Structure v Freedom

The False Divide

From Pitch To Page III

Before a match, the boundaries are clearly defined.

The goals and the sidelines create the arena within which the story of the game can unfold. The variables change every time the whistle goes.

However with the best laid plans and best of intentions, the match never unfolds in the way that it is designed by either team.

I learned pretty quickly that writing follows the same path.

The power of training and repetition can ingrain a process or philosophy into an athlete. The rewards can be witnessed time and time again across any sport in the world. When you look into the very best of the best however, it isn’t an ability to execute a skill over and over that sets them apart from the rest; it’s the ability to do the extraordinary.

To see a pass that no one else sees. To take on a shot that others wouldn’t think to attempt.

Sport has taught me the power and effectiveness of repetition and structure. The value within this however only comes from the ability to flow and adapt from the confines of the setup. The freedom of expression, when supported by the objective evidence of a sound structure, is what sows the seeds of excellence.

I learned pretty quickly that the same values ring true within writing. My early exploits were bound by the cages of structure in a manner that felt restrictive and uninspired. From within this, I learned that my own style of writing benefits from the ability to allow emotion and expression to take hold, sometimes weaving a path of its own away from the well trodden one of a planned structure.

It became apparent that outlines are warm-ups, not cages. The point of a plan is not to follow it, it’s to give instinct a place to land.

An Athlete’s Discipline

Training my writing for a story has followed a similar path to that of my performance training. In many ways, it has been about building a comfort with the mechanics and patterns that accompany a plot line, a scene or a description.

Training these ‘story muscles’ with frequent repetition has helped to build instinct. As a result I feel confident enough to allow instinct to take over in the moment and improvise with purpose.

These instincts are still bound by the practice and warm-up of a structured plan, however the scope of freedom carries the ability to take my characters and storyline in a plethora of different directions, each injecting a renewed energy into the process as door after door unlock before it.

A whole match is never choreographed. You train to allow intuition in the moment to take over. For me, planning a story should follow the same principles.

Minimal Framework Approach

Surrendering to the freedom that accompanies allowing my characters and scenes to be malleable in the moment was a conscious decision. In many ways, allowing it to do so is one of the purest forms of creative expression. The emotions of the moment within the storyline dictate the dialogue or responses, not a previously determined outcome from the emotional void of a desk.

When establishing a foundation of minimal structure, I prefer to anchor the scene with four specific pillars.

Start - What is the starting point for this scene? What information do my characters know? What information does the reader know? What’s the emotion of the last scene? How do previous events impact my characters in this moment?

Ending - What is my current idea for where this scene ends? Where does that leave my characters? How far removed is this ending from where they are currently? How can I move my plot towards this outcome?

Feeling - What is the feeling and emotion of the scene? What is the feeling and emotion of my characters? How might this impact their responses? How do I want to feel when I read this scene?

Pivot - What is the fork in the road? How does this impact my characters? How does this impact the thoughts of the reader? What alternative options are available to my characters?

Everything beyond this is determined by my feelings in the moment, allowing for creativity to flourish in a way that doesn’t feel bound by the concept of favouring a methodical structure.

In the past, I have been guilty of caging my ideas, so bound by a structure that I lost the freedom, expression and enjoyment that in many ways was the reasoning for the inception of this platform.

The tighter I drew the lines, the smaller the game became. Joy disappeared into the margins and the methodical structure became a methodical struggle. The boundaries created by a skeleton structure create the scope for freedom rather than restricting it.

A New Form Of Practice

Whilst finding a consistent rhythm can be difficult in any given week, there is a constant benefit that accompanies movement. In many ways it’s been a founding principle of my sporting career that has ingrained itself in my daily routine. Some form of physical activity simply refreshes my mind and body, thus making any potential writing session far more productive.

Sometimes, as much as I try to limit it, the pure excitement and energy that accompanies a new idea or path for a character results in a thought process that simply cannot be parked. I’ve learned better than to try and subdue inspiration when it comes as there’s no telling when or where it may choose to appear in the future. This has led to me planning or writing plenty of scenes or even whole chapters out of order.

It’s a refreshing take to rejoin a timeline at a different point, in full knowledge and control of the events that bookend this new aspect of a plot line that is slowly unfurling on the page before me. In many ways, it can feel like a totally new story or project altogether. Pulling myself from the world that I had been bound to and plunging into a totally new aspect fuelled by nothing more than an exciting concept or idea is an invigorating practice that also allows me to refine my techniques in a setting that feels far easier to do so given its’ removal from the timeline and structure of the story to date.

I would love to tell you (with complete honesty) that every time I settle down with a coffee and my laptop, the words flow in a way that sees little in the way of disruptions and delicately lay themselves down in an order that requires minimal revision. Unfortunately, such a world simply does not exist. In the past, I’ve been guilty of sitting there in a monotonous state of perpetual silent frustration, smashing my head against a metaphorical brick wall that my words refuse to break down.

In times like this, I’ve learned that a revision is as good as a new chapter. Re-shaping and re-moulding the structure of the plot can provide a renewed outlook that in itself can sow the seeds for the chapters to come in a way that blindly staring into the black and white abyss could never do.

Instead of fighting a lack of progress, I’ve learned to be malleable to the environment and embraced the concept of revising a chapter in the way that you might look at jumping your car engine. Taking stock of your surroundings to kick-start again can breathe new life into the general flow of my writing in a way that I haven’t been able to find through other means.

My first manuscript was built on a concept and an idea that I wanted to bring to life in the closing chapters. That template for its’ foundation was minimal in the extreme and, as a result, the plot hung by it’s fingernails to a structure that was difficult to see from the page itself.

Creating a structure for developing my story has been one of the most engaging and interesting concepts that I’ve learned (and am still learning) throughout this process.

In my own experiences, it’s a very delicate balance that is simply impossible to quantify.

Like in sport, every story needs enough structure to shape the chaos and excitement within.

Too much structure, and the life you breathe into your characters struggles to survive.

Too little structure, and the lines dissolve into the abyss, allowing the creativity and imagination to go unchecked.

Such structure can be expressed in both a micro and macro scale, rearing its’ head in a plethora of ways throughout scenes, chapters, worlds and character arcs. There’s no clear objective measurement for how I’m doing. The irony is that by my own metrics I change my outlook every time I re-read a section of my novel to date.

Like the emotion with which I try to impart in my characters from a freedom of expression that accompanies a minimal structure approach, I have chosen to embrace it. If I can’t write with that same level of emotion for my characters, then how can I ever expect a reader to invest the same?

The chalk outlines may seem to fade every now and then but there’s a clarity that accompanies this format that is an invigorating space to occupy.