NOTE: The following is a revised version of an article originally published on Medium, where I’ve published a number of writing advice pieces.

Plotting versus “pantsing” (as in writing by the seat of your pants) is a familiar debate among fiction writers. I’m not here to proclaim the virtues of one method over another, as whatever works for any given writer is evidently best for them. According to Goodreads, successful novels have been written pantsing (Stephen King’s work, for instance), as well as plotting (John Grisham is a good example). JK Rowling is another famous plotter, who works from detailed hand-scribbled charts.

As an unashamed full-blown plotter, my methodology is simple: I don’t start a novel or short story without an ending that blows me away, as I know without that, I won’t have the enthusiasm to finish. Once I have that ending, I work backwards from that point, planning character profiles and arcs, researching, preparing chapter outlines, and so forth. Yet despite this, people often assume I have no flexibility in my writing process.

The idea that plotters are creatively compromised control freaks is a myth I wish to debunk. Yes, it’s true that going straight to manuscript stage by inventing a character and seeing where they take you isn’t a style that works for us, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t open to new ideas and directions outside of our detailed outlines. It has often been suggested to me that my approach stifles spontaneity. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Spontaneity whilst outlining: Destroying my work

For a plotter, spontaneity occurs mostly in the planning stage. I create multiple outlines of a particular scene, trying to decide which variation works best for the story. For example, where should lovers meet? On public transport? At work? In a bar? Online? Or who should turn out to be the killer in a whodunnit, and why? What characteristics should the protagonist take on? Are they cheerful? Optimistic? World-weary? Sarcastic? Outgoing? Private? Repressed? What is their fatal flaw? Greed? Pride? Anger? Lust? Too trusting? Overly ambitious? Delusional?

As an example, for my most successful novel to date, Children of the Folded Valley, I considered many different potential protagonists and points of view. The story is narrated by a protagonist recalling his life growing up within a mysterious cult cut off from the outside world. However, at one point, the protagonist was going to be a female journalist who investigates and ends up trapped within said cult. I wrote a detailed outline based on this protagonist, still culminating with the same big reveals and uprising featured in the final version, but with a significantly different character arc. I ultimately jettisoned this protagonist, opting for a much more personal approach, drawing from my real-life experience growing up in a cult.

These kinds of possibilities are all delved into at the planning stage, in order to destroy the plan. I eliminate characters, characteristics, scenes, sequences, entire chapters, entire acts, but within my ever-evolving outline. Rather than write myself into a corner halfway through a 90,000-word manuscript, I write myself into corners in a one-page outline. What’s more, I do it on purpose. I want to exhaust every possible variation before I choose which to run with. I don’t like settling for good ideas if there is a great one waiting to be discovered through outline experimentation with different protagonists and scenarios.

I fully accept that this process is arduous, lengthy, and requires discipline. But writing a novel from a thorough outline is a joy, and often proceeds at a lightning pace.

Spontaneity whilst writing the manuscript: Unexpected branches

Pantsers might say this is all very well, but what if better ideas occur to you whilst working from a detailed outline? In my case, the answer is simple: I make the change. However, by this point, because I’ve worked through umpteen scenarios and possibilities, changes at this stage tend to be easily incorporated. They aren’t dead ends hit 50,000 words in, requiring a page one rewrite. They tend to be, as Tolkien once put it in his foreword to The Lord of the Rings, unexpected branches thrown out along the way.

I’ve certainly had a few unexpected branches whilst writing my novels, as well as some unexpected pruning. Regarding the latter, one supporting character in Children of the Folded Valley was originally going to die, leading to a subplot that provided contrast and counterpoint with the protagonist in the finale. However, whilst it looked splendid in the outline, when I came to write it, I realised the subplot detracted from the emotional arc of the main protagonist. As a result, the supporting character got a reprieve, and the subplot was abandoned.

At the same time, an entirely new, unexpected branch emerged in the finale. I shan’t get into spoilers, but this sequence — involving the protagonist experiencing a profound, possibly supernatural catharsis whilst purchasing a rare model railway set from a seller in the west country — was not a part of my original outline. I’d planned something much more straightforward for the seller in question, but he would up being far more enigmatic, and the story is all the stronger for it.

Conversely, whilst writing psychological gothic mystery Phantom Audition, although working from a meticulous outline, I had a creative safety net in place. My earlier gothic novels had clear-cut finales. However, this story I designed to be more ambiguous. It concerns a grieving widow who comes to believe her famous actor husband may have been murdered, possibly by a supernatural agent that took possession of him in a method acting experiment that went pear-shaped. My intention was for the identity of the killer (if indeed there is a killer) to become increasingly irrelevant as the protagonist’s grief, guilt, denial, possible delusion, and eventual cathartic empowerment comes to the fore.

Ambiguous finales are risky, so for this reason, when outlining Phantom Audition, I prepared six alternative versions of the ending, each with more concrete, clear-cut resolutions. That said, the seventh more open-ended finale — the original inspiration that blew me away and propelled me to write the novel — was the ending I ultimately settled for. I use this example to contrast my experience with the finale of Children of the Folded Valley, to illustrate that despite ultimately sticking with my outline, I remained open to other possibilities throughout the writing process.

Spontaneity whilst editing: A case study

After the first draft is finished, whilst editing and penning subsequent drafts, I remain open to spontaneous inspiration that can sometimes reshape the narrative for the better. Here’s are three examples, from another of my gothic mystery horror novels: The Irresistible Summons. Whilst the mechanics of the main plot didn’t change, certain scenes, subplots, and sometimes entire characters were removed to bring clarity and focus. New scenes and even an entirely new epilogue emerged in the edit stage.

The Irresistible Summons concerns a television producer, Naomi, who makes documentaries debunking the supernatural. A personal tragedy from her teenage years returns to haunt her, as she uncovers a spooky conspiracy in the office building of Persephone, a London-based computer game company. My original outline featured many additional elements ultimately discarded, resulting in an initial draft of 109,000 words ultimately weighing in at around 93,000 words.

Murders in Persephone — I have to skirt around spoilers a bit here, but there are certain characters whose demises originally occurred much earlier in the story, precipitating murder investigations that complicated the main plot. In the end, I felt the police aspect of the story cluttered the narrative, so I removed these murders, and instead restricted police involvement to the first mysterious disappearance.

Romantic subplot — The chemistry between Naomi and game designer Eric was much more fully explored in the original draft, with several more conventionally romantic scenes. However, this all felt out of place, especially given Naomi’s ongoing obsession with her dead teenage lover Toby. I ended up cutting these scenes, and instead having more of an undertone that Eric might be someone with whom Naomi could ultimately strike up a romantic relationship — if she ever gets past what happened with Toby.

The Epilogue — On reflection, the epilogue in my outline and earlier drafts was absurdly optimistic, and tonally felt like it belonged more in a romantic novel. For the final version, this was replaced and rewritten entirely, closing on an appropriately melancholy note that brought the novel full circle.

Conclusion: Plotters are spontaneous and also unpredictable

I’ve gone into considerable detail, but hopefully, this article is a strong rebuttal to the idea that plotters are inflexible or bound up in creative straitjackets. Personality, temperament, and many other factors come into play in the determination of whether one is a plotter or pantser, and I certainly do not claim my method is superior to anyone else’s. However, I do take exception to the idea that plotters aren’t spontaneous. In my experience, it’s a myth.

In closing, I also wish to challenge the notion that plotters write predictable stories. Many reviews of my novels praise their unpredictability and how the readers didn’t see the big twists coming (here, for example). I know that sounds arrogant — and it is, considering I’m hardly a famous author — but if that doesn’t convince you, consider the unpredictability in the novels of JK Rowling; not just the Harry Potter novels, but the Strike series too (which she pens under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith). In short, plotters can be just as spontaneous and unpredictable as pantsers.