I saw my agent yesterday.
Because I do so much more with self-publishing these days, and because
I’ve been so busy with Jericho Writers, I’ve talked to him less over
recent months than I usually would, and it was a pleasure to sit and
drink coffee and talk books.
Now, I may have some further
tidbits from that session in later emails, but there’s one thought in
particular I’d like to work with today.
Although I’m busily at work on
Fiona Griffiths #7 at the moment, I do have a couple of other passion
projects that I’d like to bring to fruition at some point. One of these
is a very quirky, literary idea, with the provisional title of The
Most Excellent And Lamentable True Historie Of The Sailor, Gregorius.
(Interesting fact: if that book ever sees the light of day, it’ll be my
second book to have a comma in the title.)
The book’s denouement involves a
wee spot of cannibalism, and I mentioned this fact to my agent.
Now, because the project is very
quirky, and because the book is extremely short, it may or may not
sell. It would actually be OK with me if it doesn’t find a buyer – I
wrote the thing for fun, and never originally intended publication. But
if it does sell, it would need to sell as a literary project:
something with depth. Something with a meaningful and resonant theme.
So yes, my agent wanted to
understand what the book was. How it worked. How it was going to make
sense of its Big Idea. But the next thing he said was, “Interesting.
But why the cannibalism? What’s that a metaphor for?”
And I was taken aback by the
question. First, because it’s not something anyone has ever asked about
one of my crime novels. Secondly, by the assumption that it was a
metaphor for anything. And third – mostly – because I didn’t
have an instant answer.
A few thoughts about all this.
First, if you’re writing
literary fiction, you need to be able to answer questions about theme
and metaphor and all that. That’s how you prove your book is a proper
literary novel, not just a nicely written and interesting book.
So when you write your agent
query letter, talk about those themes. Say this kind of thing: “The
theme of silence haunts the book – and in particular the way silences
can be enriching and fertile. I came to write the book, indeed, after
spending six months alone in the wilderness of [the Canadian Rockies /
a Tibetan monastery / a bedsit in Crouch End].”
I generally advise that a query
letter should be no more than a single page of text, but there are two
exceptions. Non-fiction authors may just need more time to set out their
stall. And literary authors have to allow for an extra two paragraphs
of yadda about themes and all that. You can’t neglect it. It’s a
selling point.
Secondly, I personally tend to
approach themes very obliquely. I tend to think that all well-written
and complex works of fiction will find themselves addressing big issues
in a subtle yet forceful way. It’s like they can’t help themselves: as
though the human brain just will project meaning onto any large and
carefully-textured canvas.
One example: I once wrote a book
(Glory Boys) about aviation and Prohibition, set in 1920s
America. At one level, the book was just a straightforward adventure
romp. That’s why its readers bought it. At the same time, themes just
crept in. As well as just the adventure stuff, the book came to be
about the father-son relationship, and heroism, and the different sorts
of heroism that could exist.
I would never have talked about
those things when I was starting the book, or even have spent much time
thinking about them. But as I was editing the book into shape and saw
those themes emerging, I did a little to help them on their way. To
clarify them for the reader. I’ve tended to think that too direct an
approach risks making things a bit crass. A bit on-the-nose.
As a writing technique, maybe
that’s OK. As a sales technique – and especially as a sales technique
for literary work – that’s definitely not OK. So think: “what is this
book about at a deep level? What bigger themes are moving under the
surface?”
The third point I want to make
is that even if your book is a commercial rom-com, or a straightforward
police procedural, or anything else, your book probably does have and
should have some big themes swimming around. Think, for example, of Breaking
Bad, the TV show. Yes, it’s a show about the illegal drugs trade,
but it’s also about a man’s descent into evil. About his partner’s
emergence into something like goodness and humanity. About the varying
reactions of others to that evil, and the money it generates.
That was a massive and totally
commercial show, all right, but it knew damn well it had some big
themes. (The central character’s name? Walter White – a massive clue
that the show knew it was taking an innocent 'white' character and
dirtying him up.)
And last – I don’t care how commercial
your work is. The simple fact is that books with depth outsell ones
without. Yes, there are exceptions (hello, James Patterson!), but not
all that many. Themes make a book more memorable. They echo for longer
in the memory. And that echo is what means a reader is more likely to
reach for your second book, and your third, and your fourth. It’ll make
them more likely to post an Amazon review, or talk about your book to
their friends.
Themes sell. Meaning sells.
Depth sells. Don’t discount those things, just because you’re writing
in a commercial genre.
Which brings me back to my
agent’s question: why the hell was I
writing about cannibalism? Why that?
And on the train back from
London, I thought more about that question and my rather rubbish
answer. And I realised that, indeed, there was a precise and accurate
reason why cannibalism featured. Because my strange tale of Gregorius
the Sailor is most of all a book about story itself. The way stories
feed off one another. The way stories become a part of our deepest
being.
And that’s cannibalism. A
cannibal eats the flesh of another human, but then that other human
becomes a part of the cannibal. For ever. Just as we’re a composite of
all the things we’ve ever eaten, we’re also a composite of all the
stories we’ve ever heard, and all those stories have fed off a million
other stories. And so on.
So I emailed my agent and
explained myself better, and he liked the explanation. Whether he likes
the book … well, that’s another matter completely. We’ll just have to
see. I do now kinda hope Gregorius gets to set sail on his adventures,
but he’s already done so in my head, which is where it matters most.
Till soon.
Harry
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