Writing Backwards

Chapter 1

The Process of Literary Creation

Writers are true magicians. We create substance from nothing. We bring life to characters that don’t really exist. We pluck stories out of thin air. Our written thoughts can connect with strangers across the world. We can induce laughter or tears in people we’ve never met. That’s the magic, the superpower of creating literary works. It’s incredible, but what’s more, most of us don’t even know how we do it. What exactly is our process of literary creation? Should we even consider our methods or just bumble along instinctively?

Given that writing methods are unique to all of us, it is perhaps better to ask, what should be this process? Is there an ideal to which we should aspire? The process is part intuitive, part imaginative, part logical. These different strands are applied by authors in varying measures to produce works of literature, but how can an author be certain that their approach is optimal? Can we improve our methods simply by looking over the shoulders of literary giants to glean their creative secrets? Or is the process beyond our conscious control? Are successful writers simply those gifted with more than their share of inspiration?

I have tackled this topic in my books How to be a Writer and How to Get Inspired to Write. I argue that the creative process is entirely controllable. This is a good thing, for it removes the need to rely on inspiration. And removing the need for inspiration in the workflow is essential: a writer who wants to create as a full-time occupation does not have the luxury of waiting for a visit from an elusive muse. As Leonard Bernstein said, ‘Inspiration is wonderful when it happens, but the writer must develop an approach for the rest of the time… the wait is simply too long.’

In How to be a Writer, I wrote,

‘A writer’s brain is an astonishing piece of equipment, capable of infinite literary miracles, sometimes able to create, out of nothing, works that are more valuable than gold. That’s the theory, but things are usually not so easy. Turning a blank screen into words that others will want to read – and might even want to pay to read – is an uphill struggle. We wait for inspiration and all too often we find that inspiration doesn’t come. So can we write without it?... I discovered that the secret to writing professionally and consistently is to learn the tricks of writing without inspiration. What does writing without inspiration actually mean? It’s simply the opposite of the creative genius tearing out tufts of hair in an agony of indecision and frustration whilst waiting for their muse to descend. It means getting on with your writing no matter what. It’s business-like. It’s efficient. It gets the job done with no fuss, no theatrics. It makes life bearable for the writer’s family and it makes writing an unfailingly pleasurable and satisfying experience.’

Writing, then, is about creating systems that ensure consistent, quality output. Was I the first to posit this approach? Of course not. As early as 1846, Edgar Allan Poe was thinking about the process of creation, and wrote his thoughts in The Philosophy of Composition, first published in Graham’s American Monthly Magazine of Literature and Art. Here, Poe suggests that a writer must carefully work out a plot all the way to the end, even starting at the end and working backwards in order to create a work of fiction that presses the desired emotional buttons in the reader. This, he states, is the correct way to write, and hints that most authors create their works in this manner, even if they are shy to admit it. As well as delivering the desired emotional response, Poe’s technique also favours the writer by removing any sense of chaos from creation and replacing it with logical, systematic craftsmanship.

This is sound advice. Poe is simply saying that you need to know your destination before you set off, otherwise you’ll never arrive. Create an entire map before you depart and you’ll not only arrive, you’ll get there by the most efficient route possible. Charles Dickens was a master of forward planning. His name is mentioned at the start of The Philosophy of Composition and his presence in the essay opens up a whole new foundation to Poe’s argument. Dickens’ novels were serialised, published in monthly or weekly instalments. Dickens did not have the luxury of revising earlier chapters once they were published, so detailed plot plans became a vital tool in Dickens’ creative process. Writing a widely read serialised novel without knowing how it would end would be a dangerous profession indeed! Creating a point at the end of a novel designed to achieve a specific emotional response, then working out the story in reverse to ensure the reader’s ultimate arrival at that desired point, is precisely how Dickens worked. Novels are not generally subject to serialised publication today, and even if they were it would not be without the publisher having the opportunity to review the entire work in advance. Indeed, there have been massive and fundamental changes in the publishing industry since the days of Dickens and Poe, but their techniques of meticulous advance plotting are just as important for writers in the Internet Age. Take Miranda Hart, for example. She claimed to have written episodes of her award-winning BBC sitcom Miranda in this exact way, starting a script by placing the lead character in the most embarrassing and hilarious situation possible, then working backwards from there to build the episode towards that ultimate big laugh. The emotional response has changed, but not the formula. Poe has highlighted and explained a set of clear principles that remain relevant after almost two centuries.