As you know, I’ve once more jumped into the deep end of the pool to write another book.

Ideally, it’s one whose quality is not on par with a venereal disease. Though I suppose the “quality” of the venereal disease is relative — syphilis remains a high-quality venereal disease. It does a lot with a little. It’s not some gutter-VD like, say, crabs. I mean, crabs? Really? Even the name. Oceanic crustaceans. Nesting in your crotchland. That’s low-quality stuff. Very low yield. Practically not worth talking about.

Whatever your feelings about sexually-transmitted coochie-bugs, I figure it’s high time to give an actual progress report. Where am I with this thing? What have I done? What’s left to do?

I Give You: My Manifesto

I have a file I’m calling “The Manifesto,” which is like “The Bible,” but sounds more sinister, as if I’m forming some kind of attack plan instead of religious dogma. Plus, it affords you the opportunity to wander up to somebody and through clenched teeth whisper, “Would you like to read my manifesto?” You can practically see their sphincters tighten to a pinhole.

The Manifesto is everything. It’s your one-pop-stop-and-shop file for Everything I Need To Know About This Goddamn Novel. It’s equal part staging ground and dumping ground. I know that everything I throw into their won’t make it into the book. Maybe it’ll live at the edges of the tale, or maybe it’s just refuse that needs to turn into hot, fresh compost (more fertile is my valley).

What’s in this madman’s manifesto, you ask?

The Mind Maps

I’ve done… I guess three major mind-maps so far?

One for the characters.

One for the five acts (with attendant tentpole points).

One for… well, let’s just say it’s secret.

I import these flowcharts straight into the document — they’re not perfect to read, but I have PDFs and JPEGs of the mind maps outside this document, and they’re handy enough as references internally. That said, I long for a single aggregation program that acts like One Giant Corkboard where I can centralize all my materials. Images plus text plus maps plus quotes plus whatever — a Tumblr log for my novel, something that’s equal parts “whiteboard” and “file cabinet.” Something with visual-yet-intuitive panache. Does such a thing exist? Probably not. (And if it does, I bet it exists only on Mac. Apple-hearted bastards!)

Sidebar: The Polluted Stream Of My Disturbed Consciousness

Here’s the thing: this document, this manifesto, is for me. It’s all mine.

As such, I don’t worry about its readability. As long as I can understand it? Score. What that means is, I write without much attention to writing effectively, or politely, or even sensibly. As I say earlier: dumping ground. I just write. When I want to opine on some part of this project, I just slap in a sub-header and start typing. I don’t follow any official format or anything. It’s pure stream-of-consciousness bullshit.

Why is this?

Well, first, it’s easy. And in the planning stage, ease-of-use is ideal.

Second, it’s more fun that way. I know that fun shouldn’t be the motivating force behind the project — been there, done that, doesn’t work — but any time you can make something a little more appealing, do it as long as it’s not harming the end result.

Third, it’s like tapping the vein and letting the blood flow unhindered. You write that way, you’re not self-editing. Sure, you get a lot of bad ideas, but you get a lot of good unexpected ideas, too. It’s no different than the thought process: sometimes, you let your brain wander down tangled corridors and it opens some pretty crazy doors. That’s a good thing. By writing stream-of-consciousness, you document that process and note all the things good and bad that your mind finds along the way. Sure, it might be those sinister furries like you find in the film version of The Shining, but maybe it’s…erm, not.

The Character Section

In this section, I list the characters. Nothing fancy. Just names, and then an unofficial dumping of whatever information I know so far. That’s the thing about planning, for me — it’s at this point not useful to inject uniformity. As the writer and the reader, we need to know different things about different characters, and further, I don’t know everything about each character yet. I write what I know, and I stop. And when I think of something new, I add it to the list. Simple enough.

Further, I’ll continue to learn about these characters as I write the book. You’re writing along and suddenly you write a sentence that indicates a character is an ex-boxer, and you’re all like, “Blink, blink, really? I didn’t mean that. Except, that’s shit-hot. Hell if it doesn’t work.” And suddenly, boo-bam. There’s a new detail. I’ve long said that you should have a plan, but equally that you should not be afraid to deviate from that plan or add to it during the writing. This isn’t math, it doesn’t have any concrete rules: you should never be a slave to inspiration, but that’s not to say you shouldn’t give it some shoulder room.

Once more, I liken this to having a map on a long journey. I wouldn’t drive cross-country without a map or a GPS — but, in driving across the country, I also wouldn’t be a slave to the map, either.

Acts and Tentpoles

Straightforward: I have five acts, so I list them out, and list the things I need to know about those acts. How do we begin them? Any notes of escalation? And finally, what’s the pivot point that turns the reader and the story heel-to-toe and brings us to the next act after?

Then, any tentpoles I need, I put them in their proper act. Once more, we’re talking stream-of-consciousness here. Nothing fancy. Nobody needs to read this. I just write it how I feel it.

The Secret Section

Mmm. Yeah, don’t want to talk about this one, yet. Maybe later.

The Worldview

I’m dealing with some genre implications in the book, right? The book has a crime focus, but over time opens up and reveals an occult worldview, and so before I dive in, I want to know what I’m talking about. Stuff like this has some rules, has some definition, some hierarchy. I don’t need to nail it all down, but I want to get the feel of it, I want to know the scoop so when I start picking the story’s scabs and peeling back the skin, I know how much to reveal, and just what the fuck it is I’m revealing.

Not to reiterate endlessly, but again, I’m not writing a history book. This isn’t a section to be read by anybody but me, so: whatever I feel or think ends up on the page.

The Sinister Plot

What I’m about to talk about completely muddies the waters in terms of “plot versus story,” but you’re just going to have to buckle up and suck it in and walk it off.

It’s like this.

Your Plot (big ‘P’ just for purposes of differentiation) is the sequence of events in the Story. It is the arrow.

Your Story is everything. It’s all the parts of this tale. It’s not just what’s sequentially available from page one to page 300, it’s all the things that are held outside those pages, outside the established margins. You can barely get your arms around a Story. The Story is invisible in many ways — formless like an amoeba, boundless like the stars. Still, let’s physicalize (not a word) it and call it the apple.

As I’ve noted before, the arrow (Plot) is the path through the apple (Story).

And here’s where it gets confusing.

A ‘plot,’ little ‘p,’ is something you, me, or a character, can concoct. A supervillain would have an “evil plot.” (I suppose I could generate less confusion if I called it a plan instead of a plot, but hey, fuck it, it’s too late).

I have two antagonists in this story, and each has concocted a plot. And these plots have been in motion long before our protagonist steps into the Big Evil Pile Of Shit, which means that these plots (little ‘p’) exist outside the Plot (big ‘p’) which mean that, really, the plots are part of the Story and not the Plot.

*pant, pant, pant*

Understand? No? Well, too bad. You don’t have to. I get it, and I’m writing the story.

Anyway, the point is, I need to know how the character plots and plans work. I need to know where each antagonist is at in terms of their evil plots. I need to know their motivation. I need to know how all the pieces work and fit together so that when the protagonist enters the tale and begins to reveal the layers, it all plays together. Moreover, these two plots eventually crossover, so it’s important not to just “wing it.”

Yes, leave room for inspiration. But if I just make this crap up as I go, I assure you I’ll lose something — I won’t stick my landing, and I’ll run the risk of losing the thread. Shit needs to make sense.

And, Finally, The Outline

The initial sequence is really the acts and the tentpoles, but from there, I’ll do a more official Outline.

This is the one spot where I won’t rely on stream-of-consciousness, because dangit if I don’t want this to be concise and readable. Less so for others (though it’s not inconceivable someone else would need to read it), but more for me so that it’s short and sweet.

This section is currently blank.

Though, I believe I’ll start to fill it in next week.

I’m not going to go apeshit with the outline and detail everything out, but I will outline it rough chapter by rough chapter. Here’s what an outline does for me, by the way: in the mornings when I’m writing something big, I sometimes experience an eerie moment of panic and confusion. The outline is the anchor that stops my ship from drifting. I can pull up the outline. I know where I am. I know where I’ve been. I can put my finger on a section and say, just like on a map, YOU ARE HERE.

I won’t follow the outline explicitly, just like I don’t always listen to my GPS (and oooh, she gets mad — “Turn left, turn left, I said TURN LEFT” — by the way, if I could get my GPS to sound just like GlaDOS, I’d pay a premium for that service). But even still, this is helps to obviate the fear factor. It stops me from wandering aimlessly into “Here There Be Dragons” territory.

I can always regain focus. An outline brings me back to center.

One Final Mindmap

One more piece I haven’t yet copied into The Manifesto (but should): a mind map that handles a few different spokes. These spokes, in no particular order:

What’s It About?

Influences?

Setting Details?

Mood?

These aren’t concretized. Just markers on the road to get me where I’m going.

This Pilgrim’s Progress, And Where You TMeeps Come In

I like to write to spec.

I figure I’ve got a 90-100k novel here.

I know that I want to have a quality draft — meaning, not my first draft, but the official first draft — out the door and into the agent’s hands before I go away to San Francisco and Hawaii in October. That gives me about four months to write this. Not a tremendous amount of time, but enough. If I write 2k a day on average, that’s a 50-day process. If I write 3k a day on average (a likelier rate), it’s a 33-day process.

So, next week is outlining.

Then, the following Monday, it’s time to lube up the old fingers and loosen the brain with a dram of scotch. Meaning, hey! Time to churn and burn. Time for the rubber to meet the motherfucking road.

First half-ass draft by the end of August. Then, a couple-few weeks off. Then, a second edit. Then, out the door. Ideally. In, y’know, a perfect world.

But in the meantime, I’m still adding to The Manifesto. And I could use your help if you care to share it.

First, I’m looking for some information. I used to be up on all my Demon Lore, and I’ve still got my many books on the subject, but I want to come at this with fresh eyes. I could use resources — books or online — on the subject of demons, demonology, and most specifically, the infernal hierarchy. Y’know, like, “Who are the Grand Dukes? Who was Lucifer’s gardener?” Shit like that.

Second, is there anything I’m missing? Anything you’d do that I have not? I know I rant and babble at you people about writing tips and tricks, so here’s your chance to do the same to me. I’m not saying I’ll use it, just as you shouldn’t automatically apply any advice I give, but even still, it’s good to crystallize process, and it’s excellent to know all the options.

(Bonus Points: GlaDOS: “You should have turned left before.”)