Last week, I totally forgot
about my Friday email until the deadline was starting to loom in a
scarily loomy way. (Overhanging by 5 or 10 degrees, and offering thin
holds on sketchy protection – that kind of loomy.)
So I dashed out an email that
had a single thought at the heart of it. This one:
Creative writers and, really,
creators of almost any sort, are often asked to perform their best work
without any kind of support.
That email then turned into a
kind of mission statement. Very roughly: “we can’t alter the basic
difficulty of your situation, but we can and will be as supportive as
we can.” There wasn’t really any practical, actionable advice in the
email. When we sent it out, it felt like some underweight homework
rushed out to meet a deadline.
But you lot told me otherwise.
I always get plenty of responses
to these emails, but last week I got double the normal volume. The
general gist of those answers was summed up in one email that said my
message felt like a hug - necessary and comforting. And, good: consider
yourself e-hugged (in a way that respects your personal boundaries and
all pandemic-regulation protocols in your country of residence.)
But it struck me, as I read your
replies, that there are two phases to our acts of creation and each
phase makes a different demand.
First, there’s a purely creative
phase, one that’s all about production.
This is where we dream up the
idea of the story. It’s where we nudge and tweak that (still
theoretical) story into shape. It’s where we write our opening chapters
(in a rush), our middle chapters (slowly and in pain), our ending
chapters (with relief.) The end of this creative phase is marked by the
delivery of a complete manuscript, starting on page 1 and running all
the way through to the beautiful words, “THE END”.
For that birthing process, I
strongly recommend an attitude of slightly crazed positivity. And I do
mean crazed. It’s not enough to think, “Oh, sure, I think this novel
will probably be good enough to be looked at with some interest by a
literary agent.” In my experience, you need to be ludicrously positive.
You need to be dreaming of that multi-publisher auction, your book
piled high in supermarkets, your name on bestseller lists, foreign
rights deals flooding in. Whatever works for you.
You don’t have to be reasonable.
Just give yourself whatever drug gets you through. You’ve got a
daydream about being invited onto Oprah? Or getting a call from
a certain Stockholm-based prize committee? Then good. Dream away.
Those hopes may well be
unrealistic. After all, the brutal statistics say, you aren’t likely to
be published. If you are, the outcome – critical and commercial – may
not be all that astonishing. But those true and reasonable facts are
hardly likely to sustain you through months of creative endeavour, hard
labour, and false paths.
So leave realism aside. For the
creative phase, be as unreasonable as you want. Give yourself whatever
dreams you need to inspire you. And remember this dictum of Jane
Smiley’s: “Every first draft is perfect because all the first draft has
to do is exist."
She’s right. Block out the
negative. Dream your dreams. And write.
But then comes the second phase,
the editorial one.
For most first-time novelists,
I’d say completion of the first draft marks – very roughly – your
halfway point in the whole creative process. The editorial process is
likely to take as long, or maybe longer than, the writing phase. It’s equally
critical. I’ve never once seen a first draft manuscript that was in good
enough shape to find a publisher. My own first draft manuscripts (which
I edit heavily as I go) would not be ones I’d be happy to send out.
And now you need to switch from
the forgiving/dreamy/inspirational you to the
pedantic/critical/perfectionist one. You need to transform from loon to
prison officer.
Everything you have just written
is up for review. Everything.
Your basic idea for the novel.
Is that sharp enough? Attractive enough? Fresh enough? Does it infuse
the entire book? Is it saleable?
Your basic plot arc. Is it
clear? Does it compel the attention? Does the ending satisfy? Does the
basic plot machinery work?
And does your main character
engage the reader? And do your settings exist and have atmosphere? And
what about your secondary characters? And was your first person / third
person choice correct? And do you have the right number of viewpoints
in play?
Oh yes, and does this sentence
really need all ten words, or could you say the same thing just as well
in eight?
For this phase, in my experience,
you more or less have to drop the Oprah daydreams. Forgiving
optimism isn’t the right spirit to bring to the task of constant
fault-finding and error-correction.
Quite the contrary. In that
first phase, you needed to praise yourself as the word counter ticked
slowly up. Now you need to do the reverse. “Yay! I deleted 3,000 words
today. Well done, me.”
In the first phase, you needed
to think, “Yes! You know what? My Best Friend character really is
funny, quirky and a delight on the page.” Now you need to ask, “Is that
actually funny? Or is it just lame? Would the balance of this
scene feel better if I just cut the banter?”
This process, always, is trial
and error. You try one thing and see if it feels better. If not, you
try another and another till you find something that pleases you.
A solid grounding in writing
craft will unquestionably support this process – you’ll work more
efficiently and produce a better outcome. But every editorial decision
still comes down to a question of which sounds better to you, X or Y?
Perhaps you settle on Y, and complete this new draft, then come back to
the same place during a new round of editing, and you’ll find yourself
asking “Y or Z? Or was I wrong to abandon X? Now that I’ve changed the
Auntie Prue death scene, maybe I’d do better to stick with X here?” The
process only ends when you read the manuscript and think that, yes, you
like what’s written there. You can’t find a way to improve it.
Emotionally speaking (and in my
experience, at least), the thing that sustains you through the
editorial phase isn’t wild-eyed optimism, it’s a sense of relief.
You knew the first draft was
problematic – of course you did. That’s why you had to keep telling
yourself good-fortune fables to keep your spirits up. Now, with the
editing, you can start addressing problems, and you feel the
book starting to lift.
For me, that experience is of
finding a faster, lighter, more purposeful book emerging from the
manuscript I started with. It’s almost like you are pulling heavy,
sea-going timbers from a boat, to find a sleek fibreglass hull
underneath. That’s what allows you to be a brutal critic of your own
work: you can see that the criticism leads to a better reading
experience. You actually see it happening in front of you.
I don’t want to pretend that
these observations are universal. They may not be. In the end, you need
to arrange your emotional landscape in whatever way best suits you and
your life and your project. If wild optimism is what keeps you going
though that editorial phase, then please – be my wildly optimistic
guest. If you like to edit your book as you write (and I do), then by
all means bring something of the prison guard to your writing phase as
well as your purely editorial one.
But forgive yourself. Find the
process that works for you, and permit it. There isn’t a right or wrong
as regards process. There’s only a good or bad in terms of the final
manuscript. If you can navigate your little craft to the Harbour of
Good Writing, then North Pole / South Pole / Panama Canal? Just take
whatever route works for you.
Happy sailing, happy writing.
Till soon
Harry
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