Some writers are born knowing exactly what kind of storyteller they are. I was not one of them. I was the kid in the bookstore trying to read every aisle at once.
Ask any writing group and you’ll hear the usual categories: the pantsers, who discover the story as they go; the planners, who build detailed outlines before they write a single line; and the hybrids, who live in the messy middle and steal ideas from both sides. For a long time, I tried to force myself into one camp or the other.
Spoiler: the path that finally worked for me is not a neat label. It’s a Frankenstein’s monster of process, stitched together from what I have broken and rebuilt over several books, and reshaped again now that I have an agent and traditional publishing expectations in the mix.
What Is a Pantser, Anyway?
“Writing by the seat of your pants” sounds chaotic, and honestly, that’s part of the charm for me. Pantser tendencies often look like this:
- You sit down with a character, a vibe, a photo, or even a “what if” question and just start writing.
- You discover major plot twists at the same time your characters do, usually with the same level of panic. How awesome is that?
- You feel allergic to rigid outlines, spreadsheets, beat sheets, and anything that feels like homework (said the B+ student who avoided extra work at all costs).
There are some genuine pros:
- Fresh discovery. The story can surprise you, which often leads to unexpected character moments and organic emotion on the page.
- Momentum. When the words are flowing, you can ride the high of “I have to find out what happens next” straight through a draft.
- Play. It feels fun, like exploring a fantasy world with friends instead of building a machine.
And, of course, some cons:
- Meandering plots. The middle of the book can turn into a swamp where scenes pile up but nothing moves. You keep adding bodies and still no one, you included, knows what’s going on.
- Major rewrites. Without a roadmap, you might realize the real story is hiding in chapter 23, which means chapters 1–22 need to be wheeled into surgery, STAT.
- Emotional whiplash. Progress can feel amazing one day and completely hopeless the next when you suddenly realize you have no idea how to land the plane.
My Pantser Era: Project NEMISYS
Project NEMISYS was my purest pantser book. I started with a burned‑out assassin in my head, a strange predator in the dark, and a sense that corporate science had done something very, very wrong. I didn’t know the full conspiracy. I didn’t know the ending. I barely knew what was waiting in the woods. (In my defense, neither did the characters.)
I wrote to find out. Whole characters muscled their way onto the page because I needed someone to say one line, and suddenly they had backstory and value and opinions about the plot. Set pieces appeared because I thought, “What is the worst possible thing that could happen right now?” and then made it worse.
When it worked, it felt like transcribing a movie only I could see. When it didn’t work, it was a slow‑motion car crash. The first draft of NEMISYS had:
- Subplots that went nowhere but refused to leave.
- A middle section where everyone ran around in circles being tense but not actually changing anything.
- Worldbuilding threads that wandered in, sat down, and never paid the bill.
Indie me could get away with that, to a point. I could revise until it felt solid enough, lean on my own instincts, hit publish, and move on. But I also learned that [FIX THIS LATER] notes were really just future‑me hate mail.
The Planner’s Promise (and Reality)
On the other end of the spectrum are the planners. These are the writers who build story skeletons before they add flesh. They own color‑coded sticky notes and are not afraid to use them.
Planner tendencies often look like this:
- You work out major beats, turning points, and the ending ahead of time.
- You might use tools like three‑act structure, scene cards, or chapter summaries.
- You feel calmer when you know where you (and your characters and your plot) are going.
The pros are obvious:
- Clarity. You know what each act is doing, which keeps the story aimed in a particular direction.
- Efficiency. You can catch big structural problems before you invest months in drafting the wrong thing.
- Confidence. On rough writing days, you still have a roadmap. You don’t have to reinvent the wheel every session.
But planning has its own pitfalls:
- Outline paralysis. You can spend so long building the “perfect” outline that you delay writing the actual book. The outline is gorgeous. The manuscript doesn’t exist.
- Stale scenes. If every moment is predetermined, the draft can feel like you are transcribing a plan instead of discovering a story. (zzzzz)
- Resistance. When the characters try to deviate, it can feel like you’re breaking something instead of improving it.
Switching Gears: My Latest Completed Manuscript
My most recent completed manuscript, the one currently in edits with my agent, was my first real attempt at being a planner.
By that point I’d experienced:
- The wild joy and wild pain of pantsing a novel into existence.
- The reality that traditional publishing cares a lot about structure, pacing, and whether the story delivers what it promises.
- Once you bring an agent into the process, you’re no longer just writing for yourself. Someone else has to be able to see the architecture of the book without a guided tour.
So this time, I built a plan. Before I drafted, I:
- Wrote a detailed synopsis.
- Identified the major emotional and plot beats for each act.
- Decided in advance where the midpoint, “all is lost,” and climax would roughly land.
It felt very grown‑up. It also felt like I had accidentally signed up to write my own homework.
The draft went faster in some ways. I didn’t get lost in the middle. My ending actually paid off the themes I seeded early on. When my agent read it, she could see the spine of the story clearly enough to have a real conversation about how to strengthen it, instead of sending an email that said, “So… what exactly did you think was happening here?”
On the downside, I occasionally felt like I was coloring inside lines I had drawn months earlier with a different brain. Some scenes felt too safe. Whenever I had a disruptive idea, I found myself asking, “Is this better, or am I just bored with the plan?”
That book taught me that I absolutely need more structure than I gave myself on NEMISYS. It also taught me that full, meticulous planning can smooth some of the weird, sharp edges I actually like in my stories.
Becoming a Hybrid (Reluctantly, Then Happily)
It took me a while to admit that I’m a hybrid. It sounded indecisive, like I couldn’t commit. Pick a lane, right? In reality, being a hybrid is its own deliberate approach:
- I need enough planning to know the destination and a few major landmarks, and to prove to myself, my agent, and the publishers that I know what I’m doing with it.
- But, I need enough freedom to wander between those points and discover the good stuff along the way, like a tourist who occasionally ignores the map on purpose.
My Current WIP: Living in the Messy Middle
My current work‑in‑progress is where that hybrid method is really taking shape. For this book, I started with:
- A clear sense of the premise and the emotional arc I want the protagonists to travel.
- Four or five big tentpole scenes that I know the story has to hit.
- A rough map of each act written in loose bullet points, not stone tablets.
Then I gave myself permission to pants between those tentpoles.
As I write this post, I am somewhere north of 50K words in the first draft and there has been some definite hanky-panky going on. Some days the characters drag me somewhere I didn’t expect. A throwaway line turns into a new connection. A background character demands the spotlight and refuses to go back to the chorus. When that happens, I check it against the map: does this new thing serve the spine of the story? If yes, I adjust the outline. If not, it goes into a “cool but not for this book” file.
Hybrid me is constantly negotiating between past me (who winged it OR made a plan) and present me (who is in the mud with the characters). It’s messier than pure planning, but far less terrifying than raw pantsing. There are still surprises; there are just fewer heart attacks.
How Going from Indie to Agented Changed the Process
Switching from indie author to agented author didn’t just change my inbox; it changed what my process has to do. As an indie, my process only had to satisfy one person: me. If I could wrestle the story into a shape I liked, that was enough. I made the timeline. I decided when something was good enough. I could, in theory, publish in a burst of chaotic confidence and then quietly fix things later. (Not that I would ever do that. Ahem.)
Once my agent entered the picture, the process had additional jobs:
- Predictability. She needs to know I can actually finish a book on something like a schedule, not just when the muse wanders through holding a latte. That nudged me toward more planning and clearer milestones.
- Pitch clarity. Traditional publishing runs on pitches, synopses, and positioning. I can’t just say, “Trust me, it is cool.” (Trust me, I tried). I need to explain what the book is about, how it unfolds, and why it fits the market, preferably without interpretive dance.
- Revision stamina. Notes from an agent or editor often involve moving big structural pieces. A hybrid process makes it easier to see what can flex and what is load‑bearing, instead of staring at a pure pantser draft and wondering which Jenga block will collapse the tower.
- Professional expectations. Agents and editors expect you to be able to talk about acts, arcs, pacing, and stakes. You don’t have to be a spreadsheet guru, but you do need enough planning to have an intelligent conversation about how the book works under the hood.
In other words, my process had to grow up a little. Discovery is still allowed. Chaos goblins can run amok. But the book also has to function as a product in a very practical system that schedules lists, allocates budgets, and tries to predict reader response. Shockingly, “vibes” is not a line item on the P&L.
Pros and Cons of Hybrid Life (Especially in Traditional Publishing)
For me, hybrid writing has become a kind of truce between chaos and control, and it plays nicely with what publishing expects.
Pros:
- I still get the thrill of discovery, especially at the scene level.
- I’m less likely to stall out in the dreaded saggy middle because I know which big turn is coming.
- When my agent asks for changes, I have enough structure to see where to cut, expand, push back or move pieces without reinventing the whole book.
- I can produce the things traditional publishing needs: pitches, synopses, series concepts, and timelines that are at least somewhat realistic.
Cons:
- It still takes discipline. “Loose outline” can easily turn into “no outline” if I’m not paying attention. My inner pantser is always lurking with a match and a can of gasoline.
- I sometimes have to kill ideas I love because they break the structural promises I’ve made to my agent, my editor, and ultimately the reader. Alas, the “cool scene” graveyard is crowded (albeit squirreled away, waiting for that Gold-Plated 10th Anniversary Special Edition Super Deluxe Re-Release)
- The process is harder to explain neatly. It keeps evolving as my career does. The only constant is that future‑me will probably roll his eyes at current‑me’s process notes.
Questions to Help You Find Your Own Path
If you’re trying to figure out where you land on the pantser–planner spectrum, especially if you are eyeing traditional publishing, ask yourself:
- Do I get more stuck at the beginning, the middle, or the end?
- Do I feel more energized by discovery or by clarity?
- When I abandon projects, what usually went wrong: structure or interest?
- Could I explain my book in a one‑page synopsis without breaking into hives?
- How would I feel if someone asked for big changes? Would I rather revise a loose framework or a 150,000‑word improvisation?
Your answers might nudge you toward one style or the other. If your middles always collapse, more planning might help. If your drafts feel stiff and over‑engineered, you may need more room to roam.
Giving Yourself Permission to Change
The biggest lesson for me has been this: process is not identity.
I’m not a better writer because I pantsed Project NEMISYS into existence. I’m not a sellout because my latest manuscript had a synopsis before it had a first chapter. I’m not indecisive because my current WIP is using a hybrid method.
I’m simply trying to give each book what it needs, while also honoring what this stage of my career requires, and doing it all without setting my brain on fire.
You might be a hardcore pantser for one series and a detailed planner for another. Your life outside writing may change, and your process may need to change with it. Deadlines, day jobs, kids, health, energy, agents and publishers all have opinions about how you work.
You’re allowed to adapt. If you keep showing up for the story, and you stay open to adjusting how you get there, you’re doing it right. The labels are optional. The pages are what count.
Now it’s your turn. Which are you? Has your style changed over time? What tips and tricks have you found that work for you?