Internal Monologue of a Pantser

5 days

There is a clock ticking. It’s freaking loud, marching down the seconds like a Drill Sargent yelling orders at a recruit. I must take the battery out. It would give me so much more peace, instead of listening to it harp on every day about time and how it’s passing. Yeah, I know! Shut up, you stupid inanimate object. The incessant ticking is NOT helping.

The deadline is five days away. I pull up my comfiest chair and plonk myself down at the worn writing desk. There is plenty of time. I start up my laptop and tap out an idea, an opening sentence. Not bad, I like it.

There are several things that Marnie likes more than ice cream, but at this moment she cannot think of a single one.

Now for the next sentence. What’s the conflict? What’s the point? I draw a blank. Is it a romance? Someone bumps her and the ice cream hits the floor? Is it a thriller where someone poisons the ice cream? I don’t know, I’m such a pantser, that it’s like writing blind. I scrap my idea.

There are several things that Marnie likes more than ice cream, but at this moment she cannot think of a single one.

I also close the app and go have a coffee instead. Let the ideas percolate with the aroma of freshly ground beans. I might have to get a muffin too. Writing is not good for my waistline. It’s alright, I’ve still got five days.

4 days

OK, let’s sit down on the sofa this time and write. You have four days, you can do it. Perhaps a change of environment will get the juices flowing. I always talk to myself in second person. How about a second person narrative… could be interesting. Why not give it a whirl?

The train grinds to a halt midway between stations and you look out of the window onto a freeway that better resembles a car park.

Could be an interesting premise. Where is the train going? Why did it stop? Does it matter? I continue with the story, feet curled beside me as I cozy up on the comfortable sofa, propped up with a mound of cushions.

It is as if the entire world has been forced to a stand-still.

Meh… but hold on, it could work.

All around you in the cramped carriage, there are chaotic bubbles of conversation peppered with exclamations of dismay, and your heart staggers within your chest. You really should have taken the earlier train. You’re going to be late.

Needs more movement. So I change the first word…

All Swirling around you…

Much better. The clock is still ticking, and I contemplate throwing it in the bin, but it was a wedding gift. I wonder if Aunt Rose would notice if I binned it. It’s been ticking continuously for nearly thirty years. She probably doesn’t even remember that she gave it to us. When was the last time she was even here? Time is running out for this clock. I add more written words to the document.

You check your watch for the time, then cross check that against your mobile phone. Late. The minutes are ticking closer and closer to ten, and your interview time is ten-fifteen.

I sigh. Not feeling it. Too much time checking. Time’s passing. Where’s my story? What is my angle?

Distracted by the constant ticking, I realise I need a new clock, one that doesn’t tick so loudly, so I open a search window and type in ‘Silent clock.’

My God! I miss-typed ‘clock’. There are some things I don’t want or need to know! I quickly close the search and begin again, carefully typing each letter to prevent any miscommunication with the search engine. I discover that IKEA has clocks, but no mention of if they’re silent or not. There’s nothing for it then. With a groan, I stretch the kinks out of my back—Typing on the sofa is not ergonomically sound. I close the laptop and put my shoes on. That’s it, I guess I’m off to IKEA to check out their clocks.

3 days

Time is running out. My new clock is a silent, disapproving sentinel, slowly sweeping its second hand around the shining marble white face. Three days until deadline. I can do this, so stop judging me, new shiny clock with an impersonal blank face. I march my laptop outside, ignoring the stern face of the self righteous clock, and perch on the garden bench under the overhanging mulberry tree. What if time could go backwards, just a bit? My fingers type on the keyboard.

I tap my foot nervously on the shiny marble floor as I watch the numbers descend. I’m going to be late… again.

It’s a good start... where to now? Why would the numbers go backwards? Could it be counting down floors in an elevator? There’s a story there. Oh yeah, that’s right, I’ve already written that. I wonder if I could just resubmit an old premise, rehash something? Would they know? Possibly. In my brain, I hear the ghost echo of the old clock ticking down. Each tick in time with my heartbeat. I’m running out of time. I’ll never get this finished by the deadline.

Maybe I should become a plotter. It should help me get a premise that has a beginning, middle and end. I march back inside to grab a notebook and pen, then head back to my leafy grove where I stare at the blank page. Plot, plot, plot. I tap the tip of the pen in time with my thoughts. I’ve never been a plotter, so how do I approach this? After thirty minutes of staring at the paper, I must admit I need help. I know someone in my writing group who’s an excellent plotter, and perhaps they can help. With that clear goal in mind, I open the socials on my phone and send a query into cyberspace.

-Hey, is there anyone who can give me a few tips regarding plotting a story? I seem to be stuck in a rut.

Out of curiosity, I open some of the other channels to see who’s been active and what they’ve been up to. Someone’s been shortlisted. I quickly type out -Congrats @andy101. Someone else wants a beta reader. I shouldn’t, but what the heck, I’m waiting for a response to my query, so I answer with -I’m free now @diwritesstuff. Nearly an hour later, after giving feedback, discussing the merits of an online competition, sharing stories about pets and children and learning more than I needed to know about spiders, I still have no idea how to plot my story. My head hurts and I’m being eaten alive by mosquitoes out here. It’s too late to write now, so I decide that I’ll get up early in the morning and start fresh.

2 days

Right! You’re doing it today. You are not leaving it until the last minute. You will submit on time, or even a whole day early. My inner taskmaster is severe, and I set up my work station at the desk, removing all distractions. There are only two days left and I’ve nothing to show for my efforts. Lots of beginnings, not very many middles, and there is not a single ending in sight. Just pick a genre, any genre. I google a random genre generator. It spins me Regency Romance. Hell yeah, I can do this.

The Honourable Michael Sedgwick briskly made his way down Grosvenor Square, his cane, a pure affectation, swinging and clicking on the cobblestones. He was unpardonably punctual, a habit he had inherited from a lifetime of country living.

It’s a good start. Punctual and prompt. Excellent foreshadowing of my positive outlook for the day. I will have a Regency styled story written by this afternoon. That is, of course, if I’m not distracted. I type away at the keys, excited by the direction my character is taking. He’s off to woo his love when suddenly…

Offline.

Oops! Looks like you’re offline. Trying to reconnect…

And there it is. The spinning wheel of death. I curse my internet and wonder if I can write offline, the way we did when I was younger. It’s painful to think about how much have I learned to rely on technology.

1 day

It’s due today, tonight at midnight, to be precise. But is that Eastern Standard Time, or US time, or whatever random time zone that is currently unknown to me? I have typed madly and thank goodness I’ve hit the word count. Something happened, someone was called to action, something else happened with a complication and a conflict, that tumbled to a resolution and wrapped up with a loose moral at the end. It isn’t my best effort and I’ve left no time for a beta. Time has beaten me and I need to hit submit. My fingers hover above the button. Hesitation and second guessing holds my finger still. Do I have enough time to run it through ProWritingAid?

You are such an idiot. Why do you always leave things until the last minute? My inner voice is definitely pulling no punches. It’s not very nice to me and is my harshest critic. To placate it, I silently promise to be more prompt with my prompts next time. Is that OK?

I hit submit.