An Evening with a Writer Without a Plan

“Fly by the Seat of Your Pants and Write a Story Without a Plan.”

-      Reedsy

Reedsy, you don’t know what you are asking me to do. I don’t know what I am doing, which is a definite drawback to good writing. With no plan, I am like James Dean in “Rebel Without a Cause,” running around and getting into trouble.

Well, you asked for it. Just remember, this was not my idea.

The problem with flying by the seat of my pants and writing a story without a plan is I don’t know what to write about. It’s not that there is a lack of subjects. There are plenty of topics – too many of them. I will go through them in my mind, one by one.

One by one, I reject every idea that comes into my head. This one requires too much research, so I won’t have time to write this story in the one week I am given. That one has already been covered by other writers, and I don’t have a fresh enough approach to make my version worth reading. Another one is not funny enough.

Okay, this isn’t getting me anywhere. That’s obvious. So what do I do now?

I know. I’ll watch TV. Maybe something there will inspire me. If not, I can at least be entertained while I put off sitting down and writing something. There must be a marathon of “Law and Order” on cable somewhere. If not “Law and Order,” “Criminal Minds” is a good bet. The problem with “Criminal Minds,” though, is that it grosses me out. I haven’t been able to handle the show since that episode where they were dealing with necrophilia. So “Criminal Minds” is out. “Law and Order: Special Victims Unit” is a possibility, but that deals with rape, another upsetting subject. I settle on watching old sitcoms on the Antenna TV channel. It’s tedious but safe.

I think about the sink and stove full of dishes left over from when I was cooking my dinner. Now there’s something to write about – the awful, unpleasant chore of washing dishes by hand because you don’t have a dishwasher. I’ve found a perfect subject upon which to build an unplanned story. It’s full of frustration, mess, toil, and misery, and it doesn’t get any better.

Unfortunately, both dirty pans are nonstick ones, and the one plate, one bowl, one cutting board, and a few pieces of silverware are equally easy to wash. In no time, with minimal effort, I am finished with the job, and my erstwhile dirty dishes are neatly stacked on the drying rack. So much for that.

I go back to the computer and stare at the screen, hoping that something will appear on it that will inspire me to write a masterpiece. I click on a couple of things, and all I get are advertisements that stall the computer and force me to turn it off and back on again. This is a great way to consume time, but it doesn’t help me with my writing.

It takes my old, slow computer several minutes to come back on and bring up everything that has to come up in the beginning. Instead of opening Word and trying to write something, I decide to play a game of Simple Word Search. This is one of those free games. I am a wet blanket when it comes to computer games, and I refuse to play anything that costs any money. I have played Simple Word Search so much that I have become an expert. I like games where I win most of the time, and this is one of them.

Five games of Simple Word Search later, I decide to play a game of Simple Mahjong. Again, this is a free game; I have played it so much that I am pretty good at it. It’s one of those games that make the player feel smart. Sometimes I need to feel smart, this time being one of them. I play four games of Simple Mahjong, which convinces me that I am some kind of genius, even if I can’t even come up with a usable subject to write about.

Life has a funny way of interjecting itself into our procrastination. My conscience bothers me, and I shut down the Mahjong game and bring up Word. The blank page taunts me. “You think you’re a writer?” it seems to say. “You’re a fake, an amateur. You’ll never win any contests and never get any books published. You’re a loser.” For a blank page on a computer screen, it’s pretty talkative.

“Shut up!” I say to the blank page. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I have reached the point where I am talking to a computer screen. I heave a big sigh, sit back in my computer chair, hit the chair arms with my hands, and shake my head. I am determined to win this silly game of spiritual chicken with my mind, but I don’t yet have a strategy.

I decide to take a nap, hoping that a good temporary sleep will rest my mind and help me in my endeavor to overcome its reluctance to think of something worthwhile. I set my iPhone alarm to ring an hour from now and lie down on my bed.

The piercing alarm wakes me up an hour later. I was having a lively dream about being chased through the streets of my neighborhood by giant, bloodstained letters of the alphabet that refused to form into words. I am happy to wake up from that dream but as mentally barren as ever. I get up, walk to the computer, sit down, stare at the blank screen, and stick my tongue out.

At that point, I have an epiphany. I have a story! Why didn’t I think of this before? I can write about my struggle to write! Why not? There are a beginning, a middle, and an end. If that isn’t a story, what is? I finally begin to type, and the words come tumbling out of my head like water in a waterfall. I’m a writer again! Blank page, you are no longer blank, and you no longer taunt me with your cruel words!

The result is the story you just read. I hope you enjoyed it; it took a lot out of me.