I give up
On outlining, that is. It’s been two months since I finished my last story. Since then I’ve been doing a lot of revisions and coming up with a lot of ideas but I haven’t started writing anything new. It’s making me grumpy. Not having a story to write gives me the same off-kilter feeling as not having a good book to read. It’s like there’s a hole in my spirit. You know the hole, right? Like there’s something missing from your life? Some people fill it with religion. I find a book in my hand and a story in my head does the trick.
I write organically, discovering the story and its characters as I go. It’s not an efficient way to work. I usually end up doing five or six drafts before I’m reasonably satisfied. It’s messy and slow. I thought if I started outlining my stories, I’d be a better writer. Or at least a faster writer.
This is what happens. I get excited about an idea. I outline. As soon as I know where the story is going, I lose interest in writing it. Why bother? I know what’s going to happen. It feels stale before I’ve written a word. I move on to another idea. Repeat.
The more times I go through this process, the grumpier I get. If outlining means I don’t write anything at all, I guess it’s not going to make me a better writer. So this morning I sat down and wrote these lines:
The sign that announced “Welcome to Fairyland” was set back from the road and half-obscured in the brush, its green paint faded and flaking. If Dad hadn’t known where he was going, we would’ve driven right past the entrance. But he didn’t need to look for signs. He was going home.
They’re not the best first lines ever but they’re the start of something. More importantly, I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I wrote two more pages and felt my balance coming back. Now I feel I’m embarking on a grand adventure and not like I’m trying to complete some unpleasant chore. The world feels right again.






