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Wordsmith Wednesdays: On Archaeology and Picking Yourself First

There’s a great quote about types of writers from Game of Thrones author George R. R. Martin that goes:

“I think there are two types of writers, the architects and the gardeners. The architects plan everything ahead of time, like an architect building a house. They know how many rooms are going to be in the house, what kind of roof they're going to have, where the wires are going to run, what kind of plumbing there's going to be. They have the whole thing designed and blueprinted out before they even nail the first board up. The gardeners dig a hole, drop in a seed and water it. They kind of know what seed it is, they know if planted a fantasy seed or mystery seed or whatever. But as the plant comes up and they water it, they don't know how many branches it's going to have, they find out as it grows. And I'm much more a gardener than an architect.”

My good friend Carrie Pack, author of Designs On You, and I have discussed this quote a few times, because I don’t feel like I fit neatly into either category (and fitting neatly into categories seems to be an ongoing theme for me at the moment).

2012 was the year that changed my life completely. Having been on an extended break from fandom life after leaving the Supernatural fandom, I started dipping my toes back into the wonderful world of fan fiction in January 2012, when I was laid up in bed with the flu. I’d always written sporadically throughout my life but I’d never been able to finish anything of substantial length; I wrote all the exciting parts, then got bored and didn’t bother going back to fill in the rest.

It was Someone Like You, the fan fiction root of A.J. DeWall’s Forever Man that inspired me to start writing again. Snapshots was a story about Kurt and Blaine from Glee, and it spanned over twenty-five years, with each chapter focusing on a different ‘snapshot’ into the boys’ lives and relationship. At ten minutes to midnight on New Years’ Eve, nearly twelve months and one-hundred-and-forty-two-thousand words later, I wrote ‘the end’ and promptly burst into tears.

The first big thing I ever finished in my life, and in a round-about way, I owe it all to Ryan Murphy. Go figure.

If you’d asked me again at the beginning of 2013, I most certainly would have replied, “Do you even know me at all?! Of course I’m an architect. You should see my chapter plan for 100 Days; it’s twenty pages long!”

The idea for 100 Days came to me around March/April 2012, and it sat simmering away in my head for nearly a year. I’m really not kidding when I say that my chapter plan was twenty pages long—it was an exhaustive document where each chapter was broken down into each component state, with notes for the movie, the music, the POV, and scraps of ideas and dialogue. I researched everything I possibly could, and to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up on some sort of government watch list at one point or another.

On my birthday, February 28th 2013, over twelve months and one-hundred-and-forty-eight thousand words later, I posted the final instalment. That night, there were no tears. I’d cried them all earlier that week when I finished the damn thing, after much wrangling, sweat, anxiety, and frustration. That night, after my family had brought me birthday cake and I’d gotten to share with them the fact that I’d signed a contract to reimagine 100 Days in original novel form, I felt like I’d finally reached the horizon line of the 100 Days universe.

If you’re asking me now, my answer is, “Neither. I’m neither.” Because, dear readers, I am a third category of writer: the archaeologist.

My first two years on this lifelong learning curve have taught me that I’m not planning the details of a story, or even watching them grow before me. I’m discovering them the further I get into the universe. When things don’t make sense, it means I have to go and explore a new dig site. When I’m on my fourth draft of a chapter and something still isn’t working, it means there’s a few chambers in the tomb that I haven’t made it into yet. When my characters say or do something that seems to come out of nowhere and throws off fundamentals of the story, it means that I need to keep brushing off the dirt and sand, because there are bones that I haven’t uncovered.

Everything in these stories that I’ve been happy enough to sit around and take the credit for has already happened—I’m just the mug with a penchant for exploring the universes that I’m somehow blessed enough to have existing inside my head.

So why do I do it?

I do it because all I want in life, all I’ve ever wanted these past couple of insane, life-changing, incredible years, is to reach out and affect people. I do it because I want to elevate myself, and it turns out that I can do some really pretty shit with words. I do it because I’ve always felt like the walking embodiment of ‘Jack of all trades, master of none,’ and to feel like I don’t have to master this, that I can just be good at it and continue working hard and learning and elevating myself? It’s changed me completely. It’s made me pick up trowels, shovels, plumb bobs, and soil cores, and disappear not only into other universes… But also disappear into myself. It’s the reason I discovered who I am.

I’ve gone from the girl who got picked last so often that she started picking herself last, to the girl who’s brave enough to pick herself first. (And it only took twenty-four years!)

I started writing again because I wanted a creative outlet. I kept writing because I finally found the right tools I needed in life. And now? Well. I’m an archaeologist. I’d better get digging.

For the writers reading this, which category suits you best? And for the readers, tell me about a time where you picked yourself first. Reblog this post and add your answer!

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