Day 37


When discussing the challenges of writing, a wise man once told me that authoring a book is like writing code.

This observation was first shared with me after I had been pontificating about, in excited (and unnecessary) detail, the many challenges I’ve been eagerly discovering as I work on my first novel. I was describing Robin and Quinn’s story as being a compilation of many stories when this tidbit of wisdom was first imparted to me. More specifically, I had just uttered the words: “Intersecting latticework of varying-in-complexity, stories…” … Oof.

To his credit, the wise man stuck with the conversation long enough to hear my haphazard explanation: each [character/object/setting] has a story. If you imagine a story to be like a lattice of intersecting events (more frequently described as a web); and imagine that each lattice is different (ie. big, small, past, present, simple, convoluted); and then you imagine fitting the lattice for every [character/object/setting] together, then what you get is a sticky (ah hah!) ball of seemingly random intersecting branches.

In more conventional terms, what you get is a plot.

Every intersection within the plot is a point that needs to be accounted for. Either included or excluded and in both cases, done so with strategy and thought. Not too much strategy and thought, however, because you run the risk of accidentally netting The Ultimate Story-Killer: being contrived. The trick is to write a story that unobtrusively contains many stories — all of which are interconnected and intentional — while also being organic and feel genuine.

After describing my predicament and the building blocks I’ve been recently contemplating, the wise man said: “Well, that’s just like writing code!” Full disclosure, the wise man is my husband and he’s a software-engineer turned entrepreneur.

“You’re right! It is just like writing code.” I exclaimed in glad response. One of our personal concerns was that a shift in my career away from tech may result in fewer shared interests and meaningful conversations. Moments like this are (thankfully) just as, if not more, frequent and are very encouraging.

And, as always, his astute comment got me thinking … What if I approached each chapter as though I was writing a program? Full disclosure, I am not a programmer. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed these past few years working alongside developers, however, so I apologize in advance to any diehard purists that I offend with my muddling.

Disclaimers aside, to approach the process of writing a book the same way that you would tackle writing code for a product, you may begin by listing the desirable outcomes of each chapter (and ultimately, the entire book). Depending on your general approach or philosophy (we’ll use ‘agile’ and ‘waterfall’ as goal posts) you could define these outcomes at granular and functional levels, or define them at higher and more abstract levels.

Or, as we often see happening in the ‘real world’, employ some magical combination of both.

Rough hypothetical example.

Chapter 1 desired outcomes. I want the reader to:

  • Be inspired to read all 32 pages in one sitting (ergo it needs to be absolutely riveting);
  • Conclude the chapter having felt: love, anger, angst.

OR, to be more specific, during the first 32 pages I want the reader to:

  • Question their assumptions about the life they lead today, and cigarette smoking;
  • Meet 3 new characters and lose faith in an existing one;
  • Cry a little.

I did say it was a rough example.

My point is this: by determining the requirements (at some level) of a unit of text, you can then write the story to ‘spec’ and the result would be a creative masterpiece engineered for a pre-defined outcome!

This approach could be coupled with testing (oh, joy of joys!). It could begin with an analysis of contemporary or comparable fiction, those novels we enjoy, and map the outcomes of each chapter to develop benchmarks. Benchmarks may pertain to content or themes, pace of events, number of characters, range of emotions; and they could be for each genre, audience, or market … the possibilities are endless.

There could be focus groups and volunteers aplenty (watch out, friends and family). There could be questionnaires and the in/validation of hypotheses!

All this is certainly interesting to consider but the approach begs questions about the nature of creativity and creating, innovation vs. invention, manipulation vs. discovery. It also assumes a high degree of emotional understanding on behalf of the audience and author … but arguably, many of the best books do.

Ivory toweresque and open-ended questions aside, what I mean to demonstrate is that the challenges that I face everyday are exciting. Thinking through methodologies and approaches to writing, is exciting. The only obstacle standing between me at this very moment and discovery is execution (and a small thing called subjects/an audience/success).

And the beauty of it all? I am solely responsible for execution. What’s most delighting about this new career is my newfound mental space and elasticity to discover, think, and execute … Not necessarily in that order.

While I am excited (!) to think more about the intersection of product development approaches and creative writing — how thrilling! — for now, I’ve decided that my first kick at the can will be completed the old fashioned way. Firsthand non-scientific methods such as ‘reading’, and ‘learning from those who have come before’, will ensure there’s some method to my madness.

For now, the story of Robin and Quinn will be my benchmark. Future books, future series, future genres (written as I bounce up and down excitedly at the prospect of exploring other genres), I will look forward to experimentation. Now is one of the most exciting times to be experimenting with content creation. Subscription literature like magazines and blogs, and single-genre-author-powerhouses, have forged the path. Now, modern and accessible web-technologies like Wattpad offer ways for writers to try more iterative approaches for all sorts of written work, with minimal overhead and risk.

And on that bombshell, I’ll end this post with a short excerpt from “Draft One”, complete with the following caveats:

  • This is a section from the middle of the first chapter, not the beginning or the end.
  • I haven’t shared any of this story (yet) with anyone aside from my patient and loving #1 fan so please remember: I’m tender. Be gentle.
  • Feedback, comments, both encouraging AND critical, are extremely welcome.
  • Feedback, comments, both encouraging AND critical, will be actioned on but if you find I’ve “ignored” or “misunderstood” your advice: tough tomatoes, the lessons you impart are open to interpretation ;)
  • Formatting on Medium is causing me trouble. Please imagine the formatting below is better than it is.

Their walk up the back garden path toward the house was interrupted as Ruth came barrelling toward them. It was uncharacteristic to see old aunt Ruth, or Crow Tyrant as Quinn fondly named her, move any faster than a controlled march.

“Robin! There you are, girl. I’ve been looking for you. Come quickly! We have an unexpected guest.” Ruth reached Robin and grabbed her by the arm, hauling her forward up the path toward the house. “Quickly, now. Don’t drag your feet, girl.”

“A guest?” Robin asked, bewildered. She was trying very hard to focus on both aunt Ruth’s face and the bumpy cobbled path. “Who is it?” She was very curious, she’d never seen old Ruth look so frazzled!

Ruth was a tall brick shaped woman of an indeterminable age. She could best be described as terrifyingly stern. Her face was a mask of strength and cool confidence, often inspiring those very traits in people around her. But as Ruth dragged Robin through the back door and into the house, Robin could see that Ruth’s cheeks were pink and mottled. Her eyes had a glassy and wild look to them as though she was holding back a storm of tears.

“Shush,” said Ruth distractedly, “you’ll see soon enough.” Confounded by aunt Ruth’s behaviour, and recognizing from her tone that further questions would only aggravate the old crow, Robin didn’t bother saying anything else.

As they rounded the corner and stepped into the main entrance the sun dipped and settled into it’s late afternoon position above the window, sending blinding beams into their unprepared eyes. Robin searched the hall but couldn’t see anything other than flashing spots.

Letting go of Robin’s arm Ruth moved to stand behind her, fussing over her dress which had twisted in the late afternoon fray. Robin’s eyes adjusted and then grew wide as her mouth dropped. In the main entrance of their home, haloed against the late afternoon sun, was something she had only ever read about or seen in story books. In the middle of their hallway was a centaur — half man, half horse —

… and he appeared to be waiting for her!

“Hello! There you are. You must be Robin!” The centaur called down from his high perch. His voice was dry and crackly, like burnt paper. “I’ve been looking for you.” In her state of surprise Robin mused that she’d heard that a lot today. He held her gaze and spoke in grave tones. “We have a lot to talk about, you and I.”

It felt like they were alone in the room and that he was speaking for her ears alone. She felt her fingers and toes tingle with anticipation.

“Shush Mr. Roberts, not now. Not here. No need to rush.” Robin felt aunt Ruth’s warmth behind her intensify as she spoke and drew Robin closer to her legs, holding on tight. “Please do come in and make yourself comfortable. We’ll have coffee and sweets put out shortly and then dinner in just an hour, maybe two, judging by the angle of the sun. No need to rush.” Shocked and unable to move despite the crow’s anxious speech and distracting nudges, Robin remained still.

“You’re so tall!” Robin finally blurted. “And you’re not human!” She felt her cheeks get hot. Her world had just become so much more interesting and magical and the first words out of her mouth were simple. He was going to be disappointed he found her!

“I mean no offense … Mr. R-R-Roberts. But you’re a h-h-horse! I mean, you’re p-part horse. And, why are you looking for me?” Each second that passed Robin gained confidence. Centaur or not, he was in her house after all. She placed her hands on her hips and looked expectantly up at Mr. Roberts, demanding answers with a glare.

“Good recovery, Robin.” Quinn whispered in her ear.

Taking a moment to look sideways at Quinn who hovered nearby, Robin was gratified to see a silly shocked expression spread across his face.

A dry chuckle emanated from Mr. Robert’s high perch. He didn’t answer her question, instead he raised his right hand and crooked a finger as though he beckoned someone to him. From behind his massive horse-body emerged a tiny well-dressed man who had been hidden from sight until that very moment!

“It would appear as though we have one-and-a-half guests,” whispered Quinn, jokingly.