Writers Who Kill

Where is Your Muse?

           

Recently, one of our WWK bloggers posed a question to an author: are you a planner or a pantser? The answer is as easy, or as complex, as whether one is left-brained or right. Are you a Type A personality or a Type ADHD? Personally, I believe four letters are better than one.

I've watched planners work with their multi-colored sticky notes, dry erase boards, index cards, and file folders. The thought makes me shudder. I've read books on plot and structure that suggest a four-act, eight scene arrangement or a three act, five scene scheme with an outline for each, and my question is what if the story can't be contained within those strictures?

I am, obviously, a pantser. I have an idea of how I want my stories to end. I pick a beginning, and then work to build the middle so it supports the opening and the conclusion. And lo and behold, I have found the perfect place to pants. Let me explain.

My daughter takes ballet, which means I have an hour-and-a-half to kill. Now, I can stick around the studio, sit on a hard wooden bar stool and listen to a stick-thin dance teacher yell out French words in a southern accent, or I can go find a place to write. I don't like French or stools that much.

Less than a mile from the dance studio is a Panera Bread, a pantser's paradise, right? Several weeks running now, I order a bowl of creamy tomato soup (my Lord, that is a whole 'nother blog right there), I break out my portable Bluetooth keyboard, and tappity-tap-tap, before you know it, I've knocked out a couple thousand words, often an entire chapter all before the final temps levé. (It took me three years of being a dance dad to figure out no one named Tom LeVay was ever going to make an appearance.)

Last week, though I looked up and noticed, I was not the only patron clacking away at a keyboard. I am not—cannot be—the only aspiring writer in this haven of Panini. Panera Bread must be a world of muses for the 21^st century writer.

There would be no Hemingway without Key West, no Steinbeck without the Dust Bowl, no Dan Brown without The Vatican. Without question, there can be no modern novelist without Panera Bread—and, by the way, Thursdays are dollar bakery item day.

About five weeks ago, I developed a character while sitting at Panera. Five weeks ago she was peripheral, bound to be lost or killed. She served as a catalyst to get my good guys to go after my bad guys. Week by week at a small table for two by the bread company's front door, she grew. She got a first and last name. She got a hometown, a mother and father who miss her and worry because they don't know where she is. She got two younger sisters.

Between slurps of tomato soup and sips of fresh-brewed sweet tea, I pantsed my way into giving her the courage to stand up against the people who want to hurt her, the intelligence to devise a plan, and the guts to withstand everything the bad guys throw her way. She's stolen a book that details many of their misdeeds and, more importantly, where the money is that they get from these illegal acts. It's her insurance, her only way back to her mother and father.

My good guys don't even know her yet, but when they do, they will know her with a depth and appreciation, and respect—character traits I'm not certain I could have outlined two months ago—that propel them into battle with the bad guys. When that battle comes, look out. More than one somebody is going to die. And it won't be quick or painless. No quick jab with a knife or a sudden shot between the eyes. There will be punches thrown, soft tissue kicked or pinched under the soles of shoes.

Why? Because I'm a Panini Pantser from Panera Bread and because I am, by God, a writer who kills.

Hands will encircle throats and squeeze the air out. Bones will break; muscles will fail. People will die—just don't ask me who. I haven't pantsed that far yet.

Where does your muse live, and what makes her appear?