Lady Glamis wrote an excellent series about outlines over on her blog, The Innocent Flower, which she later appended with a post titled, “It’s In the Firsts.”  Here’s a quick teaser of her provoking thoughts:

I’ve noticed more and more writers saying they just have to get out the first draft before they can do any planning, any serious mapping or thinking, or pretty much anything besides pushing through to the end of that new story.

Speaking as someone in the transition from apprentice to journeyman, I can say that, at first, there was no way I could develop an interesting story from an outline; I needed to explore the whole story on paper just to work through the immensity of it.

Now, as I’ve become more efficient, I find that many parts of the story can be worked in my head. Some parts still need to be written to flower, and, of course, the writing always takes surprising turns; this is to be expected in any creative process.

In martial arts, one learns to spar by simply getting in there and being punched in the face for a while. You make it up as you go. A journeyman in martial arts has a set of techniques and tries them when they seem appropriate, but the fight is still a mystery as it unfolds, though he recognizes patterns and can occasionally predict what will follow.

The master knows simply from how his opponent moves, what his environment is, and an intuitive sense of things, how he will attempt to impose his will and what his opponent is likely to attempt. If given the opportunity–such as in the sports arena–he will formulate deep plans and contingencies for all his opponent’s tactics and strengths. During the conflict, he will constantly be thinking far ahead: he may counter with this, if so I’ll go here, if not I’ll go there; after that I’ll be here, unless he stops this and then I’ll be there.

It might sound impossible but it’s a very real skill, and why masters of martial arts seem impossibly fast to react–they are literally a step or three ahead of each action. They are so intimate with the process that they are not consumed by what they are implementing now, but breezing through it while considering what is to come later.

In this way, as we hone our writing talents–and I can say that I’ve already noticed this progression in my own work–it becomes easier and easier to develop an idea in one’s head and requires less and less actual writing to realize an exciting character or plot.

Some exploration is part of any good story development. For the beginner that could mean writing a whole draft and picking out what works well. I think for the master, writing a couple scenes is probably sufficient to feel the arc of the story. Whether that plan manifests in an outline, a chapter synopsis, or stays in the head as the first draft unfolds is a matter of personal approach. But it does exist on some level and is an essential part of efficient writing.

One can always labor after, reworking the draft to add consistency and buildup, plot and structure–there is no unbreakable rule that says planning is essential.  But in making writing a serious career, one would learn to anticipate outcomes; learn that the stronger the first draft, the stronger the revisions will be; learn that the sooner one realizes the larger story arcs, the less months will be spent revising, allowing more energy to pour into the vitality and creativity of the work instead of fixing inconsistencies.

That is not to say that the plot should ever become a shackle for one’s creativity. As Captain Barbossa–one of my favorite villains since Dr. Evil–put it, “the code is more what you’d call ‘guidelines’ than actual rules.” And plots, like stories, like any plan, like any good execution of artistic skill, must be fluid and ready to change as vision and situation demand.

In the real world, information is everything. It starts wars, ends them, reveals the truth, obscures it, catalyzes invention, saves lives and destroys them… it’s all about what information gets into which hands.

Great story tellers utilize this effectively to build tension, twist plots, and rake their readers over the coals. I’m going to spend more time exploiting this great insight in my works, you should too. Here’s a quick primer into ways I’ve seen in used for great effect:

• Two characters know enough bits that, if put together, they could prevent impending tragedy. However, because of space, conflict, time, or the simple fact that the subject never comes up, they don’t put two and two together.
• Good guy thwarts enemies because he knows something they don’t
• Antagonist (and reader) know something hero doesn’t. But hero trusts antagonist who leads him farther from the truth — a great twist for the romance elements (“Didn’t you know she’s in love with Handsome Dude? You don’t stand a chance”)

Also, keep in mind the implications of this principle on your life.  The largest obstacle of families, businesses, and even nations is the proper dissemination of information. That includes sharing the stuff that needs to be shared and also keeping information out of the wrong hands.

The toddlers aren’t mature enough to deal with mom and dad arguing, they need a unified front; teens do need to understand drugs and sex so they don’t think them mysterious and exciting and do think of the consequences; a wife does need to hear that you love her and think she’s pretty; she doesn’t need to hear that you think the potatoes are too plain; friends do want to know they matter, your sister doesn’t need to hear that you think her husband is a jerk.

In a country where manners and denial of self are naughty words, knowledge is the cure.