And yet our creative expectations, like love itself, can be fickle. Here today, gone tomorrow. It’s not uncommon for new, assumptive writers to experience that roller-coaster of emotional highs and lows, once the initial rush of balloon-light giddiness dissipates beneath the eventual iron fist of reality. Before long we may begin to sense waves of self-doubt, fading hopes and unexpected stumbling blocks. Some of us will begin to approach our pages, our progress, with a tingling sense of dread. Might starting a novel have been a mistake?

Frequently, as we concoct and/or approach a specific story line, we may realize (correctly or not) that the story inside our head is more difficult to decipher than originally presumed. Maybe the plot sputters, or our premise begins feels weak or clunky. Our characters stop speaking to us or become lost in the fog. So many What if—? questions remain unanswered. So many Now what—? questions feel suddenly impenetrable. Or maybe, 30-50 pages into our story, an even better idea comes to mind. Those feelings are more common than you might think—and knowing when to stop can be as important as knowing when to hunker down and proceed.

It’s perfectly alright to revamp our daydream in another POV, or tell our story in a completely different way. It’s also perfect okay to start a completely new book from scratch. It’s all part of the learning curve, after all, and ’tis far better to disregard 50 or 100 pages and begin anew, rather than belabor to complete an unfulfilling brick of a book that you’ll ultimately stick in a drawer, disgruntled and disillusioned, and perhaps never write again.

Many (most) published writers do have unfinished starter novels and dog-eared notebooks filled with half-baked ideas littering our drawers and PC desktops. Those false starts are also part of the process. We’re still in the process of learning to think like novelists. Sometimes, that development can take years or decades of effort.

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Or, you may be #2: A Pantser. Thirty years ago, the term pantser did not exist—or else did so clandestinely and had yet to evolve into the literary limelight. The term (should you have recently awoken from a coma) defines those freestyle writers among us who write without any perceived forethought or planning or, more often than not, without a clue as to how one’s story might end.

Personally, I love starting a novel with wild abandon, sometimes with only a vague or fuzzy notion of my characters’ personalities/motivations and with a single inciting incident in mind. But within 30-or-so pages I typically realize that I’m confronting too many options to wing it any further.

At that point I begin to outline my next few scenes and/or chapters. And while I shall refrain from mentioning the virtues of outlining yet again, if you’ve missed my last few dozen posts, HERE‘s a quick reminder. Do realize that outlining doesn’t necessarily mean religiously, unerringly, bullet-pointing an entire novel from cover to cover before you begin writing. Outlining can be as brief and as vague as a few jotted lines that jog your creativity or lead you out of a jam or dead end. For me, outlining is also a sort of reality check (can I do this scene differently? Can I do it better?) before I proceed into uncharted waters.

If you’re a pantser and decide outlining doesn’t work for you, at least you’ve eliminated the process as a potentially valuable tool. So it’s worth consideration.

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Or you may be #3: A Daydreamer. (All dressed up and nowhere to go.) We’re all daydreamers, we fiction writers. Ain’t nothing wrong with daydreaming—what’s a novel after all, but a daydream we write down, embellish, and ultimately complete? I’ve known a good many writers who concoct rather brilliant ideas, even come up with a functional synopsis or summary…and then perhaps finish a scene or two, a chapter or two, before realizing that Writing is hard. (Refer again to: A Few Common Obstacles.) For most creative people, concocting boffo story ideas is by far the easy part. The difficulty comes over the next several months, or years, attempting to complete the story you’ve envisioned. It’s not for the feint of heart. Nor for the incredibly busy.

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Or you may be #4: Trying Too Hard. A strange revelation, perhaps—as I’ve spent my entire blog suggesting to writers: Do your best! However, there’s a difference between doing one’s best and obsessing over every word, every comma, phrase, every nuance—because sometimes an over-zealous writer, compulsively, repeatedly editing, can’t see the forest for the trees.

So, yes—there is a Goldilocks Zone—editing/rewriting too much or editing/rewriting too little. Unfortunately, there’s no real litmus test for discovering this zone, other than the writer’s own creative intuition.

However, realize that, as with anything in life, finding balance is crucial. Balance, to a writer, is understanding that ‘writing the perfect novel’ doesn’t exist (See: Perfection) and often times, when seeking perfection—spending hours hovering over a single sentence, or a character’s name, or your book’s title, wondering if a better word/phrase might be found—that may be a sign of trying too hard.

EXTERIOR. SUMMER. DAY. SOMEWHERE IN NEBRASKA. A FARMHOUSE SITS ON A DISTANT HILLSIDE. UNSEEN COWS ‘MOO’ IN THE DISTANCE.

JAKE and MARY SUE walk hand-in-hand down a dirt road toward a tractor shed, where JAKE has parked his old ’67 Flatbed Ford.

MARY SUE
(staring cautiously behind them)

Let ’em try.

He ain’t jokin’, Jake. I’m scared.

JAKE
(motioning toward the Ford)

Then run away with me, Mary Sue. Today. Right now. We always talked about goin’ off to California. Now’s our chance. Let’s leave this shit-hole, and your no-good excuse of a father, in our dust. No more milkin’ cows. No more takin’ crap from a man who’s far more a drunk than a daddy.

MARY SUE
(frowning)

I can’t just up an’ run, Jake. I can’t leave little Billy alone with that man. Not for a single night. I need to stay an’ protect my baby brother. You know that.

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In a screenplay, you’re choreographing actions (such as driving away) and emotions (fearing a drunk daddy, protecting a vulnerable little boy) largely through dialogue. In a screenplay, your options of revelation to an audience are simple. You’re either depicting visual actions, or else revealing necessary information through relevant dialogue.

It’s up to the writer to convey emotion as simply, as precisely, as possible. One can allude to visual cues (Perhaps we see Mary Sue frowning at Jake’s suggestion to leave, for instance.) But even that nuanced gesture or expression is ultimately in the hands of the director, working in tandem with the actor, to fine-tune those visual cues, based on the blue-print (script) that you’ve provided.

Nor is there need to transmit unnecessarily detailed info to your audience. Let’s look at the aforementioned Nebraska farmhouse for example. Unless that particular structure/color/location is somehow specifically relevant to the plot, it’s simply labeled (in your script) “a farmhouse.” Whether it’s well kept or dilapidated, big or small, white or brown or a pleasant Robin’s Egg Blue, if its description isn’t plot-specific, it’s irrelevant in your script. A set director or location scout will run those potential decisions past the film’s director.

Realize that a script is simply a tool, one of many foundational elements necessary in producing a film. And you, the writer, are simply the “tool maker.” (And a well-paid toolmaker, should your script make it into a film’s production stage.)

But you’re not the end-user. The director wears that crown. And seldom, if ever, will a script be followed verbatim. Some scripts, by the end of a film shoot, may even be unrecognizable by the writer. So just be aware that a great many story-making decisions — those exclusively decided by a novelist (although somewhat massaged by a publisher) — are now under complete control by a director (or a cinematographer or a set-designer). You’re merely providing those folks with a viable roadmap. A director may dramatically alter your story, change your vision in numerous ways, even hire various script-doctors and/or other writers to fulfill certain needs. It’s just part of the process. Film development is a team endeavor. Once the script is complete, a screenwriter simply moves on to another project.

Certainly, pro’s and con’s exist, and should be examined in far more detail than I could ever explain here. (Nor have I ever completed a screenplay, so there’s that!) I highly recommend William Goldman’s Adventures of the Screen Trade. (Goldman wrote Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Marathon Man, The Princess Bride, All the President’s Men…so the guy knew what he was doing.) Also check out Blake Snyder’s Save The Cat.

Writing, selling and marketing a script is a whole ‘nother beast, and in a marketplace far different than traditional book publishing. I have a friend who’s optioned a single script three times. When a screenplay is optioned, typically by a production company or lone producer, your story is in limbo. Meaning that your script hasn’t—yet—been outright purchased, but is being held in escrow as that producer’s exclusive property. No other production company or studio can touch it for a fixed amount time (sometimes a year or more), until that producer either commits to film it or releases all rights back to you.

You are, however, paid a stipend (typically 4-figures, occasionally more) for the luxury of waiting—although there’s no guarantee that a producer will find sufficient money and actually begin production. (If so, you’ll sign a contract and be bumped into a 5- or 6-figure compensation.) And finding yourself with an optioned screenplay is certainly better than having no interest at all.) If your script is ultimately rejected, you’re free to put it back on the market. Some scripts will spend a decade or more, bouncing between various production companies, waiting to find the right fit.

#6. One final consideration might be: Neurodiversity. Meaning neurodivergent writers. The short definition of neurodivergent is one who may think differently at base neurological levels—specifically someone with a ‘spectrum disorder’ such as ADHD, autism or Asperger’s; those of us who process language and thoughts in non-neurotypical ways.

Okay, so a disclaimer. I don’t really think there’s anyone in this world who’s “normal”. It’s a colloquial, catch-all word that defines… I’m not even sure of what personality type it defines. (Perhaps boring?) I’ve also recently heard the word allistic as a suitable, less-offensive alternative to neurotypical folk. Yet a great many people who don’t consider themselves as neurotypical do consider themselves very neuro-creative. Many of the artists, musicians and writers I know personally are brilliantly off-center in one way or another, and wouldn’t have it any other way. Nor would I.

Yet, throughout history, I suspect a great number of creative folk were neurodivergent—maligned perhaps, and yet managed to successfully publish. (I mean,  you can’t tell me than Poe was just your ho-hum Average Joe.) And as technology has made the writing process easier, or at least more available—voice-to-text dictation apps like Speechnotes, Otter and Dragon come to mind—new methods of “non-traditional writing” are proliferating. And the upcoming acceptance of AI—unless it revolts and kills us all—may make alt-writing methodologies and idea prompts feasible.

The biggest obstacle I’ve heard from neurodivergent writers is how difficult the writing process can be for those of us who ‘think differently.’ While a neurotypical writer may take 10-20 minutes to complete a page, a neurodivergent writer may take days or weeks or months. The information flowing through our brains is there, just that the transition phase—from ethereal daydream to the excruciatingly linear extraction of thoughts on a page—may feel prohibitive. Reading how-to books designed for neurotypical writers can actually dissuade spectrum writers from even trying, because so few of the accepted rules apply.

I can also add my wife to that list of spectrum writers. She’s published two non-fiction books. She’s often told me that her thoughts appear as ‘holographic movements of energy’ inside her head, not in a linear cause-and-effect model that many of us perceive. That transference between head and paper, she says, is often hard to distill, and her process is often tortuous.

I don’t pretend to know the intricacies or underpinnings of the neurodivergent mind. I’m aware, however, that goal-setting is often an issue. So if you find yourself chronically troubled starting a story or book, or having trouble getting through that first chapter or scene or even page one (and you feel that you think a bit differently) perhaps one possible solution is Outlining. An outline is simply a rough guide or roadmap—and can be a relatable buffer when trying to connect the ‘creative idea’ phase of writing and the ‘doing the deed’ phase of putting words on paper in a concerted, organized fashion.

Another option might be, if one’s so included to experiment: Write your book’s first scene or chapter, then write your book’s final scene or chapter—even if your last scene is intuited—vague, but promising. And then connect the dots. Knowing where you’re going (my wife’s told me many times) is essential for soothing the neurodivergent mind. As true in writing as it is in cross-country road trips.

Also, fight the urge to constantly check the clock or count your words. Write at the speed you find most comfortable. Write (and this applies to all writers) what’s fun to write. If you’re not having fun… why bother? Write the story that you want to write—even if you feel that the world’s not ready to hear your voice. (You won’t know if you don’t try.) Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, after all. And there’s no such thing as a ‘normal’ story. Take your time. Don’t write what you feel a neurotypical world might want to read. Write from the heart. Currently, publishers are looking for different approaches from new perspectives from forgotten, maligned and undervalued voices.

Also see First Drafts, for more info on The Idea vs. The Implementation transition. (And why that may matter for neurodivergent writers.)

FYI: There’s a fairly extensive list of neurodivergent writers on Goodreads. The most famous of the neurodivergent novelists (presumed ADHD) was Earnest Hemingway. Which explains much of Hemingway’s stylistic approach, IMHO.

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Not ready to give up on your current manuscript? Not ready to give up the prospect of being a novelist? One final suggestion. Put the manuscript away for at least two weeks. Maybe a month or more. Allow yourself sufficient time to clear your head, or to formulate new ideas (write a short story or two, perhaps?) and then approach your your manuscript with a newfound thrill and a fresh perspective. Sometimes, that down time can work wonders.