Do You Write On the Back of Wallpaper or Fly By the Seat of Your Pants?

There are no hard and fast rules to having a successful romantic relationship. However, one place you could start is by exploring and learning your partner’s ‘love language.’

There are five love languages — words of affirmation, spending quality time, together, acts of service, physical contact, and receiving gifts. Like you, your partner will have a preference for one of these over the others. Discover which one makes them tick and you’re halfway towards contentment. Get it wrong and you’ll be back on Tinder before you know it.

However, just as lovers we all have a preferred love language, we each also have one when it comes to our writing. And just as becoming proficient in your partner’s love language gives your romantic union a better chance of success, learning what your authorial language is will not only lead to increased efficiency, and better work, it’ll also save you months (if not years) of stultifying, demoralizing misery.

The Two Sides to Our Minds

The most obvious creative languages have long been described as being ‘right-brained or ‘left-brained.’

If you lean to the left, then you favour being analytical and methodical — simply put, you’re a ‘planner.’ One of the most illuminating examples of this is the British playwright, David Edgar. Before he even writes one word of dialogue, Edgar has already gone to his local hardware store, purchased a roll of wallpaper, and covered the blank side with miles of notes. Every nuance of plot, character, and theme has been considered to the nth degree before one word of his first draft has been written. He doesn’t just know the ending before he begins, he knows what happens in every scene, in every single line.

If you are right-brained, then you’ll forsake the wallpaper, and leap straight into the first draft. Another British playwright, Harold Pinter, was the quintessential rightie — when talking about writing his debut play, ‘The Room’, Pinter said that he simply saw a very specific room in his mind, and in that space was a middle-aged couple. He didn’t know who they were, what they were doing in that room, or what their narrative journeys were going to be; he discovered all of that whilst writing the piece. Pinter wasn’t a ‘planner’ — he was a ‘panster’: He wrote by the seat of his pants.

There is of course a huge problem with these categorizations — they’re reductive. Although we may all have a preferred way of working, we’re not always able to write that way. You might ordinarily be a planner, but if you’ve only got twenty-four hours to produce an article or a story or a poem, then you’ve got no choice to curtail your natural instincts to get the wallpaper out.

Conversely, although you might normally be a panster, the piece you’re working on right now may involve a topic you’re not familiar with, or juggle multiple plotlines. You might never have done so before but on this occasion, you may need to visit your local hardware store.

Time constraints and the piece itself may determine whether you’re more right-brained or left-brained — it’s far from being set in stone.

Yet, despite the particular demands of each project, you will still have a dominant style. You will. And learning which one is vital.

The Wrong Path

I was always a planner.

I began writing in earnest whilst at university; I was a theatre major who harboured dreams of being the next Tom Stoppard. Once I had the germ of an idea, I would make copious notes, and research the subject matter until I was an expert. Like Edgar, I would plan every detail; I didn’t use wallpaper — index cards were my best friend. I bought them by the truckload.

It took me twenty years to realize two things. One, by the time I came to actually write the play, I was bored of it. I’d told myself the story so many times, I’d rather do anything than spend any more time in that world. Two, as a result, I never finished anything. Ever.

Then I had a breakdown. A big one.

Having always written, I knew that this would be a central part of my recovery. Although my mental disintegration makes sense now, it didn’t immediately afterwards. Writing about it enabled me to gain that clarity. However, I also didn’t have much capacity — I simply didn’t have the reserves to research everything in the same depth I used to. So, channelling my inner-Pinter, I just wrote.

Finally On The Right Path

That was eighteen months ago.

In that time, I’ve written over one hundred and fifty pieces. It’s impossible to arrive at a definitive number as not all the sites I contribute to track the number of reads, but I estimate that my words have been read by over one hundred thousand people. It might sound shallow, but I’ve also made money from each of those pieces. In my previous, twenty years long, incarnation as a planner, I received a grand total of zero dollars for my writing and only a handful of people ever took an interest.

Outwardly, my achievements may appear trivial, but for me, having spent decades floundering, they're a solid, confidence-boosting foundation on which to build.

There are two ways of looking at this. The first is the more obvious.

Trauma changes people — inevitably I’m not the same person now as the one who entered that psychiatric ward back in 2019. And, just as it altered me personally, that experience changed me as a writer. Bizarrely it gave me more confidence; if you can rebuild your life (and your sanity) from the bottom up, then the blank page holds little fear for you.

My propensity to plan was, in many ways, mere procrastination, and a byproduct of my lack of self-belief. That barrier has been unequivocally crushed now, so I don’t need the emotional safety net of excessively planning every detail.

However, there’s a second way of considering this: It’s not so much about change, but more about becoming who I was always was. At least, the writer I should have tried to be earlier. In this sense the breakdown didn’t change me, it just enabled me to strip away my coping (and distraction) techniques, and reveal what I truly am. I’m not a planner; I’m a panster.

What used to terrify me before, invigorates me now. I relish not knowing where a piece might go, and embrace the fact that I don’t need to have clarity before I begin but that I’ll find that through re-writing and editing. This approach has not only produced my best work but it’s also made the creative act fun for the first time in decades. It’s energised me.

The Takeaway

Life is too short for regrets, but I do wish I’d had the courage to throw away my notes and simply dive in and just write much sooner. That’s not to say I don’t need to plan at all — I’m writing a full-length play right now and there’s no way I'm navigating that with some sort of roadmap. But, overall, I now know I am much more right-brained than left. And embracing that has freed me, and well as improving my writing skills.

I'm still a relative novice, so it feels arrogant to give anyone else advice. However, if I had to it would be to simply try and write in the way you're afraid of or resistant to. If you normally plan everything, try free association and riff. If you are ordinarily spontaneous, get out the wallpaper. See what happens.

But especially mix it up if you're struggling or blocked. Give your brain a new challenge, a new problem. As I've discovered, forcing your mind out of its comfort zone, and away from your usual or engrained methods, throws up work that might not always soar but is - at the very least - never less than interesting.

We all have a writer’s language. I’m still learning mine — I’m far from fluent. But, so far, I love it. I'm flying by the seat of my pants and it's quite a ride.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If you've liked what you've read, please check out the rest of my work on Vocal, including my Top Story:

If you've really, really liked what you've read, a small tip would be greatly appreciated.

Thank you!