Our Research Notes series invites authors to describe their process for a recent book, with “research” defined as broadly as they like. This week, Nicola Kraus writes about The Best We Could Hope For from Little A.

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I’ve Looked at Plots From Both Sides Now

For my high school’s production of Sophocles’ Antigone, I went hard for the part of Haemon, Antigone’s boyfriend who dies because of his father’s hubris. I thought the role would both showcase my acting chops and give me an excuse to stop shaving my legs. It wasn’t until rehearsals, when I learned Tiresias’s backstory, that I thought I might have been too hasty in my ambition. 

Tiresias was a blind prophet who, after angering Hera, was punished by being turned into a woman. (An idea I might have taken umbrage with until I lived a few decades as a woman and now think, ok, fair.) In female form, he married and birthed children (the ignominy!) slogging along until at last, he was restored to his rightful stature in the patriarchy. Because of his liminal status he was accorded extra respect in mythology, representing one who could understand and advise both sides. 

When I first met my writing partner, Emma, and we decided to write a novel together, our first assignment from our agent was to write an outline. The one we delivered was 26 pages long and the final product, The Nanny Diaries, differed very little from it.  This formed the foundation of our process for 15 years and 9 more novels. 

In 2015, we decided to part ways, in part because I found myself longing to sit at the keyboard like I had as a teenager with no idea where the story was going.  At 40 years old, I was determined that I was going to write a novel that way. In fact, I even called it a gift. I was going to “give myself the gift” of writing without any idea where the story was going.  (Insert sound of strangulation.)  Well, spoiler, I did. I even wrote a novel that eventually also had a beginning, middle, and end. To get there only took me nine years. 

So, as the rare person who has published novels written both ways, tightly outlined and jazz freeform, let me lean on my staff, wrap my himation closely around me, and tell you what I learned.

1.  Outlines are blueprints.  Meaning, you are going to build your house faster if you have one. By forcing you to ask yourself all the tough questions up front, a thorough outline will save you headaches down the road. What is your character’s initial definition of happiness? How will it change? What is the one thing they would never do that is the only thing they can do to change their lives? If you know the answers, you won’t get to the 50-page mark and find that the story has dissolved. 
2. Outlines free up your creative brain. If you have already decided the job of the scene, you can luxuriate in inhabiting it, in listening to the characters, in allowing them to surprise you.  Even with a tight outline, Emma and I were able to continually surprise and delight each other. For example, in Nanny Diaries, we would deliberately trade off if we were pulling from a real-life experience to unlatch the novel from real-life. Emma had been on a playdate with a coked-up mom, so I wrote the first draft of that scene. I then pantsed that mom right into being a former pageant winner who met her husband in Vegas. Emma loved that. 
3. Outlines serve you even when they aren’t foolproof. We spent a year writing a novel, The First Affair, read it through and realized that the character we thought should be the villain absolutely couldn’t be (it was way too obvious) and that we needed to add an entirely new character. But because the rest of the structure was solid, we could make those revisions without collapsing it. 
4. Pantsing is thrilling. It’s fun and wild in a let’s-see-where-the-day-takes-us kind of way. Sitting down at the computer with only an urge to write and one piece of a larger puzzle to pull you forward can feel deliciously like whatever writing you first fell in love with. In my case it took me back to sitting on my bed with a spiral-bound notebook writing prose poems that I’d perform at small Blackbox theatres in Greenwich village because it was the 90s. 
   When I’m pantsing it feels like watching a movie and simply trying to capture in language as much as I can of what I’m seeing. Each word rises up to meet my fingertips from seemingly nowhere. At times with The Best We Could Hope For I felt like I was taking dictation from these characters. They each had a specific vernacular, and sometimes they jockeyed in my brain for my attention. 
   Which is why pantsing can inherently feel more “artistic” for lack of a better word, more organic, and intrinsic to a true creative process. However, those feelings can be seductive–and deceptive. 
5. A plotter doesn’t have to pants, but a pantser is going to have to plot. Pantsing is inherently undisciplined. It is throwing a bunch of ingredients in the skillet and hoping for the best. Yes, many people toss together delicious meals that way, but they likely spent years huddled over cookbooks mastering the rules before they broke them. I did give myself the “gift” of getting lost in this story for a few years. But then I rolled up my sleeves and got to work imposing order. In my email signature is a quote from Just Kids by the incomparable Patti Smith. “It is the artist’s responsibility to balance mystical communication and the labor of creation.” Meaning there is a time to commune with the divine, and there is a time to get to work. 
   Rare is the author who can freestyle their way into a perfectly plotted novel without discipline of any kind. Even authors who accidentally arrive there once can’t do it a second time. Years ago, I was on a panel with a woman who’d written a breathtakingly brilliant novel with an intricate plot that it turned out she had entirely pantsed! She just thought this was how books were written! And she audibly scoffed when she learned that we relied on outlines. Her next two novels were hot messes. There wasn’t a fourth. Meaning, even if you choose not to think about story structure, a plots and b plots, which act you’re in, and if things are getting steadily more challenging for your protagonist, it doesn’t hurt to be aware of those elements so you can choose which rules to follow and which to ignore. 
6. It’s a see-saw. The more commercial success you desire, the more structured and disciplined your work will need to be. Which isn’t to say, unsurprising. But it does need to be satisfying. Ultimately your talent and vision sit at the fulcrum and you decide which side you want to weight. 

Ultimately, pantsing The Best We Could Hope For was a gift. I loved being as surprised by certain twists in the narrative as readers will hopefully be. I loved tuning into the story and watching it unfold. But if above all writing is an act of connection and communion with the reader there is a time when their experience must come first, and that probably means adding a plot.  

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Nicola Kraus has coauthored, with Emma McLaughlin, ten novels, including the international #1 bestseller The Nanny Diaries, Citizen Girl, Dedication, and The Real Real. Nicola has contributed to the Times (of London), the New York Times, Redbook, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Town & Country, and Maxim, as well as two short story collections to benefit the War Child fund: Big Night Out and Girls’ Night Out. In 2015 she co-founded the creative consulting firm The Finished Thought, which helps the next generation of aspiring authors find their voice and audience. Through her work there, she has collaborated on several New York Times nonfiction bestsellers. The Best We Could Hope For is her first solo novel. For more information, visit www.nicolakrausauthor.com.