by James Scott Bell
@jamesscottbell

The other morning I was in my back yard with my laptop, ready to do some writing on my WIP. I was close to the end. I knew what the climax was going to be. I always know (or at least have a good idea about) my endings. This allows me to map out a “shadow story” that gives me all sorts of possibilities that are organically connected to the plot.

The ending is, of course, subject to change without notice. But usually when I’m 3/4 done, it’s pretty much set.

I was at that point. But I needed a few more scenes to get me to the climax. More of what I call “connective tissue,” meaning real scenes with conflict and suspense, not just “filler.”

So I sat sipping espresso, prompting my imagination with possibilities.

I use that word prompting on purpose. For I could have been prompting ChatGPT or Claude or Grok. I could have turned over this brainstorming completely over to the machine. Instead, I was prompting my own brain. I would set up a scene and watch it unfold. I’d tickling it  a bit to get it to improvise, and when I thought, “That’s good!” I’d jot a one-line note about it. Then I did the same with another scene, and another.

And realized, after twenty minutes or so, how much fun I was having.

To play around in your imagination is one of the great pleasures of the writing life. Bradbury describes it this way:

“Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper. Make your own individual spectroscopic reading. Then, you, a new Element, are discovered, charted, named!” – Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing.

Now, I’m not going to make this another jeremiad about the deleterious effects of AI. I know many writers use it for various purposes, including as a virtual brainstorming “partner.”

I do issue a warning, however. The more imaginative play we hand over to the bot, the more our own capacity for same atrophies. This, in turn, affects all of our writing. It affects our voice, and our ability to produce delightful surprises in everything from dialogue to characterization to all the sinews of plot. And it’s just not as fun.

Paul Newman, The Hustler

Of course, all play and no work makes Jack a dull writer. Craft is work. But work is fun when you know what you’re doing and how to make good things happen on the page.

It’s like that speech in the great movie The Hustler, where Fast Eddie Felson (Paul Newman) asks his girl Sarah (Piper Laurie) if she thinks he’s a “loser” (like the character played by George C. Scott has called him). Then he explains the exultation he feels when he’s in the flow of a pool game. He tells her anything can be great, even bricklaying, “if a guy knows what he’s doing and why and if he can make it come off.”

“When I’m going, I mean when I’m really going, I feel like a jockey must feel. He’s sitting on his horse, he’s got all that speed and that power underneath him, he’s coming into the stretch, the pressure’s on him, and he knows. He just feels when to let it go and how much. ‘Cause he’s got everything working for him—timing, touch. It’s a great feeling, boy, it’s a really great feeling when you’re right and you know you’re right….You feel the roll of those balls and you don’t have to look, you just know. You make shots nobody’s ever made before. I can play the game the way nobody’s ever played it before.”

Sarah looks at him and says, “You’re not a loser Eddie, you’re a winner. Some men never get to feel that way about anything.”

I love this craft of ours. I love figuring out “when to let it go, and how much.” I love it when I pull something off, when I feel the flow of those words, and just know. I play my game the way I’ve never played it before.

I’m not about to trade that in.

How about you?