The “What If” List

How many of us writers are perfectionists? Oh, look, all of us. Honestly, who sits down to create the most mediocre story possible? Striving to write something great isn’t the problem. The issue arises when we demand greatness immediately, in the first draft. The next time you find yourself paralyzed by lofty literary ambitions or underwhelmed by a lackluster work-in-progress, I’m giving you permission to do something cringe-worthy. Are you ready?

Overwrite.

I know. Your critique partners tell you to cut the melodrama. The editor of your high school newspaper banned purple prose. You’re not really a heaving-bosoms-and-explosions-on-every-page kind of writer. Or maybe you are, but in like, a subtle, ironic, highbrow way. Maybe you prefer sparse language and simple, quiet action.

Overwrite anyway. In the early drafts, that is. Pour every left-field idea you’ve ever had into that messy first version. Make it worse until you make it weird. (And hey, I like weird. I’ve sold some stories I thought were too weird, so apparently certain editors like it, too.) Take big risks while no one is watching. I had to stop showing my early attempts to anyone because I was giving the specific tastes and fears of others too much power over my process. In the beginning stages of a project, when someone tells you, “I wouldn’t do that,” don’t be afraid to respond, “I know. Not many would. That’s why I’m trying it.”

In a recent residency, a mentor suggested this amazing tool called the “What If” List, or as I’ve come to think of it, my “If I Was Writing a Soap Opera Version of This Story” List. On it, I compile the most wild and free (and cliched) ideas: evil twins, demonic possession, all the explosions. Then, whenever I’m stuck or bored in my drafting, I revisit the list and consider inserting one of the twists or obstacles. Before long, I can identify which ideas will work and which won’t. For instance, killing off the main character only works if I’m writing tragedy, noir or a super hero sacrifice. But maybe I can make my readers think the character is dead for a few pages (or chapters, if I’m feeling really sadistic). The important part is allowing myself the freedom to reimagine the direction of my story, to make way for inspiration. Discipline comes later. If I start pruning before my ideas are developed, I risk stunting their full growth potential.

Maybe very few soap-opera-worthy tropes make it to your final draft. That’s okay. Having fun in the process liberates us from the inner critic, the killjoy who wants us to stay small, too scared to be different or weird. What if you told that oppressive voice to go get possessed by a demon, abducted by aliens or eaten by a radioactive narwhal? What if you let your story grow so big and strong that when you prune it down to its essence your readers can still sense the vitality pulsing from every carefully crafted branch?

Rachel Dempsey