One of the things that strikes me about organizing, even when applied to writing, is that it assumes a perfect world. You do all these things, then all the pieces will fit into place and work exactly as they’re supposed to.
Then…first contact with the world. Bam!
When I was in the Army, my sergeants treated me as perpetually disorganized. I worked in an office on training schedules (a serious thing in the Army. Every day was planned out from 6:00 AM to the end of the day). My squad leader continually complained about my desk, which I never understood. His was much worse. I knew where everything was, and he did not. Besides, if I put everything away to look “neat” as I worked, how would I work?!
Especially since we also had a sergeant who was very orderly. Everything rule-straight and spaced on his desk. Always. And everyone said, “That’s because he never does anything.”
Instagram has made organization about how something looks. The perfect room (with cords carefully taped into position); the perfect planner (which is not being used for actual planning); the perfect smoothie bowl (which exists solely to be photographed).
Writing fiction has its own dysfunctional organizational aspects. Let’s take the story bible. The story bible originated in TV, where you can have multiple writers, so they need a common reference to ensure continuity. We all remember episodes where the character was given a background that was a one-off, ignored in later episodes.
For fiction writing, we get other writers advising that you need to know everything for your story (cue organizational guilt music). Unlike world building, story bibles come after you’ve written a scene, or even finished the book.
Whenever I’ve tried a story bible, I get lost on the question of “What should I save?” Which sounds stupid. The information is in the story. Why do I need to record it twice? Isn’t that more work?!
Adaptability, happily going with the flow, won’t even think to open the file. Forgets it exists.
My rules: The tools should never make more work. Just because tools are available doesn’t mean we should use them.
(Influencers are muttering because they want to sell tools.)
My solution is often just to put a placeholder in, then go find the information later. Usually right after I finish writing. I never let it sit.
I also have a sort of lexicon, which serves this purpose. Divide the page in half, write stuff in. It’s been my answer to the note-taking culture. I don’t need detailed notes; I need details. My kingdom for details.
These are some examples from my lexicon:
Convocation Members:
- Warden of the Potomac: Malachi Fletcher
- Chancellor of the Dominion: Celeste Ashford
- Magister of Secrets: Eli Keene
…because I could not remember any of the names or the titles.
Lake Barcroft Trees
- River Burch
- Pignut Hickory
- Black Gum
- White Oak
…because tree names really anchor the setting for readers in the know about an area.
The problem with organizing into big notebooks, spreadsheets with many tabs, or note-taking tools is that it deceptively feels productive. You get the binder, find colored tabs and Post-Its. Probably spend time drawing things, or as one writer infamously did, making the clothes the characters wore. Or, if it’s a spreadsheet, you spend a lot of time on formatting so it looks pretty.
While all this is going on, no writing is happening. All these methods of organization can become a simple procrastination method.
Creativity is about moving forward. That doesn’t necessarily mean “type the next word,” a common writing meme online. Might mean spending time thinking (if you’re high intellection).
But it also isn’t always tidy. Organization systems always want maintenance and become a burden over time. Spend two hours wrestling with a stubborn scene, and you want a break—but that tool needs to be updated. Any system should serve the work and be invisible when you don’t need it.
The writing should always matter more.
Linda Maye Adams 