Pantsing Vs. Plotting

The Writer's Tool Box I - Lesson 2: Pantsing Vs. Plotting

Assignment

Prompt: A character finds a dog. The dog is carrying something strange in his mouth.

The twist is this. I want you to first try writing a piece by pantsing--just dive in. Then I want you to try to plot out a different piece from the same prompt, step by step. Do NOT cheat, please, and claim you're pantsing when you're really just plotting in your head. Ditto, do not write a piece by pantsing and then write down a plot for it. The goal is to find out which style you're better at.

Label the pieces "Pantsing" and "Plotting" and then post BOTH of them, with a note about which one you felt was easier and why.

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Pantsing

         Meg pushed the screen door open wide with a thrust of her hip and backed out of the kitchen carrying an armful of rolled bedding in dire need of airing-out. She almost tripped over the dog who sat on the sunlit porch. Startled, she fought to regain her balance; then froze. An old, deep-seated fear of strange dogs jumped from her stomach into her throat; and the jagged scar on her calf that marked the bite of a stray mutt years ago began to throb. Nonplussed by her sudden arrival, the dog lifted his head slightly as if indicating to her that the object he was holding in his mouth was intended for her.

         For several tense moments, she stared at the dog; but it remained where it was, and the only sound it made was a gentle, rhythmic pant. Her shoulders moved away from her ears and her breathing began to slow. Never taking her eyes off the dog, she took a small, careful step toward the stoop. The dog cocked his head, then lay down, setting the object between his outstretched paws. Meg felt reassured that the dog was not aggressive, but she decided to explain her intentions just the same.

         "Ok, buddy," she began quietly. "I'm going to walk real slow over there, and hang this quilt on that clothesline. You be cool, now, ya hear? Stay where you are. Stay," she added firmly.

         The dog rested his head on a paw. Meg hesitated a second longer, her raised eyebrows creating worry creases across her forehead; but the weight of the quilt demanded that she finish what she came to do. She took tentative steps onto the lawn. Lingering fear wouldn't allow her to turn her back on the dog, so she sidestepped across the yard to the shade of two trees holding between them a taut nylon cord . Releasing the heft of the fabric to the line, she rounded her shoulders and stretched out her aching back. Putting her hands on her hips, she turned, and found herself face to face with the dog.

         He sat down on the grass, holding out to her the object in his mouth . When she didn't respond, he dropped it on the ground at her feet. Her fear gave way to impatience.

         "What is your story, dog? Where'd you come from?" She noticed there was neither collar nor identification tag around his neck.

         The dog lowered his snout and nudged the object closer to her.

         For the first time, she recognized the object. A well-chewed rawhide bone lay before her. The dog whined, just a short, squeaky noise, and looked up into Meg's eyes. Understanding washed over her. A sadness tugged at her heart as the theory formed in her mind. Bending down, she grasped the rawhide. The dog jumped to his feet. She tossed the bone as far down the lawn as she could. The dog shot after it, running with joyous abandon, and snatched it up in his teeth. Turning, he trotted proudly back to Meg, and dropped the bone on the grass.

         His tail wagged wildly as she ran her hands down his shiny coat. "Someone decided they couldn't take care of you anymore, huh buddy?" The dog whipped his head up, catching her playfully on the cheek with his wet tongue. He sniffed the rawhide and looked up at her with expectant eyes.

         "You still like this game? Even after your last owner used it to trick you long enough to drive off and leave you behind?" The dog gave a short yelp, and looked away.

         "Well," she began, smiling. "Lucky for you, I happen to like playing fetch." She picked up the rawhide and stood.

         "Come on, Buddy. Let's go find you something to eat."

         She launched the bone in the direction of the house, and Buddy broke into a run toward his new home.

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Plotting

         "God! It's gorgeous here!"

         Tim tugged on Rachael's hand, drawing her closer to him. "Just like you," he said softly as his lips brushed her cheek.

         Giggling, she kept walking. "And who lives in this house?" She pointed to a majestic cape cod with a red front door, whose sweeping lawn extended to the water's edge. A partially covered dock housing a motorboat was visible from the road.

         Their stroll had taken them a mile along the road that followed the large lake, and Rachael was enjoying Tim's running commentary of the area residents. Rachael grew up in the city, in high-rise apartments where she rarely met her neighbours. It impressed her that Tim knew so much about everyone here. But this small, rural town was Tim's birthplace, and the only place he'd ever lived. Out here in the country, generations of the same families lived out their lives, and everyone relied on everyone else. It was the way of the land.

         Their attention was diverted from the cape cod by sudden movement up the road. A dog bounded onto the road and was running at full speed toward them. Tim squinted his eyes, then opened them wide in recognition.

         "Hey! That's Zeus, Mr. Johnson's English setter. Come here, boy!"

         He bent as the dog approached. He immediately noticed that Zeus was soaked to the skin, his long coat was matted to his body in some places, and hanging in dripping locks in others. He carried a black object clenched between his teeth .

         "What happened to you, Zeus, and whatcha got in your mouth?" Tim pulled gently on the object as Zeus opened his jaws. Tim's face froze, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

         "What is it?" Rachael asked, reading the concern in Tim's eyes.

         "It's Mr. Johnson's Yankee cap. He never goes out without it." He looked at the wet dog, then out at the lake. Zeus began to bark. Tim shook his head. "Something's wrong."

         He pulled out his cell phone and Rachael noted that he dialled the Johnson's number from memory. Mrs. Johnson answered. Yes, Mr. Johnson was out in the boat today. She thought he'd be in by now. She worried that dinner would get dry if he wasn't home soon. Tim said nothing about Zeus or the cap, not wanting to worry her, and instead asked if he could stop over during his weekend visit and say hi. She said she would be pleased to see him, and they hung up.

         Grabbing Rachael by the hand and whistling to Zeus, they dashed up the drive-way to the cape cod. An older woman answered when they knocked on the red door.

         "Timmy! It's so nice to see you!" she said, smiling. Tim quickly explained about finding the dog and showed her the hat. Her smile disappeared at once. After recounting his conversation with Mrs. Johnson, he asked the woman if he could borrow her boat.

         She ran to get the keys, and handing them over said she would call the authorities. Tim thanked her and he, Rachael and Zeus ran to the boat.

         Boarding, Rachael said, "The lake is so big. How will you find him?"

         "Mr. Johnson always fishes at the mouth of a small cove. He says it's a lucky spot." Tim negotiated the boat away from the dock with skill, and within moments they were skimming across the lake at top speed.

         Ahead, they spotted Mr. Johnson's boat. It appeared to be empty.

         When Tim reached for the lever to slow the boat's speed, he realized how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel. He brought the boat alongside the other as Zeus began barking wildly. There, lying on the bottom of the boat, was an unconscious Mr. Johnson.

         Tim instructed Rachael to hold Zeus by his collar and prevent him from jumping aboard, and he lashed together the two boats. Then, just as the first sound of sirens carried across the lake, he stepped over to the deck of Mr. Johnson's boat and knelt beside him. Tim felt the faintest of breath on his cheek, and he found a pulse, but it was extremely weak. He rolled Mr. Johnson until he was flat on his back and began to perform CPR as the distant sirens grew louder.

         Just as the ambulance boat arrived, Mr. Johnson's eye's fluttered open. Zeus broke free of Rachael's restraint and leapt aboard; he licked his owner's face until an emergency technician pulled him away. Tim backed up to give them room to work. A few minutes later, another medical tech pulled him aside. He held out his hand.

         Shaking it, he said, "Congratulations, Tim. Mr. Johnson had a heart attack out here. Your actions may have saved his life. You're a hero."

         Tim looked over at Rachael's beaming face, then down to Zeus who lay panting on the bottom of the boat. Stroking the dog's head, he said, "No, sir. The real hero is right here."

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Author's Note: I have to say, I most enjoy writing a story from a loose outline. I like to let a plot swirl around in my head for a bit before I begin to develop it on paper/screen. Once I start, I let my imagination go and if I sway from the outline, so be it. When I sat down to write the pantsing version of the prompt, I stared a long time at the screen, and the writing was much more time intensive than the second version. I got to the line: For the first time, she recognized the object,, and I had to shut down the computer and go to work. But I was still not sure what the object was going to be! It took a great deal of effort to not think what direction the story would go in. I spent my shift think up Story #2 plots, instead.

I like writing the details. I guess that's it. A plot can be good, but the details make it come alive. And when I'm working on the details, I am a pantser 100%.