Month: November 2025

Pact and Procedures: Shards of Stolen Breath

The Pact: For the next seven days, I will work on Shards of Stolen Breath (working title), a fantasy novel for children.

The Procedure: Schedule a one-hour chunk each day and write during that time.

(I’m not going to specify a particular time until the day-of. My schedule varies too much to commit to the same time each day. For instance, on Mondays, when we have dinner with my parents, writing after dinner won’t work. Also, on Tuesday of this week I played in an online game of Castles and Crusades after dinner, so that also didn’t work. Wednesday through Friday, due to the holiday and traveling, were not predictable either in the time or the energy department. Etc. etc.

Basically, picking the One True Time each day is hard and ends in failure more often than not. For this experiment, I’m trying the day-of approach to see if that works better.)

More Procedure: Use note cards to write “skeleton scenes” before actually writing.

The idea here (and I can’t remember where I first heard the term “skeleton scene”… this might necessitate a trip to my archives…) is that by sketching out quick impressions or possible details for the scene, I won’t have to stop too long to think them up as I’m writing.

This is, perhaps, a form of “outlining,” but since it’s right before I start adding words to my manuscript, and it’s very much a whatever-comes-to-mind exercise in free association, and it’s not using any parts of my critical voice, therefore it feels much more “creative voice” than not. I don’t have to write the skeleton scenes either. I can simply reread what I wrote yesterday and jump right in.

But skeleton scenes allow a gentler “on-boarding” where I don’t have to feel like the words “matter” yet. I can let ideas come to me (without editorializing) and that makes the first words I type into the manuscript less “precious.” Basically, the fear and resistance is broken down. Skeleton scenes are like stretches before a run.

More Procedure: Set the time for twenty minutes (when I really plan to write for sixty).

Twenty minutes is doable. I can write quite a bit in twenty minutes and it doesn’t seem overwhelming at the start. Also, after twenty minutes, the bell goes off on my Time Timer and I can check in with myself: Have I really been writing, or have I only been “gearing up” to write?

If I’ve only been gearing up, I can get down to brass tacks in the next twenty-minute session and “open the document and stay in the document.”

And after that session, I know I only have to push through one more twenty-minuter and I’ll have met my pact agreement for the day.

If I set the timer for sixty minutes, and I start with some journaling, skeleton scenes (or blogging… heh), the time might quickly get away from me. I’ll feel like I’m writing fiction and adding to the story, but I’m really not.

Twenty-twenty-twenty means I get a little audible check-in every twenty minutes to make sure I’m doing what I want to be doing, which is writing fiction.

More Procedure: Do not, repeat, do not focus on words written (but keep track anyway). I’m not setting a words-per-day quota. This is a time-based pact only.

But I do want to see how many words I can get written in these twenty-minute segments because I’m somewhat hopeful that my procedures here will actually engender MORE words-per-minute than I usually achieve. I don’t know why I think that, but I’m partly doing this experiment to see if my hypothesis is right.

If it is, then perhaps the secret to writing faster and getting into flow-state is buried somewhere within these procedures.

I’ll have more to report when the pact is complete.

“The Length of a Season”

So Stephen King said about how long it should take to write a rough draft for a novel.

I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve failed at this. I always take too long.

Before anyone starts in and says, “The story takes as long as it needs to take,” let me explain that while this may be a helpful maxim for other people, it is not for me.

I know because I’ve let novels take longer than the length of a season and always–always–it has hurt the project. I lose the heat. I lose the thread. I’m at a different place as a writer and my voice has subtly shifted.

Speaking with one of my students today, she had the exact same experience. She started a draft a few months ago but never wrote a proper ending. She added the ending recently, and she and I both agreed it lacked that certain oomph the earlier portions had. It didn’t have the same voice, the same energy. She’d taken “longer than a season.”

This happens to me constantly. I’m not saying this happens to everyone, nor that it necessarily happens to me all the time (I’ve had a few short stories where the break/pause ended up helping me work out something that was missing). But it happens to me often enough that I’ve got to actively fight against the fear and blockage that keeps me from riding the momentum of a project to its completion. Especially for novels. Both my interest and my ability to conceptualize the story dissipate the longer it takes me.

I want to get better at riding the wave. I have too many stories I want to write for things to linger on like this.

And thus my pact. My commitment. I will finish my next book in a season.

The Backstory:

I started writing a novel for my children earlier in the spring. They had brought home a book about dragons from the Scholastic book fair and it left me cold. Generic. Trite. Also, a bit too mature for my first and second graders.

I sprung into action and started writing a dragon fantasy novel using some of their ideas. I wanted it to be more in the tradition of books I remember loving as a kid. Something similar to the Prydain Chronicles, or Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH.

This, remember, was in the spring. And now it’s late autumn and I’m on chapter seven. About ten thousand words in. Not very far. And much longer than King’s “season.”

Nevertheless, I will persist, and in the spirit of King’s advice (and my own inkling about how my creative process works), I intend to finish the novel before the end of this season (this season meaning November/December).

To do so means writing 50-60k in a month (so, sorta like the NaNoWriMos of old), which comes to roughly 1600 words per day. I’m not going to hold myself to a strict word count quota (another quirk of my creative process: as soon as word counts come into view, I get the hives); instead, I’m setting a time quota: sixty minutes per day in the writing studio. A bit more on weekends to make up for slow days.

I’ve already built up a tiny bit of momentum because I’ve been working on the book for the past week or so, but I need a more formal commitment to really push myself and write with more urgency and gusto. Not urgency in the panicked sense, but urgency in the sense that this story will be best served if I get it out into the world without delay. In delay there is doubt. There is that changing of voice and squandering of energy. Like my student realized: taking “time off” from the writing didn’t help it; it just made it flatten, like a tire leaking air.

Why do we take that time off? Is it really to make the piece “better”? Or is it fear, resistance, tension, doubt? It’s worry and perfectionism. It’s a defense mechanism. If we keep going, we might end up somewhere “bad.” We might flub it. We might not know where to go next and make a “wrong turn.”

But I would say the more harmful thing, from an emotional and intellectual standpoint, is to let a story idea taper off, to let a novel die on the vine, to never finish the piece. Losing the energy, wiping out from the wave: these are the bigger troubles. A tough, wild wave is easier to ride if you don’t intentionally jump out of it. Better to stay on and ride it out than to jump off and tread water, hoping for a new wave to come along.

I’m going to keep riding the wave. I’m excited, in fact. There’s a thrill here. A high-wire act (okay, now I’m mixing metaphors). But the idea that I can build my own momentum, that I can accelerate myself to the end of a novel: it’s exhilarating. It’s fun to think that in six weeks’ time I’ll have a rough draft novel to share with my children. I’m hoping this experiment shows me a new way of working, of approaching my creative projects. In the length of a season, I’ll have something new and complete.

Solo RPGing vs. RPG Prep

There are differences, of course. The end goal, for one. Solo role-playing is (often) not for any other purpose than to play the game, whereas prep is intended to facilitate a better group gaming experience at some future point. Unless the GM is going to make everything up on the spot by using improvisation and random tables, some prep is in order. Solo play is an end unto itself, but game prep is intended for future use at the group gaming table.

But on another level, these two RPG activities can be more similar than maybe we realize. Playing solo as a way to prep for a group game is somewhat more interesting and more ludic than what we’d categorize as “prep.” Prepping (i.e.: preparing) isn’t “playing;” it’s the antecedent to playing. Whereas solo play is just that: play. But it can help prepare a GM for the group game in an even deeper way than simple prep can. Solo play–because it involves participating in the game itself, as a PC, and interacting with the game world not just taking notes on it–creates a mental map and deeper immersion into the game world for the GM.

At least, that’s how it works for me. I find that I’m often more comfortable running a game for a module I’ve played through solo, or a hexcrawl I’ve interacted with in solo play, than I am with only prepping the adventure. This is the attraction of actual-play podcasts and youtube videos, I think. Not the Critical Role entertainment ones, but the normal groups and gamers playing a normal adventure without much editing or theatrics. We get to “play” the game alongside them and thus become better able to run the same adventure later for our own groups.

Admittedly, solo play is not the most efficient way to prep for a group gaming session. The players might not follow the same path as the GM did when playing solo. Solo play–through a module or hexcrawl or dungeon crawl–takes MUCH more time than simple “prepping” does. Traditionally, prepping for a game means reading the module or designing the dungeon or overland map (or both), coming up with encounters and NPCs, etc. It’s note-taking, essentially.

But solo play, while it involves bookkeeping and taking notes, is not a simple collating of material for the game to come. It IS the game. This takes more time, obviously. This involves rolling dice, having combats, imagining encounters, keeping track of character inventories and stats, etc. All of this may help prep for a future game, but it’s not efficient.

It is fun, though.

I sometimes struggle with prepping for games because the prep feels like homework. There’s a dutifulness to it that makes it the opposite of “play.” Play is exploratory; it’s done for its own sake; it doesn’t have any obligation attached.

Is there a way to meld solo play and game prep together? Can I find a way to “play” solo and prep at the same time, melding the immersion and fun of solo play with the more-efficient methods of game prep?

The biggest impediment is time. Solo play is simply not as efficient as game prep. I don’t have the time available to solo play every module or adventure I’m planning to run. And to fully prepare, especially if it’s a megadungeon, I would need to run multiple solo adventures, each time exploring a different section of the dungeon to make sure I’m ready for what my players might do when I run it for them. This is a massive time commitment. I’d be playing solo RPGs every night of my life for some of my games. Maybe that’s what I should do–maybe I’d even find it immensely fun–but I have a day job and a writing vocation and a family and a house to take care of. I don’t have time to devote that many hours to my RPG hobby without sacrificing other things that matter more.

Still. I’m curious to see if some compromise between play and prep might work. I often procrastinate game prep because it feels a little too work-like. A shift to something more playful might make it something to look forward to, something done for relaxation and enjoyment, not obligation.

How that shift might work is the tricky part, but perhaps I could vacillate between the two activities. Basically, game prep as usual until I get to a part that seems interesting or that I need to understand better, and then begin playing it out with my characters. Play out NPC encounters not as a way to predict what might happen with my group later, but as a way to better understand how the NPC would react in general, to get a better sense of their personality and goals. Play out combats to get a feel for how a monster might really react to hostilities and use its powers to survive. And solo play through a dungeon or level not as my only means of “prep,” but as a way to get an organic feel for the locations and how players might interact with the world.

Might is an important word here. Obviously, my choices as a solo player will not be the same as the choices of my gaming group. My solo play is only ONE possible path for the adventure to go.

But by running through one path, I’ll hopefully open up my imagination to other paths, and when the time comes to run it with other players, I’ll have a better imaginative landscape to call upon in adjudicating and describing what’s happening to their characters.

I’m not sure that solo play as a form of prep is the right call for every GM, but I do think it might work for me. When I ran Winter’s Daughter as a solo game, I felt much more connected to the setting and encounters. I understood how these rooms and encounters COULD go, and when I do eventually run the game for a group, even if they act in different ways than my characters, I’ll still have a deeper sense of how those actions should affect the game world. I’ll be able to describe the world to them in a more authentic way.

I don’t have to prep the whole adventure like this, obviously. I can dip into certain rooms or encounters that are complicated or more impactful to the module and play those out with my solo PCs. I can take notes and prep in my traditional way for other things. This will obviously take more time than just normal prepping, but what I’m hoping for is that I’ll be more eager to “prep” if I know that I’ll really be PLAYING as I go.

Just as players often enjoy making characters in their downtime between games, game masters enjoy playing out the adventures in their minds. Solo play is a way to formalize that process and familiarize oneself with game mechanics at the same time. These are games, after all. Playing is the whole point. Enjoyment, not obligation or work, is what matters.

Solo play as a form of prep may be the key to making the game-mastering experience a more playful and fulfilling one.

At least for me.

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