The word “outline” makes me want to take a sudden, very important action. The thought of meticulously plotting points on a three-act Structure diagram gives me the same vibes as assembling flat-pack furniture: confusing, frustrating, and likely to end with me yelling.
For years, I thought this made me a Writing Impostor. Everyone else had their neat notecards and their bullet-pointed beats. I had… a feeling. A vibe. A mental image of a character standing in the rain, not knowing why they were in the rain, but feeling a lot about it.
Then I realized: I don’t chase plots. I chase emotional arcs.
My “process” (she says, loosely)
It starts with a mood. A singular emotion. It might be the ache of a forgotten promise, or the giddy, terrifying rush of jumping off a cliff into unknown water. That’s my North Star. Not what happens, but how does it feel?
My characters wander onto the stage fully formed, trailing their own emotional weather systems. My job isn’t to force them down Plot Road. It’s to put them in situations that poke and completely unravel their emotional state until they’re forced to evolve (or spectacularly combust).
I ask:
- What does my character feel at the start? (Stuck. Bored. Heartbroken.)
- What’s the exact opposite of that feeling? (Free. Alive. Whole.)
- Okay, cool. What delicious, messy, and probably inconvenient things can I throw at them to drag them from Point A to Point B… emotionally?
The “plot” is just the spice rack I raid to season that journey. Need a moment of despair? Enter: a missed train, a harsh word, a melted pint of ice cream. Need a crack of hope? Here’s a stray sunbeam, an unexpected text, a perfect cup of tea.
Why vibes > structure sometimes
Structure is needed. It’s the skeleton. But an emotional arc? That’s the heartbeat, the flushed skin, the goosebumps. It’s what readers truly connect with. Nobody ever lies awake at night thinking, “Wow, that inciting incident was perfectly placed at the 12% mark.” But they do lie awake feeling that character’s loss, or cheering their quiet triumph.
Writing this way is intuitive and deeply personal. It’s following a trail of emotional breadcrumbs. Sure, sometimes I get lost in the woods. But that’s when I stumble upon the best, most unexpected clearings — scenes and moments I could never have outlined because they were born from feeling, not planning.
Your permission slip to wander
So, if you’re staring at a blank page, paralyzed by the need to have it all figured out? Toss the map for a minute. Close your eyes. Ask yourself: What’s the heart of this story? Is it about healing? About courage? About the messy joy of finding yourself?
Start there. Follow that feeling. Let the emotional truth lead the way. The plot will scramble to catch up, I promise.
And if anyone asks what your outline is, just smile cheekily and say, “It’s a vibe.”
They’ll either get it, or they’ll be stuck with their allen key forever.
— Montse
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