Fill plot holes, build irresistible worlds, and avoid "word salad"through the meticulous accumulation of detail.
Has anyone ever told you that “there’s a lot going on in your story”? And did your heart sink when you realized they really meant, “There’s too much going on in your story”?
I’ve been there. I totally get the impulse to kitchen-sink a plot. I’m still trying to define the contours of my story, still trying to figure out what the heck it’s about. And it feels good to add elements to the storyline when you tire of the ones that are already there.
But when there’s too much unrelated stuff going on, the reader doesn’t know where to look or what to focus on; the details are disparate and the cast of characters biblical in size. Every new idea that’s introduced—only to be forgotten for the duration of the story—doesn’t add to the plot, increase emotional heat, or create intrigue. It only causes confusion and frustration in the reader.
Let’s say your writing practice is a picnic, and your story is inside a picnic basket. While preparing your lunch, you look inside your basket and see a beautiful loaf of bread, some prosciutto, and parmesan cheese. To complete the meal, would you grab matches, anchovies, and dish soap? Or, would you carefully select olive oil, balsamic and arugula? Sorry for the bougie example, but you get my drift: You want to select details that complete your story sandwich, rather than stuff your basket full of disparate items that, while perhaps adding some excitement in the moment, don’t complete the meal.
Pick and choose your ingredients by carefully accumulating detail rather than foraging for it willy-nilly. Doing so from page one, draft one, guarantees a more cohesive story, as well as fewer rewrites. A win-win! The only thing that suffers is that panicky feeling you get when you hit a wall and don’t know what else to write about, and we don’t want to feed that beast, anyway. You’ve got to work through it—practically, logically, and calmly.
Pick and choose your ingredients by carefully
accumulating detail rather than foraging for it willy-nilly.
Example One: Word Salad
A crash from the neighbor’s yard startled Zach into action. He picked up a giant rock and tiptoed toward the fence. Leaning down to peer between the slats, he saw the house, a Victorian affair right out of a gothic romance—complete with turrets, a heather-strewn garden, and a brass mail slot overflowing with letters. In the yard, Mrs. Grady was playing with her dog Dooly, with a cup of tea in one hand and a slobbery tennis ball in the other. Zach stood to his full height and called out to her. She gave him a bright smile and waved him over. Mr. Grady, her old bastard of a husband, appeared on the front porch scowling and polishing his handgun. Through the front door, Zach spotted the couple’s teenage granddaughters: Mazy and Allison, fraternal twins, one blessed with good looks and the other with the face of a bulldog. Zach considered asking Mazy to go with him to the local diner, but decided against it. She’d insist on bringing Allison, and he just couldn’t stomach such an ungodly threesome right now.
Example Two: Word Picnic
A crash from the neighbor’s yard startled Zach into action. He picked up a giant rock and tiptoed toward the fence. Leaning in to peer between the slats, he saw that the house—a 1920s arts and crafts affair—was in complete disarray, and Mrs. Grady was standing on the front porch staring blankly up at the sky. A pot of fuchsia lay shattered at her feet and, curiously, playing cards were strewn all over the lawn. Zach knew Mrs. Grady enjoyed gin-rummy, and was known to force her husband into a game now and then. But where the hell was he now? The rock felt rough and heavy in Zach's hand. I’ll hold onto it for the time being, he thought, at least until I get eyes on that old bastard.
While it’s tough to illustrate a lack of story accumulation in a short paragraph (although this problem does have a sentence-level cousin called “overwriting”), these examples demonstrate that a story can provide great relief when it remembers its core details. While the Word Salad version has lots of plot potential, there is simply too much going on.
In contrast, the Word Picnic example has a stronger sense of place, establishes character, and can actually create more tension by building on what’s already there. The writer took care not to forget about the rock in Zach’s hand, nor the fact that he’s investigating a strange crash from next door. As the writer continues, she’ll also likely give us more of Mr. Grady, who’s been introduced as a shady character who may or may not prove to be the cause of said crash, and a malevolent force in the larger arc of the story.
The Word Picnic example has a stronger sense of place, establishes character,and can actually create more tension
by building on what's already there.
As you draft, especially if you’re a pantster, think about revisiting ideas you’ve already committed to the page. The great news is that the accumulation of related details can still be a creative endeavor, arguably working the brain much harder than random ideation. Imagine drawing a rough perimeter around your writing play yard. Once you’ve drawn that perimeter, there’s still a ton of room to play. You can still think “outside the box” while remaining inside the circle of the story. In my opinion, locating related details and finding the path between linked ideas is way more fun than throwing arbitrary ideas at the wall.
But the best reason for building a delicious word picnic is a matter of practicality: Whatever you half-ass today, you’ll end up paying for tomorrow.
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