I hadn’t gotten very far when I hit that proverbial kitchen utensil in the right-of-way. I had a decision to make.
And I wasn’t sure.
Here’s the thing about writing: it’s an infinite series of decisions, one right after another, some so quick you don’t even realize you’re making them. But then you get to the story-shaping ones. The ones that take the clothes off the hanger. The ones that define what it is.
Some writers might make those decisions before they start. Some have neat binders with all those forks neatly lined up into place settings, crystal gleaming, flower arrangements just so.
I am not one of those writers.
I’m a pantser. For anyone not in the know, a “pantser” is someone who writes by the seat of his/her pants, a term borne from the delightful torture that is NaNoWriMo.
My stories reveal themselves to me as I go along. So do my characters; so do their motivations. It can happen organically, but then there are times like yesterday.
It’s the ultimate choose-your-own-adventure.
I think I may have gotten it, but if I’m write (most Freudian typo ever to typo, so I’m leaving it), I didn’t start the story at the right spot. Or maybe I did..
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