If you’re a writer, you probably know the terms “pantser” and “planner” (or “gardener” and “architect”), but if you’re not, know that these refer to two different styles of writing. The planner likes to build a plot outline ahead of time, whereas the pantser is writing by the seat of their pants.

Both have their pros and cons. The planner spends a bunch of time detailing the trajectory of their story and often has to swing back in on later revisions to add more characterization and emotional depth. (Gross overgeneralization.) The pantser often figures out what’s going on in the story only by writing it, realizing what’s wrong, and rewriting. They spend longer in the actual prose, a lot of the time. (Again, gross overgeneralization.)

I’ve always been a pantser, which I find obnoxious. 👖 I’ve been learning about storytelling, character arcs, and plot structures for the last several years in an attempt to become a hybrid plantser — someone who can exist in both worlds.

And I think I’ve figured out part of the key.

The genre matters.

I’ve heard both Mary Robinette Kowal and Dan Wells teach on this subject, so I’m not sure who to credit with the concept. But essentially, there are two broad types of genres. Structured genres (like cozy mysteries or romances) have specific beats that the audience expects, and that the story should give a nod to (or intentionally subvert) in order to fit within the genre. Aesthetic genres, on the other hand (like fantasy or cyberpunk) rely on a specific atmosphere or type of world or tropes that really make it fit within the genre.

Nearly everything I’ve ever written is fantasy, with a bit of science fiction and horror thrown in there. And that means I’ve always written in the realm of aesthetic genres.

When that’s the case, all a writer has to rely on to figure out their plot is the rules of storytelling, itself. Three act plot structure, seven point plot structure, story circles, save the cat, the hero’s / heroine’s journey, etc. Plus pure instinct from spending so much time reading. But at least for me, this process is as vague and overwhelming as it is freeing. Which is why I’ve always really struggled to plot up to this point.

Until my current work in progress (WIP). 🎉

The journey of a novel.

Let me give you a glimpse into the weird, winding road that has led me to where I am now on my plantsing journey.

A little bit more than a year ago, I started writing my current WIP.

First, I envisioned it as a story set in the board game world of Gloomhaven with an Oceans Eleven feel. My main character was Riff, a down-on-his-luck human mercenary, and from the beginning, I was envisioning a strong social justice theme. I wrote the first 10,000 words or so, had an ending in mind, and trusted I’d be able to connect the dots in between. I sent off a pitch and the first few chapters to the fine folks at Cephalofair Games to see if they’d be interested in making the story part of their canon. They gave me a very kind not-at-this-time response next-day — and honestly, I was excited to get a response at all! They were very supportive and generous in their answer. That company’s awesome. Go play some Gloomhaven.

So then, I was left with a choice between continuing to write my story as fanfiction, or adapting it into something unique. I chose the latter. Between digging into planning tools like Campfire and Fabula, I revised the world and plot into something unique. My main character was still Riff, but now he was a down-on-his luck thief.

Over the course of NaNoWriMo 2020, I churned out 50,000 words of the new manuscript. It told the tale of a desperate quest across the countryside, where Riff danced between being a fugitive from the law and trying to reinsert himself into society.

And wow, I was getting lost in the writing. So I joined a critique group specifically for speculative fiction writers. And one of the critiquers said something that really stuck with me. He said, after reading the first two chapters, “This is going to be a great heist.”

And I was like, oh yeah… a heist. Oceans Eleven. That was the root of the inspiration for this thing all along. That’s what this novel is supposed to be!

So then I asked myself, “How do I write a heist?” 🤔

And, miracle of miracles, Mary Robinette posted this:

Join me tomorrow at 7PM CST for my writing class! We will be discussing how to structure a heist. How do you balance ensemble casts, elements of thrillers, and the need to deliver satisfying twists while also keeping the story moving forward? https://t.co/trDtmgkBdH pic.twitter.com/4dRlYDs27M

— Mary Robinette Kowal@🏡 (@MaryRobinette) January 24, 2021

So I jumped on her Patreon and attended the class and… lightbulb. 💡

Leaning into a structured genre.

All of the sudden, I was writing in a structured genre (heist) embedded within an aesthetic genre (fantasy).

I had beats to write to. All within the rich world and set of characters I’d already developed. Riff’s still being his swashbuckling self.

It was like, all of a sudden, the cast had something to do other than just mill about and hope for a character arc to slap them in the face.

All of a sudden, there was a conduit for me to explore the ideas of classist inequity and racial injustice.

All of a sudden, I was having fun again, because I’d finally found my footing. 😍

As of right now, I’m only 16,000 words into drafting this novel, but I’m getting great feedback from my critique groups, I’ve written an entire synopsis that’s actually coherent (thanks to the Futurescapes Workshop), and I feel more confident writing this book than I ever have with any previous manuscript.

For me, the journey from pantsing to plantsing looks like combining a structured genre with an aesthetic genre to help me build more structure into my process.

I’m hopeful that what I’m learning by writing this book will equip me to go back to the world of pure aesthetic genres with more confidence.

But first things first. I have a book to write. ✍️

---

I’d love to hear from you. If you’re a writer, are you a pantser or a planner? Are you trying to find a hybrid position in the middle? What has your writing journey looked like to this point?

November 4, 2020 Edit: Basically none of this is true anymore, since the novel is no longer a Gloomhaven novel, but a world of my own creation. But I’d still totally be down for writing a Gloomhaven story one of these days! The new iteration of this story is called Flightless.

Well, I’m about 15% through the draft of my Gloomhaven novel, which is feeling slow, but good. I tend to be a careful writer who creates a relatively clean first draft, so there’s no surprise I’m moving this slowly. (Not to mention I’m distracted by a full-time job and Coronavirus anxiety.)

You can read an excerpt here.

Here’s what that progress means in more concrete terms.

I have a title

This is RARE for me. I struggle with pithy, catchy writing at the best of times, so a novel title is nearly always the last battle I have to wrestle with. But as I’ve continued working out the plot and character arcs of the Gloomhaven novel, the title came to me rather easily.

Stone Breaker.

Especially if you’re a Gloomhaven fan, I’m interested to hear what the title suggests to you. To me, it has multiple meanings… but I don’t want to reveal anything by exploring those here!

I’ve reached the Inciting Incident

Fellow authors will recognize this term from the 3-act plot structure, which I’m using for this novel for simplicity’s sake.

The Inciting Incident is the moment that sweeps the main character out of their life and into the main plot of the novel. It tears them from what they believe and expect and puts them on a new course. This happens after the hook and the setup, including the introduction of the main character, world, setting, etc.

I’m fleshing out the synopsis

It’s generally accepted that there are two types of writers: planners and pantsers. (As in, write-by-the-seat-of-your-pants.) I’ve traditionally been a pantser, but the more I’ve learned about story structure and the craft of writing over the years, the more I’ve veered towards a hybrid plantser approach.

That means that, even though I’ve only drafted 15% of the novel, I have a clear idea of the main conflict, many of the sub-conflicts, the character arcs, and the plot.

And that means I can get to work on a synopsis. Novelists often dread these because it can feel impossible to cram an entire book into a few spoiler-filled pages, but I’m discovering that starting with a synopsis and then editing it as I go is giving me a good roadmap, without locking me into ideas that don’t pan out.

I’ve got a writing timeline

All along, my goal was to write three really great chapters, then send those off as a pitch along with the synopsis to Childres’ team for consideration for licensing.

I’d like to have more than that written, and I have accomplished that (although it’d be ideal if the whole book was done!). But I DO feel solid enough about the beginning that I’m revising it with a fine-tooth comb in preparation to send it over.

There’s no point in sending it right now, though. The Frosthaven Kickstarter is about halfway through, and it’s doing remarkably well, especially given the financial stress caused by the pandemic. As a former fundraiser, I know firsthand how demanding a campaign can be, so I’m well aware that now is NOT the time to pitch a novel. Everyone has their hands full.

But I’ve been watching the announcements with excitement, and my husband and I were fortunate enough to be able to back the campaign right away. It’s given me plenty of ideas, and it’s re-confirmed for me how beloved this game franchise is. I know i’m not alone in my appreciation of the world Childres has built.

So my current timeline is to finish smoothing out the initial chapters, synopsis, and pitch this month and send it over in May. And in the meantime, keep writing! I’m engaged in Camp NaNoWriMo to help me stay on task. Feel free to friend and follow me there.

I’ll keep the blog updated as I make progress!

November 4, 2020 Edit: Basically none of this is applicable anymore, since the novel is no longer a Gloomhaven novel, but a world of my own creation. But I’d still totally be down for writing a Gloomhaven story one of these days! The new iteration of this story is called Flightless.

I can’t post the whole story yet for two reasons.

1. It’s not done. Check the side bar for my writing status updates.
2. My (maybe completely unattainable) dream is to get this puppy officially licensed, so I don’t want to show too much leg yet.

But I’d like to show a little leg. So… here’s the first little bit.

(Yes, I know Isaac Childres created this world, not me. Yes, I know I don’t own a sliver of this IP. Yes, this is a tribute to Childres’ fantastic game. Yes, I am creating this story in an entirely different medium so it does not compete in any way with the financial success of Gloomhaven. Yes, I hope it brings new fans to the game and reignites the loves of existing fans. And yes, I pray Childres doesn’t sue me.)

Stone Breaker Chapter 1 Excerpt

Riff worked in the dark. Lighting even a match would attract the wrong kind of attention. Unfortunately, that left him hacking at the thick rope before him instead of simply burning it apart.

The rope held a wrought iron grate firmly in place, and it was doing an abominably good job of it. The grate covered a hole in the stone wall of the tunnel system that led to the University buildings. In particular, to his goal: the warehouse of the Department of Enchantment. At three hand spans wide and two spans tall, the hole was just big enough for a slender man like Riff to crawl through. Frigid air exhaled through the bars, and within his threadbare gloves, his hands shook, nearly numb.

He’d been led to believe that the hole would let him access a quiet corner of the University’s underbelly. To a dusty old professor, he supposed the items inside the warehouse were research projects. To Riff, they represented an upgrade from the months of tattered clothes, rusty tools, cold meals, and restless nights spent on dirt floors. He knew his disheveled state had gotten particularly bad, considering how little attention women gave him these days. Whatever roguish charm he possessed had evaporated upon reaching his current degree of unwashed poverty.

It was a good job, especially for a relatively new mercenary to the city. He didn’t even have to hurt anyone. Plus, it’d probably be months before the University noticed the items were missing, and they might even assume some absentminded student had misplaced them.

Ten feet above his head, a wide bridge blocked the moonlight. It was made of pockmarked stone, just like the wall before him. Overhead, Riff heard the clattering footfalls of a troop of a dozen soldiers making their nighttime rounds. He’d spent the last two nights studying their pattern. In a few minutes, they would descend from the bridge, passing where he stood as they circled back to the barracks. He needed to be out of sight by then, tucked within the wall’s embrace.

At sunrise, the bridge would be lined with merchant stalls, the smell of flowers, and the sound of shrill hawkers. But right now, and particularly right here—under the bridge—it was another world. Empty, dark, dank. And nearly perfect.

Perfect except for the pack of half a dozen tattered Vermlings clustered on the far edge of the bridge’s underbelly. They were gathered thirty yards away around a campfire. Their chittering laughter bounced off stone columns and rose into the night like their fire’s smoke.

He swiveled his head far enough so his one good eye could spot them. The Vermling closest to him, silhouetted by the flames, leapt to its full height—no more than four feet. Its long, naked tail whipped back and forth as it cried out for its turn to gnaw on the meat that was going around the circle.

The meat in question was a skewered, severed leg. Definitely human. Riff knew, because the rest of the body was laying a dozen feet from the pack. By the look of the man, he’d been a beggar, his gray hair a tangled mess, clothes in tatters, knapsack deflated. But to the hungry Vermlings, his body had been valuable enough on its own.

Grimacing, he turned back to his work. Why is this rope so blasted stubborn?

Riff tested the edge of the knife on his thumb. It creased the skin, but it wasn’t sharp enough to make him bleed.

Gloom and gore, he thought. The rope was triple-thick, as big around as his arm, the kind sailors used on ships. The corded strands of hemp wound around each other in an unending spiral. He’d managed to cut halfway through, but he didn’t have all night. Too bad he didn’t get an advance on this job; then he could’ve afforded to replace his whetstone, and he’d be halfway done with the job by now.

Riff knew that when the guards passed, the Vermlings would likely scatter, disappearing back into the sewers or Great Oak knew where. He’d be completely exposed, so he had to be gone.

Forget the knife. 

His fingers groped for the leather pouches lining his belt. His second blade was gone; it had been snapped by a Quatryl’s experimental sharpening device two weeks ago. Smoke bomb. A vial of poison. A lockpick set. None of it was of any use to him here.

It was going to have to be fire. So long as the Vermlings didn’t see him, he’d be through in no time.

Sheathing his sorry excuse for a blade, Riff reached into his inner vest pocket and brought out a small oiled matchbox, slid it open, and drew out a single match.

He glanced back at the Vermlings. They were still thoroughly distracted by their grim prize.

Huddling over his hands, he struck the match over the rough strip on the side of the box. Light bloomed to life, illuminating his wavy mess of blond hair around his peripheral vision. Then the light softened. He leaned closer to the rope to shield the flame from view, holding it under the hemp. The rope was blackened from dampness, toughened from age like leather.

The frayed strands Riff had already cut burned a deep orange, then puffed out. Riff leaned in and blew on the charred edges, and the glow returned. A wisp of noxious smoke rose.

Riff coughed, covering his mouth with the crook of his arm to muffle the sound.

The chittering of the Vermlings quieted. He peeked over his shoulder again. Each ratlike face stared directly at him, ears perked. Then, as one, they scrabbled towards him, moonlight glinting off steel blades and bone clubs.

Oh, this is charming.

Riff shook out the match and drew his dull knife as he whirled to face them. “Not worth it, friends!” he called as they continued their scrambling approach. Rows of sharp, wet teeth flashed in response. With a grimace, Riff took a step back, bumping into the grate. “Really!” he tried again. “The guards will be here any minute. You think you can kill me and hide two human bodies before they arrive?”

That gave one of them pause, and it slowed to look back at the beggar. The other five seemed more optimistic as they scurried forward. From a distance, all of them had looked disheveled, but harmless enough. In close quarters, though, the creatures were easily two-thirds Riff’s size with snarled fur and wicked, curved claws. 

The closest one lept towards Riff with a sharp yip. Its flattened nose quivered with flared nostrils. Riff spun away, tucking in his shoulder to avoid a swipe of the Vermling’s paw.

Another landed on his back, whumphing against him like a sack of grain. It dug its claws into Riff’s leather vest, piercing his skin. Riff gasped in pain, then gagged. The creature’s breath smelled like rotten meat.

Eyes watering at the stench, Riff swiped his knife at the Vermling in front of him. Dull as the blade was, it drove the creature back a few feet. It hissed with glinting eyes.

Before another could take his companion’s place, Riff staggered into the wall, driving the Vermling clinging to his back against the stone. Its furry head connected with the metal gate with a crack.

The Vermling let out a cry and dislodged itself, giving Riff’s ankle a kick before scampering back. Riff hopped in place, shaking out his smarting limb.

Three fresh Vermlings advanced, one swiping its claws menacingly. Another nibbled on the edge of its battered knife, its beady eyes locked on Riff. The third swung its club over its shoulder, staring consideringly at the rope-bound grate.

Riff fingered the smoke bomb in his vest pocket.

Thrump, thrump, thrump, thrump. It was the sound of a dozen sets of boots approaching, marching in step.

“Here come the guards,” Riff hissed at the Vermlings. “You honestly like these odds?”

They looked between each other. The one with the club swiveled its pointy ears to Riff then squeaked at its companions, “Go without! I catch up!” Riff blinked. He hadn’t realized they were capable of stringing together a coherent sentence. 

The rest of the Vermlings—all but the one facing him—chittered in agreement. They scampered off, squeezing out of sight through a sewer grate on the far end of the bridge. One darted back to the campfire to snag their gory meal and drag it underground with him.

The sound of the approaching guards grew louder as Riff straightened. “Not going to follow your friends?” He asked the remaining Vermling as he clutched his aching shoulder. His empty hand balled into a fist.

“Not going to attack,” it declared.

“Then leave,” Riff snapped.

“What is your plan?” the creature demanded, voice raspy. Its eyes darted to the half-severed rope to indicate what it meant.

“My plan?” he asked blankly. 

With an impatient gait, it scampered to the rope, tugging on it. “Why cut this?”

The guards were getting closer. From the sound of it, they would be in sight any moment now.

Shaking his head, Riff snapped, “Get out of my way.” He strode forward, reaching for his matchbox, which had fallen to the ground. He slipped it back into place.

By the time he straightened, the Vermling had sunk its teeth into the rope, gnawing at it with vigor. In just a few seconds, the two pieces fell away, and Riff lunged forward to catch the metal grate before it clattered to the ground. He looked down at the Vermling, who bared its teeth. Bits of rope stuck out between them. Was it… smiling?

Flickering light caught his eye, and he looked up to see torches coming around the far edge of the bridge. The soldiers marched alongside the columns, slowing to a stop at the sight of the campfire and dead beggar.

Without another word, Riff set down the grate and pushed his way in front of the Vermling. He heaved himself into the hole in the wall. Fingers digging into the tight stone, he dragged himself deeper until he was lying on his stomach, all but his feet within the tiny space. The hilt of his knife jabbed against his hip. Riff stretched out his arms until his gloved hands grasped at empty, pitch-black space. He wormed his way forward and toppled inelegantly onto a hard, cold floor a few feet down. 

As he clambered to his feet, he heard the scuffling rustle of the Vermling following him. “Get out of here,” he hissed. Insufferable little creature.

Abruptly, its paw landed on Riff’s face, grasping his nose. Riff yelped and stepped backwards out of its reach. The Vermling tumbled to the floor with a squeak of alarm, its bone club clattering just after it.

Now that the hole—shaft, really—was cleared of occupants, Riff could see through it, into the under-bridge area where he’d just been. He couldn’t see the guards, but their torchlight came ever closer. Their steps were no longer synchronized, and they murmured in concerned tones. He ducked out of sight as soon as he spotted them, putting his back against the wall, with the shaft’s entrance beside him.

For the first time, he took in his surroundings. The sliver of moonlight that pierced the darkness illuminated a long hallway that stretched to the left and right as far as he could make it out. Every fifty feet or so, there was another shaft just like the one they’d crawled through. A few feet away, embedded in the wall, was a metal sign. It said Department of Enchantment, Left. Department of Transmutation, Right. Do Not Extinguish Torches; They Are Necessary for Your Safety. There was not a single torch in sight. Maybe they’d been blown out; the frigid air that had seeped through the wrought iron grate now surrounded Riff, blowing through the corridor.

The guards’ voices grew louder on the other side of the wall until one sounded like it was just a few feet away. Torchlight illuminated a perfect rectangle of the stone wall across from the shaft. “Is the grate supposed to be on the ground like this?”

A second voice gave a long-suffering sigh. “What kind of idiotic question is that? Of course it’s not.”

“Do you think that has something to do with the… unfortunate soul back there?” the first voice asked.

“Perhaps, but it’s far from him. It’s more likely to be Vermling mischief.”

“Should we investigate, sir?”

Just Riff’s luck. He shot the Vermling a sour look. Faintly-glowing yellow eyes peered back at him unblinkingly.

Finally, the second voice responded, “Shift’s about over. Just note it in your log.” Their boots thrumped away, taking the torchlight with them.

Riff released a sigh of relief, then rounded on the Vermling in a whisper. “Alright. Care to explain yourself?”

Its sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight. “I help. I profit.”

He scowled. “I don’t need help.” And he certainly wasn’t losing his profit. Lifting his gaze, he started down the left path, towards the Department of Enchantment. As he walked farther from the shaft, everything grew dark. The icy wind picked up speed and blew his hair back from his face. He extended his right hand to run it along the wall. Twenty paces ahead was the next pale rectangle of silvery moonlight.

 Hearing scrabbling behind him, he stopped and turned. The Vermling was hurrying to catch up, club bouncing on its shoulder. 

“I told you to go,” Riff snapped.

“What are you stealing?” the Vermling asked, its furry clothing swishing with each step.

“Stealing?” Riff demanded. “Why would you assume that?”

“What are you… re-homing?” it rephrased. Even in the dimness Riff could see its horrid, toothy smile.

Riff shook his head. “Very funny. Now scamper along.”

“You are not ready. You need Marash.”

Riff wrinkled his nose. Now that it was close, he could smell its breath again. “Need what?”

“Marash.” It jabbed its thumb at its chest, then trotted ahead of Riff. It was faintly silhouetted by the light ahead—until it abruptly ducked out of sight.

Riff blinked, peering ahead in the darkness. “Marash?”

“This way, human!” it squeaked.

Through his gloves, he felt the wall on his right turn a ninety degree angle away. Midway between the two ventilation shafts was a new corridor that led deeper into the University complex; he never would have seen it in the dark. He could hear Marash scrabbling ahead. With a sigh, he turned to follow. At least this path pointed him in the direction of the warehouse. 

He’d known for a few months that these tunnels existed; they’d been built to help University students and faculty move between buildings. But they were infrequently traveled due to their dark, chilly state, so a few smuggler friends of Riff’s had used them before. They’d drawn him rough maps of their layout. Granted, none of the maps had agreed on anything but the fact they were labyrinthine, so they weren’t of much use.

“You don’t even know where I’m going,” he muttered to the Vermling. In this new hallway, with no ventilation shafts, there was no light whatsoever. He kept his gloved hand on the wall, taking slow, careful steps.

“Can guess,” it responded. “Only so many places with items to st—re-home.”

Riff sighed. “Let’s say I am re-homing something,” he said, following along more slowly. “I have no intention of sharing the profit with you. I’m working alone.”

It laughed, a chittering, echoing sound ahead in the dark. 

Riff kept walking, back hunched against the cold. The air smelled of sickly-sweet mildew, and water fell to the floor with echoing drips. His gloves were damp by now, and he shivered. A whetstone and a coat. That’s what he’d buy as soon as this job was over.

His shoulder still smarted from where Marash had hit him with its club. Come to think of it, his ankle twinged too, from where its little friend had kicked him. Why was he following this creature again?

His boot landed on a loose stone, and he wobbled. He took another step and found another unstable rock.

“Collapse,” Marash’s voice came from directly beside Riff’s elbow.

Riff jumped. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” he snarled at it.

“You can’t see?” Marash asked, glowing eyes turning to peer up at him.

Riff sighed in exasperation. “You’ve led me into an impassable tunnel. What other help would you like to offer?” Vermling claws hooked into his sleeve and drew him closer. “Hey!”

“Come,” Marash urged. It drew Riff towards the collapse. “A way through.”

Riff reluctantly stepped forward, guided over debris and clattering fallen stones.

“Duck!” Marash ordered.

He lowered his head, and squeezed through a gap in the rubble that was just big enough for his slender frame. Then he clambered down the other side, where the air was even colder. He sneezed at the dust in the air.

“I help,” Marash insisted, removing its paw from his shirt. Its glowing eyes were all Riff could see.

“I could’ve just struck a match,” Riff muttered.

“Torch ahead,” Marash chirped.

With a sigh, Riff walked forward, fingers now trailing along the left wall, until his hand touched a metal bracket extending from it. He felt its shape. A torch, indeed. It seemed the little creature could see perfectly well in the pitch black. Perhaps it was good for something. Pulling the matchbox from his vest once again, he struck a match and lit the torch.

The hallway he was in looked just like the previous one—narrow and made of stone—but there was one difference.

Before him lurched three green, amorphous globs. Each was about waist high, and embedded within their gelatinous forms were all sorts of objects: rings, pebbles, and coins. The one in the back was larger than the other two, and within its quivering embrace was a dagger. From the green slime that coated a nearby grate, it appeared the creatures had emerged from there. A sewer grate, if his nose had to guess.

“What in the…” Riff whispered.

“Ooze!” Marash called from behind. “Kill them!” It sounded downright cheerful.

Want to keep reading?

I’ll be sending out more material to my newsletter subscribers, so feel free to sign up. I won’t spam you or send you annoying stuff. (And since annoyance is in the eye of the beholder, you can unsubscribe at ANY time.)

Featured image by Markus Spiske temporausch.com from Pexels.

November 4, 2020 Edit: Basically none of this is applicable anymore, since the novel is no longer a Gloomhaven novel, but a world of my own creation. But I’d still totally be down for writing a Gloomhaven story one of these days! The new iteration of this story is called Flightless.

I’m making good progress on the Gloomhaven novel. Plus I’m getting really nice compliments from my weekly writing critique group on the submissions.

That means I’m even more excited about where the story’s going.

Gloomhaven means a lot to me, and I know it means a lot to other players, too. That’s why I want to honor the experience of the game as much as possible.

To that end, here are my goals:

No spoilers allowed

If you’ve never played Gloomhaven, trust me, it’s no Monopoly. The world is persistent, meaning you permanently alter it as you play. The choices you make impact which scenarios, characters, events, and items you unlock.

In Gloomhaven communities, there’s often a strict “no spoilers” rule. It’s best to let players uncover the world on their own terms.

The novel is following the “no spoilers” rule.

That means the only main characters you’ll see will be from the starting classes (those you can play from the instant you open the box). Settings will either be early-game, or original. I’m not going to be revealing any boss fights from the board game, either.

That way, whether you’ve played one session or a hundred, there are no spoilers, while still keeping the story fresh.

No experience necessary

Speaking of, even if you’ve never played a game of Gloomhaven — or never even heard of it — I want you to be able to enjoy the novel just as much as someone has.

I don’t want anyone to feel like they must have the context of the game experience to understand what’s going on in the story.

Gloomhaven is cost-prohibitive and time-prohibitive for many who would otherwise enjoy it. I don’t want that to keep people from being able to explore the world.

I’m also leveraging a fairly standard 3-act plot structure, which many readers are familiar with, even if they don’t realize it. That way, the book feels approachable to everyone.

It should feel like Gloomhaven

Gloomhaven has a feel to it. There’s a rhythm.

I want to echo that in the game, but subtly, so it doesn’t feel like I’m just parroting game mechanics. (No, “With Initiative 4, he moves forward three hexes and attacks for three.” Yawn.)

So those familiar with the game will experience city and road events, item shopping, and scenario, card, and initiative selection within the novel. I’m even creating my own scenarios and running them to make sure the characters or enemies aren’t overpowered, and that everything is well-balanced.

But my hope is readers never feel hit over the head by all of this. I want the story to feel like a seamless and subtle tribute.

It should sound like Gloomhaven

I co-own a messaging strategy and content marketing firm, and our signature service is helping businesses capture and codify their brand’s voice.

I’ve applied that tried-and-true method to this story.

See, Gloomhaven has a certain sound. Isaac uses a particular writing style in the scenario book that gives the game’s voice a true brand of its own.

So I’ve gone through much of the scenario book to capture those words, phrases, and literary devices. I’ve built out a Brand Voice Guide for Gloomhaven, and I’m using that to inspire my writing.

I want this novel to feel like an extension of the scenario book, so it’s a new story that feels familiar to Gloomhaven fans. The way it sounds is a big part of that.

No exhausting set-up and tear-down

If there’s one complaint I hear over and over about Gloomhaven it’s, “THIS GAME TAKES FOREVER TO SET UP AND TEAR DOWN.”

It’s true. (Although once I got the Broken Token wooden organizer, life got MUCH easier.)

So I’m hoping to keep all of the tedious parts of the game outta here. I tend to have a hard-driving, plot-moving writing style as it is, so I’m not going to spend much time in Council-of-Elrond or Tom-Bombadil-like scenes. (I mean, I’m a Tom Bombadil fan, but it’s no Ents-Flooding-Eisengard moment amirite?)

Want more updates as I progress?

November 4, 2020 Edit: Basically none of this is applicable anymore, since the novel is no longer a Gloomhaven novel, but a world of my own creation. But I’d still totally be down for writing a Gloomhaven story one of these days! The new iteration of this story is called Flightless.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been working on a new writing project.

Yes, I’m still revising Unrelenting, the first Grigori book in The Deathless Gods series with my co-writer, Jessi. (Subscribe for updates and learn more here.)

But I needed a creative outlet for my own time, too.

Where it all began

The seeds for this project were planted a couple of years ago when I started playing a little game called Gloomhaven.

If you aren’t a giant nerd like me, you might not have heard of it, but Gloomhaven is a mega-huge board game. (Literally; the box with all components weighs 22 pounds.) It’s for 1-4 players, and it’s cooperative (meaning the whole party wins, or the whole party loses).

At the time of post publication, it had an 8.9 out of 10 on Board Game Geek, and it’s the #1 best game of all time in each of its board game categories (Adventure, Exploration, Fantasy, Fighting, and Miniatures). So it’s not horrible.

To get an idea of what it’s like, imagine a role playing game like D&D finding itself in a highly-satisfying dungeon crawler in a unique dark fantasy setting. You play as a mercenary who is from one of 9 original species developed by the game’s creator, Isaac Childres.

I play semi-regularly with my husband, Josh, and with a group of friends. It’s been ridiculous levels of fun. To the point where I finish a 3-hour session and am ready for another scenario.

Reading up on the game, I kept coming across people wishing for Gloomhaven novels and fan fiction. It’s a compelling world, so it’s not hard to see why.

I thought, maybe I should write a Gloomhaven story.

But if I was going to tackle that, I needed to know more about the world. A LOT more. Because if I was going to write a Gloomhaven novel, I wanted to do it right and honor Isaac’s massive creative endeavor.

So I booted up Scrivener, my writing software, and started researching by reading the scenario book, pouring over the events, and studying the map.

The Gloomhaven fan community is also passionate about staying spoiler-free, so I wanted to honor that in my work. That meant only relying on the six starting classes of characters and locations that show up early in the book… or original ones created in the spirit of Gloomhaven.

The other priority I had was making it truly feel like the game. So that meant I needed to keep my party of protagonists to 1-4, applying item and scenario effects, and keeping the fights punishingly hard.

I wanted to mimic the rhythm of city and road events, characters leveling up, fight initiative, and other game mechanics that make Gloomhaven so much fun.

And if you have ZERO clue what I’m talking about, but enjoy adventure and fantasy stories, I wanted to make it fun for you, too. I didn’t want a reader to have to know the first thing about Gloomhaven before reading the book.

Now the writing begins

I have writing goals to plow through the writing. I’m not a fast writer, but that’s because I tend to produce fairly polished first drafts.

Good goal: 500 words a day
Better goal: 1,000 words a day
Best goal: 1,500 words a day

As far as what I’m going to do with it, my dream would be to have it be an officially licensed Gloomhaven novel. But even if that doesn’t happen, I can release it as fan fiction. Either would be a ton of fun!

If you’re interested in getting updates about the book as it progresses (and maybe get some sneak peeks), subscribe using the form below.