I went to school for English literature. In the end, I graduated with a major in philosophy and a minor in English literature, but I was one class away from a double-major and spent a lot of my time doing things like being on the literary magazine staff and writing poetry, not to mention reading. My life-long career goal has always been to be a writer. Unfortunately, that meant that when I was a teenager, I got the idea into my head that a writer cannot learn to write, just like an artist cannot learn to do anything in the arts; it’s just in you and you have to follow your own path into authentic art. I have not believed that hogwash for a very long time: I have discovered—a little too late for some scenarios—that you should seek an education in the arts if you want to be a great artist or have a career in the arts (even if you get your primary degree in something more practical). By education, I don’t necessarily mean a formal degree, but more of a practical education as well as craft education (like learning about what can be done in the field and the history of the art as well as how to use the tools of the trade and how to improve at the art). Some of you maybe still believe that certain things cannot be taught, but I think there is a difference between relying completely on your own intuition, and acknowledging that great writing does require certain talent(s) to be already present in the individual. I do believe that not just anybody can write or do any number of artistic things, at least to a certain level. (They can do them for fun, surely.) Honing talents is a thing, and figuring everything out on one’s own is a waste of time and resources.

All this eschewing of (practical) art education has some part in a trend I have been noticing lately. The trend is not limited to whether or not one can and should be taught writing (and specifically the more craft-heavy aspects of writing); it also encompasses such debates as can a story be broken down into its form and should one consider form when writing? Can a good book be written from a formula and does formula kill creativity? Likewise, can a good book be written from a plan and does planning kill creativity, and how much planning is too much planning? My observation is that the lines have been drawn and two camps are glaring at each other across a divide—a divide that I don’t even think is really there. Welcome to modern America, amiright?

Partly, I am talking about planners (writers who plan out their stories before writing) versus pantsers (writers who write by the seat of their pants), but I am also talking about the kind of writers who would even call themselves a planner or pantser versus those who have no idea what I am even talking about (and would carve a long berth around those circles where those terms are used). I have found these writers lately, hoovering around the edges of the writing groups I have been looping in and out of, and they won’t look right at the conversation, but they will give you a funny (okay, judging) look if you start talking about formula or form or planning or even learning certain things (beyond a writing workshop that deals in abstracts and examples). The funny thing is—whether or not they will throw a hissy fit about me saying it—is that in the end there isn’t much of a difference to how people across the board are actually writing; I fail to see a fundamental difference in their writing processes, for all the noise claiming the contrary. Not really. They may think they are pitted against each other from opposing camps, but when you get past the prejudice and the language, these writers are actually writing the same way, just in a different order, and—here’s the important part—they are all being creative.

Take the Writer’s Routine podcast, for example. I listen to it. The set-up is the host asking a visiting writer what their routine is, beginning with their physical space and moving through the rather extensive interview from there. I have listened to writers who would fall at different points on the planner-pantser spectrum as well as the inspiration-education/preparation spectrum. There is a very wide range, and yet most writers start to sound the same, at some point, no matter how they got there. Or how about the writer I wrote about in a previous blog, who poo-pooed planning and then later lamented “having” to write a book eight times to get it right. First of all, I have come to realize that everyone plans. Even if a writer shows up at their typewriter or notepad (that’s the type of writers we are talking about here) in the morning without an idea of what they are doing, their brain is going to be one—probably several—steps ahead of their actual writing and, quite frankly, they are going to have some sort of intuition about where their writing is headed once they conceive of an idea (except for those who truly write stream-of-consciousness (which I’m not sure is even possible)). Second, let’s just say there is very little planning done for some writers as they approach their first draft (like all in their head): still, there is a significant amount of planning that then happens before a revision or a rewrite. Which means every writer must plan at some point and in some way. For many, the order is just different from someone else’s order.

I have heard the real heart of the complaint behind the whine that is “planning is the antagonist to creativity,” and it is “planning doesn’t sound like much fun.” It doesn’t sound very right-brained. But there, at the very root of the argument, is where the whole thing falls apart. Because planning a story takes just as much creativity as writing it. What does it matter at what point the writer comes up with the ideas and pieces them together? They’re still birthing them out of the ether between their two ears, pieced together from the world around them. And, call me crazy, but no one plans every single word of a final novel draft; it would be impossible and, well, then it would just be called writing. Even with a thoroughly-planned story, there will be layers of exploring, thinking, dreaming, changing, and—oh yeah—actually writing the details, scenes, and dialogue along the way. The thing is, spending some time planning—ahem, dreaming up—a story ahead of writing actual narration is a surefire way to avoid wasting time chasing your thoughts around with tens of thousands of words that you’ll have to put in the trash. It also avoids a first draft that is a hot mess and all the time that will take to sort out. Not that planners don’t also have to sometimes rewrite or trash things, but the chances are much slimmer.

So obvi I’m a planner, but I’m not a crazy planner because my ADHD won’t let me go too far before I jump into the next stage. But I have found that—free-spirit and artist though I am—taking the time and discipline to move more methodically through art-learning and then the art process is a real boon and it has nothing to do with stifling my creativity. I, myself, have been on a journey for the past year exploring different approaches to writing a novel; I wrote three novels in the past that were basically pantsing, and experimented with a format through the fourth. Because I needed to get the fifth one written as quickly as possible, I turned to a much more structured approach to my writing day and, by extension, the writing process. I was scared at first—which is kind of my point, here. I was also afraid when I started finally taking ADHD meds after years and years of avoiding them because what if I lost my creativity? What if I lost my voice? But what did I discover when I made the shift(s)? Not only did I get a ton done, but I now know that my approach is going to be a combination of the methods I learned elsewhere and that hearing from other writers and trying new things is not hurting my process; rather, it’s strengthening my process and forming it at a faster pace than when I was just feeling it out and “doing me.” And I also discovered that planning is a super-creative process! It’s barely different from writing, and on some days it’s even more freeing and creative. Imagine all the brainstorming that happens when you are planning: some days I walk in the woods and feel and think about the story, and sometimes I turn on some music and close my eyes and wander into the story. I just jot notes and move on to the next thought—at a more realistic pace, for me. And then—after more fear about what would happen during the drafting (actual writing) because wouldn’t it be less fun and less inspired to write from my notes?—I was surprised that the writing itself felt no less creative. I still had to screen all the scenes in my head, dream up all the details that would hopefully make the thing shine, and then, as drafts progressed, word-smith, which is one of my favorite parts of writing. Only now, by the time it was time to play with language, to unfurl my language-artistry, I wasn’t spending my time or resources on random scenes that were likely to be deleted. I knew how to make my darlings stand where I needed them to be, telling the story that had blossomed in my brain months or years before. If I felt a tug somewhere outside of my plans, well, I haven’t met a planner yet who wouldn’t change their plans or follow their heart on a new path through the story.

As a final note, I love the term “discovery draft.” It’s a more palatable term for the fast draft, which is a first draft written without any editing, basically. Jessica Brody uses the term; I’m not sure if she coined it or if others use it. Anyhow, I like the term because it underscores that writing your way through a story the first time is always going to be a discovery process. In fact, each progressive draft after that will also have elements of discovery. The story isn’t nailed down until it is, no matter what format you use or what process you follow (or don’t). Even after planning using the Save the Cat method (which Brody uses), the first draft is absolutely still a discovery and that’s a beautiful, respectful, and honest way of seeing it, as opposed to the nothing-good-can-come-from-Nazareth attitude that creativity somehow dies with planning, listening, learning, sharing, and/or following a format. We follow an ages-old tradition of flexing our artistic muscles and writing breath-taking literature to poetic forms; it might also help an author to consider the structure of their novel and plug in limitations or signposts that are a reflection of story-telling traditions. It’s not like writers are a group you have to tell to then go off the rails or experiment because, quite frankly, artists are the rebels. They just don’t need to always be rebels. That’s a waste of energy.

In the meantime, I say do what works. Also, don’t be afraid to explore different ways of writing. Also, learn about your craft, continuously, including about the trade, the tools, and the process. Also, don’t be afraid and pass it off as the high horse. Fiction/creative writers are in this together. So, I suppose if you want to rewrite a book eight times instead of studying traditional (and untraditional!) structure and thinking how you might use that to say what you want… then I’m going to allow that, too. But I’m not going to allow you to think that you’re really that different from other writers. We all have a dream. We all have the itch, that twitch in our typing fingers. We all love to sink into the creative process and get giddy when something new and exciting comes to us—just us, like we’re special. And then we all want to share it. I’ll give it to you that we’re not all writing to the same audience(s), but why would we be? If some of us earn our living off that happy path (writing greeting cards or blogging or nursing or serving coffee), then it’s because most of us have to earn our living off that happy path. The real difference isn’t so much in our process, it’s in our talent level, our opportunities, and our luck, and who’s going to lord it over someone because they are more naturally talented, privileged, or lucky? Only a jerk. Don’t be that jerk. Write and let write. Heck, even write and support writers.