The Two Kinds of Writers Fallacy

The first time I encountered the “Two Kinds of Writers” trope was in college, when a creative writing class I was in decided to bond, literarily speaking , by mutually  looking down on those talentless, soulless hacks who use such a gauche thing as an *outline* to write their formulaic dreck.

I already had a strike against me for being a genre writer, in terms of the *highly prestigious* world of undergraduate literary fiction, so confirmation of literati’s opinion that genre writers churn out paint-by-numbers trash.

So, yeah, conventional contemporary literary fiction for adults writer gatherings of the academically-minded persuasion will never be my comfort zone.

There’s, ironically perhaps, a lot more flexibility in writing genre fiction and for young audiences than in the current culture around literary fiction of the fancy-pants stripe. But, in writing for kids/children/young audiences, I again encountered the two kinds of writers trope. This time, it came with, thankfully less judgement, but also cutsey lingo!

Plotter sounds too much like plodder for me, harkening back to the undergrad creative writing upturned noses.

And Pantser is just a word I don’t like—it refers to, instead of preplanning your story, flying by the seat of your pants.

Plotters are organized, and Pantsers organic—supposedly. I find some of that literary anti-outline bias still seeps in, as occasionally I’d hear people wax poetic about the superiority of Pantsing, and hear tiny little digs against outlines as unnatural, forced, or “story-driven” at the expense of the more highly valued “character-driven” books.

(A quick note: Not everyone who writes “Pants” style is judgy about this, and I’m sure outliners have said nasty things in the past about their style. But what I’m writing about here are my own personal experiences and observations, grounded in an uphill battle through college to write what I wanted to—fantastical genres and slapstick instead of moody realism, for kids instead of only adults, with planned arcs—instead of following the more literary tropes that were the fashion of the day.)

(Another, more important note: How do people hear, read, say that without thinking of the prank of pantsing someone by yanking down their pants to expose their undies?—pantsing, of course, not to be confused with the equally unpleasant prank of yanking the pants and undies *up* and into the buttcrack in a good, old-fashioned wedgie. But pants and underpants related pranks is an entirely separate post altogether…)

George R. R. Martin has a famous take that describes the two types, but adds nuance and has less implied judgement: Architects (plans and blueprints aiming towards a specific end) and Gardeners (plant a seed and nurture what comes up), with most people being a mix of the two but with a preference for one over the other.

For me, I toss out all of these divides entirely and say both writers are *actually* the same, the only difference is how they label their drafts—which is funny, because something I’ve heard time and time again from “pantser-gardener” types is how developed and polished my “first” drafts are, and how quickly I manage to write them.

-Secret Draft 1: EXTENSIVE daydreaming, playing with the idea to amuse myself, finding out where it organically goes.

Pantser/Gardener Equivalent:  Writing a first draft of the story, finding out where it organically goes.

-Secret Draft 2: Writing an outline. I take my favorite parts of the daydream and plan out pacing, figure out what it will take for the characters to develop the way I need them to at the moments I need them to, how to keep story beats moving yet unexpected, how to get the themes in position. The outline is all about trying to shape my daydream’s structure into something that will entertain others.

Pantser/Gardener Equivalent: Working on a second draft, especially by going back and revising to make older parts fit with the new and filling in plot holes.

-Actual Draft 3/*Public* Draft 1: This is where I finally write the book-shaped draft that my critique partners read. It’s faster to write than it was to daydream or outline, because by this point I’ve spent a lot of time with the characters and plot. There is no writer’s block, because I’ve already learned how the characters tick, what the villains do next, what subplots are in motion that the hero hasn’t found out about yet. But this is the level of development my stories are generally at before I do any substantial prose writing or let anyone else read them.

Pantser/Gardener Equivalent: Working on a third draft in response to feedback on the second.

-Both types converge here to do revisions until the book is ready for the world.

See? Not so different after all. It’s just about what you call a draft.

There’s another piece of the puzzle though—what part of the writing process do you most enjoy?

I’m entertainment focused, starting with entertaining myself, and so it’s no surprise that the novelty of these first three drafts/first public draft is where I have the most fun. It’s where I figure out the story, solve the biggest problems. The more revisions a story takes after them, the harder it is for me to focus because I want to chase something else that’s new and shiny and in need of forging.

One of my longest-time writing partners, M, is the opposite of me. People would classify her as a Pantser/Gardener-type. Her first draft is about building her toys, and her revisions are getting to finally *play* with her toys, experiment with them, to find the best story she can make with them.

Both of us are looking for where we have fun in storytelling, and building a process that allows us to spend time there. Our opposite writer styles make us very complementary critique partners, as we’re able to bring in the fun and excitement for each other in the part of writing that isn’t our natural favorite.

And that, friends, is what you must do. Why force yourself to write in a way that isn’t enjoyable for you? I mean, of course, writing is a lot of work (at least, doing it competently is), but you can make it a lot easier on yourself by figuring out *where you have the most fun* and building your strategies around it.

For me, the more time I spend on the daydream and the outline having fun, the less time I’ll end up spending in revisions (because I’ve already tried to find and fix plot holes, tried to balance subplots and pacing, tried to chart character arcs).

The technique isn’t magical—it’s not like my “official” first drafts are publishing ready and perfect (or even just in need of a copyedit, which would be the dream!). But by revising in advance, I have *less* revising I need to do after the fact.

All these labels—Plotter, Pantser, Architect, Gardener. Are they actually useful to you? Or do they limit you, creating a little box for you to put yourself in?

To me, they serve as a way that other writers have tried to look down on me in the past, and as a lump of nonsense.

Perhaps my outlining, my whole process, is less prescribed and formulaic than the box that the labels would put me in! Wouldn’t that be funny—if (some of) the Pantsers were the true formula people all along?

A last note: “Pants” writing doesn’t *actually* prevent you from following formulae! In a *worst case scenario* you could be a “Pantser* who simply rushes through, jotting down the first ideas that come to mind, and you’ll frequently find yourself regurgitating story formulae that saturate your culture’s storytelling instead of developing natural, organic stories. You still have to think about your influences, and dig deeper, if you want to be sure that you get something fresh, something unexpected!

So, yeah. That’s why I don’t find these labels helpful, or even real. I encourage people to find better things to build their writerly identities around. Instead of viewing different styles as oppositional, find ways to join forces and TAKE ALL OF THE WRITING POWER FOR YOURSELF! MUWAHAHAHAHA!