I've inadvertently started a novel that knows where it's going. In fact, due to the idea, what's going to happen is fixed - right through to the end. I suppose I could mess with the structure, but this will have little effect on what must take place. This means that for the first time in my writing life all I have to do is put the words in the right place as the work unrolls before me. This is really unsettling. It challenges the kind of writer I am.

Although I would like to think there are as many varieties of writer as there are writers, there really are only two: those who plan and structure (to whatever degree) before they start and those who don't. I am the latter. Actually, I like to think of myself as a torchbearer (or is that trailblazer?) for this minority group (we are a minority group, I'm sure), because I reckon I do the least planning and preparation of any writer out there.

If I'm right, most novelists do at least some research; I don't. Yes, I buy a lot of books about a subject area, but reading them - can't do it. Reading is for pleasure and reading for research causes the state I describe below. I often hear novelists talk about the notebooks they carry around with them. I own many, but they are all empty - pristinely so. I have even met a writer who plans the whole work in PowerPoint - pie charts and graphs and dialogue boxes.

I do have moments of crisis, when I have no idea what I'm doing or where the novel is going, and admit to determined walks to Ryman's for Post-Its and/or large filing cards and pens with nibs that improve the legibility of my handwriting. And I must admit I return to my desk with renewed energy, a surge in motivation, inwardly whispering: "I will make a plan. I've got all the right kit. How easy it will all be. Move over, McEwan."

But for the most part, the Post-Its are great for shopping lists and maps for the children; good pens are always useful.

Without exaggerating, planning what is going to happen in a novel makes me nauseous. And I mean in the old-fashioned Sartrean way: it is as though planning a novel discloses the absurdity of the whole of life, and I become an embodiment of that absurdity (hence the mid-20th century mood-state).

All this reminds me of Nietzsche's cheerful remark: "What is spoken is already dead in the heart." It may not be the case for artwork itself - even ordinary work must have some vitality beyond its making; but planning feels precisely like that. For me, "What is planned is already dead in the novel."

So what does this mean for my new work? Somehow I need to work with my hand before my eyes. If I must know what is going to happen, I can at least prevent myself seeing how.