the essence. She affirmed for me that finding the plot – the structure, the reason – is indeed the hardest part. I’ve felt strangely reassured ever since.

* * *

What's your process? Do you outline, storyboard, or just let the characters take you where they will?

- Clea

Clea Simon: On lying fallow

“Where do you get your ideas?”

As the guest blogger here at the Well-Read Donkey this week (hello, everyone!), following in the footsteps of such marvelous authors, that might seem too basic, too elementary a question. You are, after all, fellow writers and book lovers.

But last week, speaking to a library group, I fielded it, as you have or as you will, too. And, to be honest, I was momentarily at a loss. I rallied – when you speak to readers, you’re as much an entertainer as an interview subject and besides, I'm promoting my latest, Probable Claws as well. So I recalled the incident that sparked my first mystery. I’d been working on a nonfiction book (The Feline Mystique) and had ended up spending a very odd day with a possible cat hoarder (you know, a “crazy cat lady”). I love cats, but spending time with her had been stressful. She was not well, and I felt myself pulled between sympathy and terror and plain old revulsion. These were strong, uncomfortable feelings and I realized, then, how such a woman could become a victim of violence. I had a motive. I could put myself in a criminal's mind. And thus, the process that resulted in my much-lighter-hearted first mystery, Mew is for Murder, began.

But last week – this week, too – I’m in a different place. I am not working on a book. I have nothing in the works. This after having published three nonfiction books and four mysteries, with a fifth (Shades of Grey) due out in September. You see, last month, I turned in what I hope will be the sequel to Shades. After that was done (on deadline, no less), I returned to a beloved project that I’d let sit months before. I re-read and revised that and sent it off to my agent. And now I’m trying to relax. To let myself lie fallow. To have no ideas.

This is the most difficult part of the process for me. I’ve been writing professionally in one way or another for nearly thirty years. Much of that time has been in journalism, where ideas are your stock in trade and need to be churned out regularly. I’ve worked for bimonthlies, monthlies, weeklies, and daily newspapers with the same results: when you need to write something, you find something to write. And if you’re momentarily stumped (accent on the “momentarily” or you wouldn’t be in the business), you punt. You take an evergreen idea and add a few new branches. Basically, you create at will.

That kind of writing has its advantages. For one thing, it paid my bills for many years. Plus, on a deeper level, it taught me a discipline I cherish. I do not believe in writer’s block, since it was a luxury I could never afford. When I have to write, I do – even if it means spending a day hacking out some transitional scene that I know is necessary but that I’ve avoided. Even if it means writing a scene that I will probably cut later, but need to get out on paper for some structural reason. The ability to write is like a muscle. If exercised regularly, it works better, moves more fluidly and with more grace.

But the churning out of ideas, that I’m trying to give up. A book is too dear a project to just jump into. I don’t want to commit to a story the way I used to grab up a service feature assignment. Don’t want to plot on demand, pulling together bits and pieces of projects past. I’m not a prima donna – I did just write a mystery because an editor wanted it! But if I don’t have a contractual obligation, I’d rather just let it happen naturally. And in order for that to happen, I have to allow myself time.

When we’re both writing, novelist Caroline Leavitt (author of Girls in Trouble) and I often talk about the “rusty water” days. The days when you write crap, knowing you have to get it out of the way in order for the clear water to flow. “I’ve learned to be patient,” she emailed me today. To trust that, in her words, “the subconscious is still churning.”

This is harder for me, because it’s not about getting the bad out. It’s part of the process, but it’s not an active part. It’s lying fallow and letting those deep springs replenish. It’s not that I don’t have little tickles in my head – scenes, a possible title, a confrontation, a spark – I do, lots of them. But unlike some of my colleagues, I'm not writing them down. Not yet. They're too ephemeral, too fragile right now – and I don’t want to leap in just yet. Writing anything would feel like commitment. It’s too soon and I’m still in too reactive a mode. I’m not writing for a daily paper anymore. I’m not on assignment. I want to fall in love.

* * *

How about you? How do you deal with the quiet time between projects? With the waiting and wondering? I'll move onto cheerier, more fruitful topics later this week, but this is the one on my mind now. Are you in a fallow period? How are you coping?

Let's chat. Who knows what will come of it?

Clea