Estimated reading time: 10 minutes
I was staring at a jar of gherkins—which is just German for “silly, little, boujie pickles,” when I experienced what lesser writers might call an “epiphany” and what I recognize as “avoiding actual work.” The truth about learning to move your plot forward isn’t found in craft books or writing workshops. Sometimes it comes from a possum.
The jar sat on my kitchen counter, innocuous and briny, containing approximately seventeen small cucumbers that had been violently preserved against their will. They floated there, suspended in time and vinegar, their tiny bumps catching the afternoon light like the worst Christmas ornaments ever conceived.
That’s when I saw him.
Through the window, on our fancy deck made for serious outdoor living, sat a possum. Not just any possum. A Christmas Possum. He was positioned perfectly beneath our pathetically decorated outdoor Christmas tree like he was waiting for Baby Jesus to bring him a rotting cantaloupe or whatever possums put on their wish lists.
Why Your Fancy Deck Won’t Move Your Plot Forward
Now, about this deck.
We built this magnificent structure for Serious Outdoor Living. Capital letters. Morning coffee. Evening wine. Sophisticated conversations about whether the geraniums needed deadheading.
Except we can’t use it when it’s too cold. Or too hot. Or too windy. Or when it’s teeming with bees. Or stink bugs. Or when there’s a vague threat of stink bugs, which in Virginia is approximately 347 days a year.
So this monument to outdoor living potential sits there, waiting for Perfect Conditions. The beer I keep out there in a cooler? Waiting for the Perfect Evening. The decorative plants? Arranged for the Perfect Garden Party that never happens.
And there’s the possum. Using it. Right now. In December. Without permission.
Doing everything we DON’T do.
The Preserved Potential Problem: When Writers Won’t Move Their Plot Forward
Your first draft is that pickle jar. Your outline is my unused deck. Both are exercises in preserved potential.
The pickles could be part of a sandwich. The deck could host a dinner party. Your story could be written. But “could” is where stories go to die.
You tell yourself you’ll write that scene when you have more time. When you understand the character better. When you’ve done more research. When your coffee is the right temperature and Mercury is no longer in retrograde.
Meanwhile, your story sits there like seventeen gherkins, preserved but purposeless, waiting for conditions that will never exist.
This is how most writers operate. They build the structure—outline the plot, develop the characters, research the setting—and then sit on it.
You’re waiting to use your deck.
How a Christmas Possum Learned to Move His Plot Forward
That possum didn’t check the weather forecast. Didn’t consult the Farmer’s Almanac about optimal deck-usage conditions.
He just showed up and used the damn thing. In December. When it’s arguably the worst time to be on a deck in Virginia.
And then he did something I’m still processing:
He bit into one of my beer cans.
Not opened it like a civilized creature. Bit into it. Punctured the aluminum with his weird little possum teeth and proceeded to drink my beer. The beer I’d been saving for some mythical future evening.
He wasn’t waiting for ideal circumstances. He wasn’t even waiting for opposable thumbs.
After the beer, he ate one of our decorative plants. Just walked over to this ornamental whatever-it-is that we’d placed aesthetically on the deck, and ate it. Several leaves. Casual as anything.
He went from Christmas tree investigation, to mood lighting destruction, to unauthorized beverage consumption, to botanical sampling, all in the span of maybe four minutes.
He didn’t have a plan. Or maybe he did, just not a good one. But he had forward momentum, and he committed to every single chaotic choice.
Move Your Plot Forward Without Perfect Tools
Here’s what I need you to understand: that possum looked at a sealed aluminum can and thought, “Yeah, I can work with this.”
He didn’t have the right tools. He didn’t have a bottle opener or proper beverage training. He probably didn’t even particularly want beer.
But he saw something he wanted to interact with, and he COMMITTED. With his face. Using whatever resources he had available.
This is writing.
You don’t need the perfect software. You don’t need the perfect outline. You don’t need to wait until you’ve figured out your character’s backstory going back three generations.
You need to bite into the beer can of your story with whatever teeth you’ve got and see what happens.
Will it be messy? Absolutely. That possum got beer all over himself. He looked ridiculous. Did he care? He did not.
He committed to action despite imperfect tools, and honestly, that’s more than I can say for most of my writing sessions, where I spend forty-five minutes finding the Perfect Spotify playlist before writing a single word.
How Multiple Outcomes Help Move Your Plot Forward
The possum could have stopped at the Christmas tree. That would have been a complete interaction. Beginning, middle, end. Clean. Tidy. Preserved.
But he didn’t stop. He kept GOING. He added complications. He bit into things he probably shouldn’t have. He consumed vegetation without regard for aesthetic value.
He escalated.
This is what your characters need to do. Don’t let them complete one action and then politely wait for you to figure out what comes next. Let them keep moving, keep choosing, keep biting into metaphorical beer cans even when they lack the proper equipment.
The possum didn’t choose between the tree, the beer, OR the plant. He chose the tree AND the beer AND the plant. Your character can investigate the murder AND steal the evidence AND seduce the detective AND have an existential crisis. All in one scene. It’s allowed.
Each outcome led to the next. He didn’t PLAN this sequence. He discovered it through action.
Your plot can work the same way. Write one scene. See what happens. Let that lead to the next thing. Will you create tangles that need untangling? Absolutely. Will some of these impulsive choices need to be cut or reworked in revision? Probably. But at least you’ll have something to revise instead of a blank page waiting for divine inspiration. Trust that forward momentum—even messy, beer-soaked, plant-eating momentum—gives you raw material to shape.
Write With Wrong Conditions to Move Your Plot Forward
Stop waiting for ideal circumstances. The possum didn’t have a bottle opener. He used his face. You don’t need Scrivener or a three-act structure breakdown. You need to bite into the story with whatever you’ve got.
Give your characters multiple possible actions and let them take several. Don’t save your best ideas for when you’re “ready.” Present Imperfect You can write it now.
Every story has problems. Plot holes. Character inconsistencies. Scenes that don’t quite work. You can wait for a day when there are zero problems (there won’t be one), or you can write anyway and deal with them during revision.
Yes, you’ll make a mess. The possum made a mess. There’s beer on my deck now. My plant is half-eaten. But at least there’s EVIDENCE OF LIFE. Your first draft should have beer stains and teeth marks. That’s how you know you actually wrote it instead of just preserving it in a jar.
Trust Forward Momentum When You Move Your Plot Forward
You don’t need to know exactly how your story ends before you write it. The possum didn’t know what he’d find on the deck. He found a Christmas tree, unauthorized beer, and a plant with his name on it.
Write one scene. See what happens. Let that lead to the next thing.
Now, I’m not advocating for pure chaos. Last year I tried writing a novel by just “following the energy” with zero planning. My protagonist ended up in three different cities in one chapter, engaged to two people simultaneously, and somehow working for both the CIA and a food truck. It took me two weeks to untangle that mess, and I had to scrap 15,000 words. Turns out, knowing your character’s basic motivation and the general direction of your story prevents you from writing yourself into narrative cul-de-sacs that require demolition crews.
The possum had instincts—he knew he was hungry, he knew what food smelled like. That’s your outline. The rest? That’s the escalation you discover through writing.
If you’re serious about learning to move your plot forward, stop treating your story like preserved pickles waiting for the perfect sandwich. Your characters need possum energy—showing up without permission, using inadequate tools, and escalating through multiple chaotic choices.
Try This Tonight: Three Ways to Move Your Plot Forward Right Now
Stop reading. Start writing. Here’s how:
1. The Five-Minute Possum Sprint Set a timer for five minutes. Write the next scene in your story using only what you know RIGHT NOW. Don’t research. Don’t outline. Don’t even reread what you wrote yesterday. Just write. Your character is in a room? Put someone else in that room. They’re alone? Have them find something. Move forward. Revise never.
2. The “And Then” Escalation Take your current scene and add “and then” three times. Your character confronts their boss. AND THEN the boss reveals something unexpected. AND THEN someone walks in. AND THEN your character has to make a choice they’re not ready for. Write all of it tonight. Messy is fine.
3. The Wrong Tool Challenge Identify one scene you’ve been avoiding because you “don’t know enough” to write it. Write it anyway. Missing a character’s motivation? Invent one. Don’t know how police procedure works? Make your best guess and highlight it in yellow to research later. Use your face to open the beer can. You can learn proper technique during revision.
Do one of these tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight. The possum didn’t wait for morning.
What Happens When You Finally Move Your Plot Forward
I built that deck for living. I stocked it with beer for drinking. I arranged plants for ambiance. I bought those pickles for eating. I outlined that novel for writing.
But the deck sits empty. The beer waits, unopened. The pickles float, suspended. The novel lives in my head where it’s safe and perfect and unsullied by actual words on actual pages.
The possum doesn’t have this problem.
He showed up, used the resources available, made his choices, and moved forward. He didn’t wait for permission or training or the right equipment.
He just… was. And did. And moved through multiple escalating actions without pausing to ask if he was doing it “right.”
The best stories aren’t written by writers who have everything figured out before they start. They’re written by people who show up anyway—when it’s too cold, too hot, too full of stink bugs—and put words on pages with whatever inadequate equipment they possess.
Your pickles won’t unpickle themselves. Your deck won’t use itself. Your story won’t write itself.
But a possum might show up and remind you that ideal circumstances are a myth, multiple outcomes are better than singular preservation, and the only real mistake is staying sealed in the can of “someday.”
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go use my deck. It’s 34 degrees and I need to replace a beer can and assess the damage to my decorative vegetation.
The possum has shamed me into action. And honestly? That’s a teacher worth learning from.
Even if his teaching methods involve petty theft and botanical vandalism.
Brian is the author of “Not Bukowski” and “The 10-Items-or-Less Apocalypse” and is reconsidering his relationship with outdoor furniture, preserved vegetables, and possums who possess more commitment to action than he does. His next book, “Otter Boy,” features zero possums but makes up for it with government conspiracy otters who definitely don’t wait for ideal circumstances before biting into unauthorized beverages.
Key Takeaways
- Writers often preserve stories like pickles, waiting for ideal conditions that never come.
- The possum serves as a metaphor for action, using his imperfect tools to interact with his environment.
- To move your plot forward, trust in messy actions and multiple outcomes instead of seeking perfection.
- Engage actively with your writing: don’t wait for the right moment, just start writing.
- Try quick exercises like the ‘Five-Minute Possum Sprint’ to kickstart your momentum in storytelling.
Related Links
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His first manuscript was composed entirely of punctuation marks and confused sketches. He's since published "Not Bukowski" (poems that don't rhyme) and "Slop and Swell from a Festering Mind" (essays so concerning that bookstores check on his wellbeing). He once spent three hours photographing a rare bird that turned out to be a plastic bag, and he's the only person banned from church bake sales for "weaponized brownies." Inheriting absurdism from Vonnegut and Adams, sprawling narratives from Irving, and weaponized failure from Moore, he writes about conflicted everymen struggling through supernatural chaos. He remains unconvinced that birds aren't surveillance drones.
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