Liza Tully is a pseudonym for Elisabeth Brink, who writes dark thrillers under the name Elisabeth Elo, as well as literary fiction under the name Elisabeth Panttaja Brink.

Writers are often asked the following question: “Are you a plotter or a pantser?” A plotter writes from a pre-conceived outline; a pantser makes it up as she goes along.

Whenever I’m asked this question, I dodge it by saying “I do a little of both.” Sometimes I add, “Everyone has their own process,” which only confuses the issue.

What I would like to say is “Actually, I write everything all at once.” But I keep that answer to myself, because it’s obviously impossible and I don’t want people looking at me strangely. The truth is, I don’t really know how I go about writing a novel. All I can say is that the process is chaotic for a long time. Then, at the end of it, there’s a book. I have occasionally felt a little sheepish about this, as if I must be doing things the wrong way, and I’ll admit that at times I have yearned for a smoother, saner writing process like the ones I imagine my pantser and plotter friends enjoy.

Then, for this last book, I did something I’ve never done before. I surrendered to the chaos. I got myself a nice big notebook with sturdy pages and a lovely little satin ribbon to mark my place, and every morning I took my notebook and my coffee, drove to a scenic spot near where I live, sat comfortably in my quiet car, and scribbled.
Yes, scribbled. That’s the right word. This is what I scribbled: character sketches, time lines, lists of possible motives, dialog, scenery, tiny details, big ideas, questions, answers, preliminary plot summaries, and entire possible chapters. I did some of those things over and over, exploring different angles, feeling it out.

The point was that I scribbled anything I wanted. I simply followed my busy mind to all the places it wanted to go. Together my imagination and I soared, scooted, and traipsed. It felt like going to the playground with an energetic six-year-old who jumps off the swings, dangles from the climbing structure, and goes down the slide backwards. Then cartwheels fifteen times and stands on her head.

At some point it occurred to me that plotting and pantsing are both linear, while scribbling is circular, or triangular, or rectangular. Actually, now that I think of it, it’s really more three-dimensional—more like a sphere, a cone, or a cuboid. (If you are following this, you are definitely in the right place.)

And it was fun! I was joining forces with my chaotic mind instead of trying to wrestle it into submission. I started to really enjoy my mornings of unfettered daydreaming and scribbling. I never knew where my thoughts would take me or who I would meet along the way.

Over a couple of months I filled two notebooks with about 200 pages of scribblings…which I barely looked at again.

“Wait a minute! If you barely consulted those notebooks, how did they help you?” you ask.

Good question. The answer might again seem idiosyncratic, but here it is. After doing all that mulling, pondering, and free-associating, certain ideas had taken root in my mind. They felt so real that I didn’t have to think twice about them. They had become the story, solid and distinct.

Take my main character, for example. I’d sketched out the person I thought I wanted, and tried her out in different scenes, but she was unsatisfying. Her dialogue was stiff and laconic. So I tried another type of character. Again, no chemistry, no excitement. I wondered if I might do better with the exact opposite kind of character than the one I’d started with. I tried her out, and this time the dialogue flowed. She had a lot of ideas, beliefs, and opinions. She was very firmly herself, and when I closed the notebook, she didn’t go away. She started to accompany me everywhere, and whenever I thought about her, I smiled. I knew that she was going to teach me something, that I could work with her over the long haul without getting bored.

Here’s another example: I once wrote a lot of very detailed pages about a conversation my main character was having with a doctor. The scene was easy to write, but I soon felt boredom setting in. I soldiered on because I thought I had to, or ought to, and because I was quite sure that this character and this conversation belonged in the book. But when I finally limped to the end of the scene, I had to admit that the doctor was flat and forgettable, and the things he said weren’t terribly important. I said a polite goodbye and turned the page.

I experimented with plot, too. Not in outline form, but in short sequences of narrative flow: “if this, then this, then this.” If I could feel a smooth progression, I was happy, but I didn’t hang on to that sequence because I knew it could change. If I couldn’t feel any rhythm, I left it alone.

I eventually realized that what I used to think of as chaos is simply the fact that I see all the elements of a story as connected. Everything links to everything else, and the pieces tend to grow at the same time, both individually and together. A notebook yields to that kind of work. You can explore, change, and constantly reinvent without getting too invested in any one idea. You simply notice what stays and forget what falls away.

“Okay. That’s all very nice,” you say, unimpressed. “But you’ve been working for months now and you still have nothing to show for yourself.”

Great point. It’s true that when I finally sit down at my computer to write the first scene, I have nothing in my head but my strong characters, some necessary events, scenery, and a lot of curated ideas. But that’s oaky. Because it all feels very real. The book’s world and its many dramas fully exist.

So I proceed, and by some miracle the scenes roll along in a sensible way, obeying the rules of cause and effect, unfolding at a uniform pace. Sometimes the story surprises me; sometimes it doesn’t. But I’m rarely uncertain, which is a big deal for me. Most importantly, I’m enjoying it.

Maybe you’re already a notebooker. If you’re not and want to try it, here are some tips:

  1. Write a LOT. Pages and pages. Go off on tangents. Contradict yourself. Make a mess.
  2. If you get stuck, ask your imagination a very specific question. It will usually reply, either right then or a little later.
  3. If what you’re doing starts to feel boring—i.e., you lose emotional engagement—move on.
  4. Don’t edit. Don’t even reread. A lot of what you’re dabbling with will and should be forgotten. What’s meant to stay with you will stay.
  5. Don’t get too attached to anything. If you’re curious about something you’ve done, write it again, from a different angle, letting it morph if it wants to. Do this as many times as you want. You’re probably on to something. But don’t get attached to that either.
  6. Stop to doodle. Doodling is fun. It’s also okay to dash off a shopping list if tonight’s dinner is on your mind.
  7. WARNING: It is NOT okay to answer phone calls from your tax preparer, your cranky neighbor, or even…gulp…your best friend or your partner. Don’t talk to anyone who could throw something at you that might furrow your brow or highjack your mind. Your mental space is precious and must be protected for however long you can get away with it. Best practice: silence your phone or leave it at home.
  8. Stop when you’re done. How do you know when the scribbling phase is over? Trust your gut, not your anxious mind.

    Elizabeth George once blew me away when someone asked her “How do you know when you’ve got it right?” and she said, “You feel it in your body.” Likewise, when Jackson Pollack was asked “How do you know when a painting is finished?” he is rumored to have replied, “How do you know when you’ve finished making love?” Making art is physical. This isn’t talked about enough.

  9. Finally, enjoy the freedom! If you were, like me, a child who daydreamed constantly, then here at last is permission to do just that. Without guilt. Without being yammered at by teachers who, for reasons known only to themselves, want you to memorize the capital cities of all fifty states. Maybe you internalized those voices, and now you routinely scold yourself for “not being productive” and “wasting time.” That is neither kind nor helpful. It’s much better to befriend yourself. Accept your daydreamy mind. Honor it. Your brain is perfect and wonderful. Your imagination is rich. It lives and breathes and rides with you like the best, most loyal wingman. How lucky is that?

The World’s Greatest Detective and Her Just Okay Assistant by Liza Tully

Olivia is delighted when she’s chosen to be the assistant to a renowned detective, Aubrey Merritt. However, she may be in over her head as a Gen Z-er trying to learn the ropes of a very exacting Boomer. Soon enough though, she’s invited to a case where a wealthy, beloved matriarch has died. The police rule it a suicide, but the victim’s daughter is not convinced. As Olivia stumbles her way through the investigation, it’s hard to tell if she’s messing everything up, or if she and Merritt have fallen into a much grander plot than they originally believed.

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