Organized writing? What of it?!

Morning, morning. *Chugs coffee* OR good night/afternoon, whatever the case may be in your neck of the woods.

Book outlines? What are these things? And does everyone do them?

From my understanding, book outlines are the just that. The general...outline of what is going on in your book. Characters, setting, naming the big-bad, naming the protagonist, tossing in a few stumbling blocks here and there for good measure - things of that nature. I've even seen an author outlining major scenes that happen in her MS. Like dialogue and everything. Frankly, this scares me. I prefer something a bit more...spontaneous. Almost, "live" writing, if you will. Planning an emotional scene or an excited fight scene kind of takes the fun right out of it for me.

Do I do book outlines?

I don't. The whole idea of organized writing... *Shudders* No. I can hardly stomach the thought. Personally, I don't "outline" anything. I don't do "rough drafts". I don't plan out how many words I'd like to get done in a certain amount of time. I don't decide which WIP I want to work on, on that particular day. I sit and I write. And whatever may come to me about whichever WIP - and believe me, I have about six currently going at once - is what I will sit down and write on.

Why, you ask? I never ever ever ever want to set limitations for myself and I think writing an outline, setting a word-count goal, or even telling yourself which WIP you're going to start on are ALL limitations.

Not to get all science-lesson on you guys, but the human mind is an exceptionally amazing thing. You limit yourself every single day without even knowing what you're doing. Some commands get processed so fast, our conscious never even has a chance to analyze it before it gets done. Prime example: breathing and blinking. Your eyes get dry so your body tells it to blink. Your brain needs oxygen to to function so your lungs work. -- DONE SCIENCE LESSON.

I always want to do better. If I think my last book was amazeballs, then this next one has to be better. I want to excel past my own dreams. Now, what I think and do for myself may not necessarily work for anyone else on this planet. But it does for me and by golly gee, I refuse to limit myself. When you limit yourself you get comfortable. You start to slack off, think you're still at the top of your game. Tell me something readers and writers alike: Pick up your favorite author's first major-selling book; their first NYT's bestseller. Now, pick up their latest work. Even if it isn't part of the same series. I promise you that there is a difference in the way they write. Whether it is better or worse, they've became comfortable.

That first book, that first WIP, finding an agent and a publisher, that first manuscript you bust your ass to get out there I can almost guarantee that you may never work as hard for anything else as you have that. This may not be a bad thing because there are some people who have, like, goldmines at their fingertips and every word is like swiss chocolate on the palate and we just gobble every word, paragraph, comically infused metaphor like they're candy. Yes, 'tis true.

BUT as I've said before. Comfortable can be scary. Your writing absolutely has to, has to, HAS TO improve, evolve or grow over time or else you run the risk of all of your books sounding the same. In my opinion, anyway.

*Drum rolls* 

AND NOW, A MESSAGE FROM CAYLEE AND NOLAN!

From pages 69-71 of the MS, The Descendant.

    A loud boom of a knock sounded at the front door as soon as the dishwasher turned on; startling me so much I stubbed my toe on the dishwasher. Jeeze, I was a scaredy-cat. Imagining a knock on the door when some punk just crank called me saying he would do just that. Hopping on one slippered foot, I removed the fluffy yellow duck from my injured foot and examined my toe. It looked like it would be good and swollen in about ten minutes. I groaned, limping to the fridge and pushing the button for - The knock came again and this time I was sure I hadn’t imagined it.

    Stubbed toe forgotten, I stood slowly and slid my foot out of my other slipper, grabbing my phone off the counter as I went to the door. Who knocks like that when we have a painfully obvious doorbell all but glittering with a RING DOORBELL HERE sign? My hand was reaching for the doorknob when a voice rang out.

    “Caylee are you there?” Flinching, I released the breath I was holding in and yanked the door open, glaring at my guest.

    “How do you know where I live?” Nolan’s hair was wet from the drizzle that had started about twenty minutes ago and I noticed he wasn’t wearing a jacket. Still, he smiled unapologetically and ran his fingers through his hair, the wheat colored mane refusing to look anything less than perfect.

    “Nice pj’s,”

    “How do you know where I live?” I repeated trying to distract myself from being embarrassed that he’d seen me in my pajamas and messy bun.

    At least I didn’t still have my retainer in.

    “I do teacher’s aide work at school for extra credit. I have access to the records.” I arched my eyebrow at him and cast a fleeting glance at the umbrella stand just to my left, preparing to use it as a weapon if need be.

    “Are you stalking me?” I asked shifting closer to it. “Because I can tell you right now that I’m not an interesting person. What you see is what you get with me – well not literally.” I amended at his amused look.

    “No, I am not stalking you. I actually need a favor.”

    “You need a favor? The guy who lives in one of the biggest houses in this city – maybe even the state – needs a favor from me?” I shook my head and shifted closer to the umbrella stand again. “I don’t buy it. What is the real reason you’ve shown up on my doorstep dripping wet?”

    “Okay, you got me.” He admitted flashing those pearly whites again. “I wanted to see you and I figured when you didn’t call me you probably lost my note.” I barked out a laugh and folded my arms. “Oh that’s nice; you’re laughing in my face.” I gave him an apologetic brow wrinkle around my next laugh. “No, that’s great. Guys love that.”

    “Listen Nolan,” I started still unconvinced of his story. “Are you physically hurt?” he shook his head. “Has your car broken down?” he shook his head again. “Has your cell phone died and you need to make a call?” Another head shake. “Then I have to say goodnight and I hope you make it home okay before this storm hits.” I went to close the door when his next sentence sent a shot of ice down my back.

    “I’ve seen your eyes,” his voice was slightly muffled through the large door and I swung the door back open, folding my arms defensively now. To my surprise, there was no censure, no judgment and most of all no fear in those brilliant turquoise depths as he looked at me.

    “They’re gray. What about them?” I shrugged one shoulder, baiting him to see if he really saw them or was just messing with me. The arch in his light brown eyebrow said more than he could’ve vocalized.

    “They aren’t gray all the time.” He said plainly then an expectant look crossed his face. “Kind of like right now.” I ducked my head behind the door and glanced in the mirror in the foyer.

    Damn it, he was right. They were starting to glow right now. 

Copyright 2012 Amiya Liccian, All rights reserved.