Last night I bumped into the part of On Writing where King pronounces plot the last refuge of scoundrels and fools. He calls plot a jack-hammer, the bad writer’s last (or first) resort. He then goes on to say he relies on situation and character instead, putting a character in a situation and letting them work their way to resolution, using his intuition to help them out along the way. He claims that jotting down a single note about what happens breaks the flow, as if the story plays itself like a symphony, and taking notes is like opening a big crumply distracting bag of potato chips right in the middle. Later he contradicts himself: he wrote notes about Misery on a plane to London. And before he started writing, he had expanded the premise into a short outline, if not on paper then in his head: the rabid fan keeps the writer prisoner until he writes the next installment of her favorite series; in the end, the novel is published, there are awards on her wall, and the writer is a lampshade on her desk. He has, in spite of his admonishments, set up a few plot points before starting, including both a beginning and an end, and a couple of sharp twists that hold up the middle. Every story needs plot. Understanding that helps you write better. What King objects to when he objects to plotting is formula, the writer who spins a wheel and says “insert car chase here,” or “girlfriend leaves him,” without regard for truth.
I have been reading On Writing (again), and I am dumbfounded by Stephen King’s craft. He describes the girl he used as a model for Carrie, bringing her vividly to life: a homely girl who came to school one September with completely new clothes, looking pretty for the first time. Instead of welcoming her into the fold, the other kids started tormenting her more aggressively than they ever did before. He summarizes the situation with a metaphor so succinct it stopped me short: she made a break for the fence, and the group took her down, that’s all; once the social order was restored they left her alone. He writes with the grace of Michael Jordon, making the shot look effortless. What you don’t think about is how many years of practice he put in. He has been writing every day since he was ten, continuing without a break for his entire life.
Having a bad day of writing is like having a fight with somebody you love— the whole world gets tainted. You doubt everything—your character, their character, the future. I am in the hard part of writing, staring at a blank page, and life is tinged with doom. An itch, or knock in the engine, or whine in the refrigerator— something isn’t right. When I’m in that place I panic, start grabbing explanations: bi-polar disorder? Brain tumor? My father was crazy. Maybe I am, too. Maybe the best days of my life are over. Today, neck buzzing, slight headache, brain tumor seems like the best option. You think I’m kidding.
Books about dead people almost always interest me, but there’s a big difference between a Nancy Drew dead person and a Donna Tartt dead person. Part of the difference is detail– Nancy’s pink sweaters and healthy lunches, and Donna’s snakes and water towers, leeches and spreading trees. Part of the difference is voice: what Nancy thinks about life, which is, come to think of it, pretty much nothing, and what Donna thinks. What do we learn from Nancy? Mr. Tindle tried to hide the fact that he embezzled money. What do we learn from Donna? Life is unpredictable; one cruel accident can unmake a family: the loss can be absorbed, but never repaired. These are the reasons I put one book down, distracted, and stay with the other one, reading late into the night.