I was surprised to read that you have to "wonder what happens next" in your novel. I assumed that writers of fiction sketched out their plot, beginning to end, then filled in the rest.
I tried extremely hard to outline this entire novel beforehand, but it just didn't work. Something about trying to imagine it ahead of time without the process of uncovering the plot as I go leaves me feeling stuck. I can't "see" the road ahead without traveling it.
For me, writing is about the process of discovering what makes sense by working it out in words.
So, I may have an idea that Frank, the FBI agent, needs to check in with the local Sheriff about a missing person, but I don't know how their conversation is going to go until I start writing and feel it out to see what strikes me as the most natural and plausible.
Maybe I go into the scene thinking the Sheriff's office was just lazy and didn't do their job, and Frank is going to get frustrated with their incompetence.
But then, as I walk him into the building and start building the dialogue, I realize it makes more sense for the Sheriff to be tight lipped because he got word from on high to drop the case.
At first, with just a generic Sheriff in my mind, maybe he's ok with that because he's there to cash a paycheck and not make waves. But as I begin to flesh out his character through description and dialogue, I realize that Sheriff Jenkins reminds Special Agent Frank Marchetti a lot of the actor Sam Elliot. A no-nonsense, cowboy hat wearing, handlebar mustache having, salt of the earth kind of man. And the more I think about THAT version of a Sheriff, the more I realize he's a real lawman who couldn't possibly be content with having the feds show up and tell him to drop the case.
Especially when they break into his home and threaten his wife for emphasis.
And maybe that means Sheriff Jenkins, who was initially inclined to stonewall Frank, takes a measure of the man and decides that they're both former military and this shit will not stand in his town. So maybe instead of closing the door on Frank, he has him follow him out to his old pickup truck with no GPS and no bluetooth, leaving their phones behind, and he gives him a ride to where the girl disappeared and tells him what he knows, off the record. Tells him to look into it because his own hands are tied.
But I don't see all that just knowing "Special Agent Marchetti investigates the disappearance of Serafina Ortiz." I know he has to do it, but I don't know what that looks like until I'm there.
So I have overarching themes in the book, and an idea of the players, but much like the reader, I discover the story as I go.
And yes, these examples are from the most recently written chapter. An excerpt (and remember, this is a first draft):
The Otero County Sherriff's Office was located on White Sands Blvd., sandwiched between a credit union and a Super 8. Frank pulled off the man road and into a parking lot flanked by scrubby pines. On a pole near the entrance, the American and New Mexican flags hung together, one atop the other, the stiff breeze rippling the fabric. The entire building didn't look much bigger than a doublewide.
He walked past a strange little statue of a bear and through the glass double doors. A plump, middle aged black woman with short-cropped hair and round, frameless glasses sat in front of a computer, clicking her mouse every couple of seconds. He waited. She finally looked up.
"Can I help you?" She asked. She sounded slightly annoyed. She looked annoyed.
"Yes, I was hoping to talk to someone about an active case."
"You here to turn yourself in, honey?" she asked, an eyebrow cocked. There was a hint of a smirk on her face.
"No, I'm afraid not." he sighed. "I'm just trying to help track down a missing person."
"What agency are you with?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said what agency. You're a fed, right?" She looked him up and down, like that explained the deduction.
Frank mirrored the gesture, glancing down at his suit and tie. It wasn't a suit and tie kind of town, and that meant he stood out. He felt naked not seeing his gun holstered at his hip. Even without it, though, she was right. He did look like a fed.
"You got me. Special Agent Frank Marchetti, FBI. But this is not official business. Yet. Just asking some questions to help out a friend."
"This the Ortiz case?" She asked.
He stammered, startled by the accuracy of her guess.
"How did you…?" he began.
"Otero county is over sixty-six-hundred square miles," she interrupted, "with a population of just 68,000 people. Not a lot of folks go missing, and when they do, not many of them stir up the kind of shitstorm this one has. Hard not to figure that's who you're here about."
"That's enough chit-chat for a Monday, Yvette. Would you mind fetching our guest here a cup of coffee?" It was the Sheriff, who had emerged from an office kitty-corner to the reception area as they'd been talking. He was an older man, probably mid to late 60s, his snow white hair and mustache setting off the contrast in his weathered, tanned skin. Frank sized him up. Military bearing. Solid physique for a man past middle age. Clearly spent a lot of time outside. This sheriff was not a desk jockey.
Yvette turned to look at the Sheriff with narrowed eyes, a rebuke on her face that hadn't quite reached her lips. For a second, Frank almost expected the lawman to take a step back under that withering stare. But he squared his shoulders and held his ground, and she gave way at last, pursing her lips and shaking her head, but getting up and waddling toward what Frank presumed must have been the kitchen without a word.
"I'm Sheriff Glenn Jenkins. What can I do you for, stranger?" the man asked. His politeness was forced, the words made more inviting by the false façade of a warm southern drawl. His pale blue eyes, though, were set like cold steel, and there wasn't a hint a welcome in them.
"Special Agent Frank Marchetti, sir, nice to meet you." Frank extended his hand. The Sheriff kept him locked in that gaze for a full three seconds before slowly reaching across the counter and extending his own hand.
"I heard who you are. Now what," he said, enunciating each word, "can. I. help. you. with?" His grip was firm, the skin of his hand calloused and hard. Definitely not a paper pusher.
"Sheriff, I'm not here on official business…"
"Then why are you in my office, Special Agent Marchetti?" The Sheriff interrupted coolly. He just kept staring at Frank like he was a puzzle the man was trying to solve using only his mind.
"Because my boss asked me to do him a personal favor and look into the disappearance of the daughter of a friend. Serafina Ortiz."
Frank took out a photo of the girl and set it down on the counter. The Sheriff didn't look down at it.
"Where is your service weapon, Agent Marchetti?" The Sheriff asked. Frank felt a hot surge of adrenaline flow through him. His ears and cheeks burned. He took a deep breath and held it. Exhaled slowly.
It didn't work.
"Sheriff," Frank said, and he could hear his long-suppressed Brooklyn accent creeping out of its carefully-crafted cage and into his usually neutral voice, "I came here to look into a disappearance, because that's what I do. My weapon is being cleared after an on-the-job shooting. See, I wound up in a standoff with a man who was about to start trafficking his own daughter, and I fed him a nice hot slice of shut the fuck up. Right down his nasty little pie hole. Now, I gotta get cleared for having the audacity to do my job, and so I'm here in this bullshit little town with no gun and no badge like I'm playing private fucking investigator because it beats sitting on my hands waiting for the red tape to release its stranglehold on my balls." He paused. "But most of all, I'm here because a good man can't find his daughter and he needs her back. And whether you help me or not, I'm going to do my goddamm job. You strike me as a man who puts policing over politics, so I sure would appreciate your blessing, if not your help, because I don't want a moment of my time here to be wasted on a jurisdictional pissing match."
Jenkins evaluated Frank for a while. The piercing blue eyes looked not just at Frank, but through him. Finally, after a long silence, Jenkins spoke:
"So you lost someone?"
Frank was impressed at the deduction, but he didn't let it show. The man would make a good ally if he could get him on his side.
"Two someones. My wife and daughter went missing five years ago, and the trail has run cold. So yeah, when it comes to the amount of patience I have for officers of the law who get in the way of finding missing women and children because they're afraid their fucking fiefdoms are being encroached upon, it's less than fucking zero." He stabbed his finger into the counter for emphasis.
The Sheriff kept right on staring. Slowly, subtly, almost imperceptibly, something in his expression shifted. As though he'd made some decision. Ever-so-slightly, he began to nod, never breaking eye contact.
"Come with me," he said, then turned, fished some keys out of his pocket, and unlatched and swung open the metal gate on the side of the reception counter...
Thanks for that comprehensive answer, and for the link. Now I am anxious to read the finished novel - a signed copy, I hope , which will be available to your Substack fans. All the best in this endeavor!
I was surprised to read that you have to "wonder what happens next" in your novel. I assumed that writers of fiction sketched out their plot, beginning to end, then filled in the rest.
There are different kinds of writers.
I plan what I can, but I'm mostly a "pantser." If I claim the "plantser" category, it might be a bit generous:
https://thewritepractice.com/plotters-pantsers/
I tried extremely hard to outline this entire novel beforehand, but it just didn't work. Something about trying to imagine it ahead of time without the process of uncovering the plot as I go leaves me feeling stuck. I can't "see" the road ahead without traveling it.
For me, writing is about the process of discovering what makes sense by working it out in words.
So, I may have an idea that Frank, the FBI agent, needs to check in with the local Sheriff about a missing person, but I don't know how their conversation is going to go until I start writing and feel it out to see what strikes me as the most natural and plausible.
Maybe I go into the scene thinking the Sheriff's office was just lazy and didn't do their job, and Frank is going to get frustrated with their incompetence.
But then, as I walk him into the building and start building the dialogue, I realize it makes more sense for the Sheriff to be tight lipped because he got word from on high to drop the case.
At first, with just a generic Sheriff in my mind, maybe he's ok with that because he's there to cash a paycheck and not make waves. But as I begin to flesh out his character through description and dialogue, I realize that Sheriff Jenkins reminds Special Agent Frank Marchetti a lot of the actor Sam Elliot. A no-nonsense, cowboy hat wearing, handlebar mustache having, salt of the earth kind of man. And the more I think about THAT version of a Sheriff, the more I realize he's a real lawman who couldn't possibly be content with having the feds show up and tell him to drop the case.
Especially when they break into his home and threaten his wife for emphasis.
And maybe that means Sheriff Jenkins, who was initially inclined to stonewall Frank, takes a measure of the man and decides that they're both former military and this shit will not stand in his town. So maybe instead of closing the door on Frank, he has him follow him out to his old pickup truck with no GPS and no bluetooth, leaving their phones behind, and he gives him a ride to where the girl disappeared and tells him what he knows, off the record. Tells him to look into it because his own hands are tied.
But I don't see all that just knowing "Special Agent Marchetti investigates the disappearance of Serafina Ortiz." I know he has to do it, but I don't know what that looks like until I'm there.
So I have overarching themes in the book, and an idea of the players, but much like the reader, I discover the story as I go.
And yes, these examples are from the most recently written chapter. An excerpt (and remember, this is a first draft):
The Otero County Sherriff's Office was located on White Sands Blvd., sandwiched between a credit union and a Super 8. Frank pulled off the man road and into a parking lot flanked by scrubby pines. On a pole near the entrance, the American and New Mexican flags hung together, one atop the other, the stiff breeze rippling the fabric. The entire building didn't look much bigger than a doublewide.
He walked past a strange little statue of a bear and through the glass double doors. A plump, middle aged black woman with short-cropped hair and round, frameless glasses sat in front of a computer, clicking her mouse every couple of seconds. He waited. She finally looked up.
"Can I help you?" She asked. She sounded slightly annoyed. She looked annoyed.
"Yes, I was hoping to talk to someone about an active case."
"You here to turn yourself in, honey?" she asked, an eyebrow cocked. There was a hint of a smirk on her face.
"No, I'm afraid not." he sighed. "I'm just trying to help track down a missing person."
"What agency are you with?"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said what agency. You're a fed, right?" She looked him up and down, like that explained the deduction.
Frank mirrored the gesture, glancing down at his suit and tie. It wasn't a suit and tie kind of town, and that meant he stood out. He felt naked not seeing his gun holstered at his hip. Even without it, though, she was right. He did look like a fed.
"You got me. Special Agent Frank Marchetti, FBI. But this is not official business. Yet. Just asking some questions to help out a friend."
"This the Ortiz case?" She asked.
He stammered, startled by the accuracy of her guess.
"How did you…?" he began.
"Otero county is over sixty-six-hundred square miles," she interrupted, "with a population of just 68,000 people. Not a lot of folks go missing, and when they do, not many of them stir up the kind of shitstorm this one has. Hard not to figure that's who you're here about."
"That's enough chit-chat for a Monday, Yvette. Would you mind fetching our guest here a cup of coffee?" It was the Sheriff, who had emerged from an office kitty-corner to the reception area as they'd been talking. He was an older man, probably mid to late 60s, his snow white hair and mustache setting off the contrast in his weathered, tanned skin. Frank sized him up. Military bearing. Solid physique for a man past middle age. Clearly spent a lot of time outside. This sheriff was not a desk jockey.
Yvette turned to look at the Sheriff with narrowed eyes, a rebuke on her face that hadn't quite reached her lips. For a second, Frank almost expected the lawman to take a step back under that withering stare. But he squared his shoulders and held his ground, and she gave way at last, pursing her lips and shaking her head, but getting up and waddling toward what Frank presumed must have been the kitchen without a word.
"I'm Sheriff Glenn Jenkins. What can I do you for, stranger?" the man asked. His politeness was forced, the words made more inviting by the false façade of a warm southern drawl. His pale blue eyes, though, were set like cold steel, and there wasn't a hint a welcome in them.
"Special Agent Frank Marchetti, sir, nice to meet you." Frank extended his hand. The Sheriff kept him locked in that gaze for a full three seconds before slowly reaching across the counter and extending his own hand.
"I heard who you are. Now what," he said, enunciating each word, "can. I. help. you. with?" His grip was firm, the skin of his hand calloused and hard. Definitely not a paper pusher.
"Sheriff, I'm not here on official business…"
"Then why are you in my office, Special Agent Marchetti?" The Sheriff interrupted coolly. He just kept staring at Frank like he was a puzzle the man was trying to solve using only his mind.
"Because my boss asked me to do him a personal favor and look into the disappearance of the daughter of a friend. Serafina Ortiz."
Frank took out a photo of the girl and set it down on the counter. The Sheriff didn't look down at it.
"Where is your service weapon, Agent Marchetti?" The Sheriff asked. Frank felt a hot surge of adrenaline flow through him. His ears and cheeks burned. He took a deep breath and held it. Exhaled slowly.
It didn't work.
"Sheriff," Frank said, and he could hear his long-suppressed Brooklyn accent creeping out of its carefully-crafted cage and into his usually neutral voice, "I came here to look into a disappearance, because that's what I do. My weapon is being cleared after an on-the-job shooting. See, I wound up in a standoff with a man who was about to start trafficking his own daughter, and I fed him a nice hot slice of shut the fuck up. Right down his nasty little pie hole. Now, I gotta get cleared for having the audacity to do my job, and so I'm here in this bullshit little town with no gun and no badge like I'm playing private fucking investigator because it beats sitting on my hands waiting for the red tape to release its stranglehold on my balls." He paused. "But most of all, I'm here because a good man can't find his daughter and he needs her back. And whether you help me or not, I'm going to do my goddamm job. You strike me as a man who puts policing over politics, so I sure would appreciate your blessing, if not your help, because I don't want a moment of my time here to be wasted on a jurisdictional pissing match."
Jenkins evaluated Frank for a while. The piercing blue eyes looked not just at Frank, but through him. Finally, after a long silence, Jenkins spoke:
"So you lost someone?"
Frank was impressed at the deduction, but he didn't let it show. The man would make a good ally if he could get him on his side.
"Two someones. My wife and daughter went missing five years ago, and the trail has run cold. So yeah, when it comes to the amount of patience I have for officers of the law who get in the way of finding missing women and children because they're afraid their fucking fiefdoms are being encroached upon, it's less than fucking zero." He stabbed his finger into the counter for emphasis.
The Sheriff kept right on staring. Slowly, subtly, almost imperceptibly, something in his expression shifted. As though he'd made some decision. Ever-so-slightly, he began to nod, never breaking eye contact.
"Come with me," he said, then turned, fished some keys out of his pocket, and unlatched and swung open the metal gate on the side of the reception counter...
Thanks for that comprehensive answer, and for the link. Now I am anxious to read the finished novel - a signed copy, I hope , which will be available to your Substack fans. All the best in this endeavor!