Help, There’s A Pirate In My Manuscript! Should I Abandon Ship?

I recently saw a commericial for the next Pirates of the Caribbean movie, On Stranger Tides. It made me think of the first movie and how someone I thought was kind of a secondary character (or a co-star at most) absolutely stole the franchise. In the first movie, we were supposed to care about the love story between Elizabeth (played by the lovely Keira Knightly) and Will (played by the equally lovely Orlando Bloom).

Somehow, I thought the love story was the main plot (I should have known better—the movie features Jack so much). I thought Will was the the male lead, and Elizabeth was the female lead, with Jack Sparrow playing the foil to their more serious characters.

But I really didn’t care about those two much, because Jack Sparrow (pardon me, Captain Jack Sparrow) was so much more interesting. The franchise is, in fact, about Jack’s journeys, not some sappy love story. Jack is the star, which is one reason the story didn’t follow Elizabeth and Will to domestic bliss.

Have you ever had a character show up in your manuscript that tried to steal/pirate your plot away from you? This probably won’t bother you if you’re a Pantser, but Plotters tend to be more confused about such rogue characters. (Read this great post from Lisa Gail Green on Pantsers Vs. Plotters).

I had that happen recently, and I’m not quite sure what to do. I had a specific story and outline notes on paper, but this little beastie of a character keeps sticking his nose into everything. He’s become more fun to write about than the plot I had in mind. Do I give him a ration of authorial rum and tell him to go for it, or do I slap him on the wrist and tell him to get back in line and play his part? I’m just wondering what role the writer plays in being a disciplinarian to particularly cheeky characters. (Read this great post by Jen Daiker on Unleashing the Beast)

Being creative and going with the flow is a wonderful thing, but part of me is afraid it might lead to hanging onto a manuscript that no longer holds your heart. “I’m just going to see where this goes, and then I’ll get back to my outline” or “I’ll rewrite chapter five and six again to make this make sense” is fine and good and necessary, but what about the fourth or fifth time it happens? What happens when you’ve added 50,000 words of scenes to justify a few events by your clever pirate beastie and now your tight Lake Erie-sized manuscript has become the Pacific Ocean?

At some point, it might be best to accept that you may want to abandon the ship you first set sail on. There are worse things in writing than having to walk the plank with your pirate friend and swimming to a mysterious shore in the distance. You may have to start anew when you get there, with nothing but a soaken protagonist and a coconut tree for plot material. But you might be a bit happier.

And guess what? You’re more likely to find firm footing on an undiscovered island than on a sinking ship of a manuscript.