Pantser

The pen drags slowly across the page. A firm hand guilds it, forming carefully selected phrases. The hand has long thin fingers but a muscled, large palm. The hand belongs to a figure hunched over the page. Eyes downcast, the skin is blackened beneath them. Eyes never leaving the page, ignorant to his surroundings, the figure is immersed in the task ahead.

    The man is in his 30s, hair speckled with grey through the dark mane. His wide shoulders are hunched out of habit. His nose is large, crooked from twice being broken. His clothes are a large baggy, woolen, black fleece and orange chords for pants.

The man is perched on a stool. Ignoring the pain in his lower back he continues his writing.

He is an admitted pantser. The word pantser refers to one who writes without having planned the story. The writer has embarked on the same journey as the reader, with a torch illuminating the path in front of him. He has no map or guild to where the path will lead, or even what he will encounter along the way.

   Unlike most "pantsers" he does no planning at all. Most would opt to have broad outlines done for the direction of the story and fill in further detail as they progress. This man seated has always found the best solution in sitting without distraction before the page. He must be in silence, no phone, laptop or other instrument of procrastination.

Even the action of physically writing onto a page has a soothing affect on the soul. It helps to separate the writer from the material, to review, adjust and appraise his material. Typing has uses but for artistic endeavors he always found more gratification in having his work in his own hand before setting it in print. Once it was typed it always felt as though it was permanent. Nothing could retract it. There is a feeling that nothing can be secured on the internet. This feeling hangs over him, it weighs on him.

Life as a pantser has worked well for him. He has written many stories in different genres, different styles to success in most cases. He gets inspiration from seeing people's particular situations or from his own experiences. He found running with short ideas could produce the most effective and engaging work. Building on strong foundations with flexibility to find some new and exciting he could create.

But this latest story was troubling him. He had written it months ago. It had been received well and there was talk of a mini-series being commissioned. Despite all this he continually went back to the story to add to it. The published work had ended at 367 pages in length. But he wasn't sure if the story was finished. In private he had continued working on it. Every day he wrote the end, but every day he found it incomplete. An endless cycle of writing endings which served only to extend the material, without offering a satisfactory conclusion.

This difficulty plagues the man's mind. He can get no rest or respite while it eats away at his mind. Nothing can give him peace. It haunts him. There can be no closure. When will the tale end?

Had it ended already and he had unknowingly entered a new story? Or was it far from complete? Does it require his attention to complete?

Lifting his hands to run through his thinning hair, the figure expelled a sigh of frustration. Not knowing if he has finished he holds the pen above the page, poised over the words "The End".

He cannot decide. Is there a full stop?