Would you like to share any ideas for someone who is starting out as a writer?
I'm thinking back to that day almost two years ago when I delivered the fifth and final (!) draft of my new novel, Afraid of the Light. I had finished its first incarnation a year earlier - in a version that could best be called ‘the vomit draft’... as my first drafts are always overwritten, expositional and top-heavy, with far too many narrative digressions. The process by which this somewhat shaggy initial draft ended up forty-six thousand words shorter and considerably re-thought and sharpened is a story in itself - and also speaks volumes about the superb relationship with my task-master editor, Gillian Stern, whom I have engaged to work with me on my last three novels... and who is decidedly old school when it comes to challenging me to endlessly up my game as a novelist.
Now Afraid of the Light happened to be my twenty-fourth book (eighteen of which are novels) And if asked to find some sort of epigrammatic summation of this thirty-two years of literary work - a ‘how to do it’ quote about the metier of writing fiction - I would immediately point the way toward the following gem from Somerset Maugham... who noted with sardonic elegance:
“There are five basic rules for writing a novel... and nobody knows what they are”.
I fully embrace Maugham’s world-view. As such what can I tell a younger writer trying to get a foothold as a novelist right now? Having just done a fourteen part online master class (in both French and English) on writing fiction for The Artist Academy I continue to emphasize the fact that, as Maugham himself noted, there are no rules - and that every writer creates his/her own habits and rhythm of output depending on personal circumstances and need. Flaubert, for example, wrote 100 words per day - which meant that he expended five years on Madame Bovary. But the man remained a bachelor with no dependents and a nice trust fund - so the need to earn from his pen was never there. On the other extreme there’s Georges Simenon - whom Andre Gide called one of the greatest francophone writers of the 20th Century - could turn out 40 manuscript pages a day, wrote a novel in less than three weeks, and published over 300 books during his life. Does slow writing produce greater writing? Dostoveski wrote ‘Crime and Punishment’ in three months to pay off his vertiginous gambling debts. Should you set aside a specific time per day for writing? Must you find a private place to create - or can you, like me, write in a café or on the tube? And more tellingly, how do you tackle such technical components of fiction as exposition, character development, narrative rhythm and propulsion? He was in his mid-fifties and not looking good on it. German. A little chunky. Wearing a red Chemise Lacoste and khakis and really awful tan runners. His gut hung over his belt. His face displayed world-weariness and a sense of vaguely suppressed distress. He had a wedding ring on his finger. He had a cheap briefcase full of paperwork. Like me he was awaiting the early flight from Berlin to Zurich. He spoke in a loud voice on the phone. His accent was thick, Bavarian. My German is reasonable. I followed little of what he was saying. Was he speaking to his boss, begging for another chance? To his wife or significant other, begging for another chance? To a grown child, begging for another chance? To a lover, begging for another chance? All range of possibilities – but the truth is: it could have been none of the above. I tried to listen in, to follow his deeply argot-laden German, to find out who he was, what he was… and, most tellingly, why he was in such clear distress at the moment. He saw me studying him, listening in. He looked up from his phone and barked at me: “Was mocheten Sir warten?” I apologized (“Entschuldigungen!”) and turned away. A few minutes later we were boarding the flight together. I turned to him and said:
“Ich hoffe, ihr Tag wird besser” (“I hope your day improves”).
He looked surprised by this statement. He stared down at his feet.
“Es wird nicht” he said (“It won’t), then added: “Aber… danke” (“But thank you”).
Remember when you next see someone in distress: every life is significant. Every life is its own novel. And we owe others empathy because we all so crave it ourselves. We all need to be reminded: we are not all alone in the dark morass that is so much of life.
Now Afraid of the Light happened to be my twenty-fourth book (eighteen of which are novels) And if asked to find some sort of epigrammatic summation of this thirty-two years of literary work - a ‘how to do it’ quote about the metier of writing fiction - I would immediately point the way toward the following gem from Somerset Maugham... who noted with sardonic elegance:
“There are five basic rules for writing a novel... and nobody knows what they are”.
I fully embrace Maugham’s world-view. As such what can I tell a younger writer trying to get a foothold as a novelist right now? Having just done a fourteen part online master class (in both French and English) on writing fiction for The Artist Academy I continue to emphasize the fact that, as Maugham himself noted, there are no rules - and that every writer creates his/her own habits and rhythm of output depending on personal circumstances and need. Flaubert, for example, wrote 100 words per day - which meant that he expended five years on Madame Bovary. But the man remained a bachelor with no dependents and a nice trust fund - so the need to earn from his pen was never there. On the other extreme there’s Georges Simenon - whom Andre Gide called one of the greatest francophone writers of the 20th Century - could turn out 40 manuscript pages a day, wrote a novel in less than three weeks, and published over 300 books during his life. Does slow writing produce greater writing? Dostoveski wrote ‘Crime and Punishment’ in three months to pay off his vertiginous gambling debts. Should you set aside a specific time per day for writing? Must you find a private place to create - or can you, like me, write in a café or on the tube? And more tellingly, how do you tackle such technical components of fiction as exposition, character development, narrative rhythm and propulsion? He was in his mid-fifties and not looking good on it. German. A little chunky. Wearing a red Chemise Lacoste and khakis and really awful tan runners. His gut hung over his belt. His face displayed world-weariness and a sense of vaguely suppressed distress. He had a wedding ring on his finger. He had a cheap briefcase full of paperwork. Like me he was awaiting the early flight from Berlin to Zurich. He spoke in a loud voice on the phone. His accent was thick, Bavarian. My German is reasonable. I followed little of what he was saying. Was he speaking to his boss, begging for another chance? To his wife or significant other, begging for another chance? To a grown child, begging for another chance? To a lover, begging for another chance? All range of possibilities – but the truth is: it could have been none of the above. I tried to listen in, to follow his deeply argot-laden German, to find out who he was, what he was… and, most tellingly, why he was in such clear distress at the moment. He saw me studying him, listening in. He looked up from his phone and barked at me: “Was mocheten Sir warten?” I apologized (“Entschuldigungen!”) and turned away. A few minutes later we were boarding the flight together. I turned to him and said:
“Ich hoffe, ihr Tag wird besser” (“I hope your day improves”).
He looked surprised by this statement. He stared down at his feet.
“Es wird nicht” he said (“It won’t), then added: “Aber… danke” (“But thank you”).
Remember when you next see someone in distress: every life is significant. Every life is its own novel. And we owe others empathy because we all so crave it ourselves. We all need to be reminded: we are not all alone in the dark morass that is so much of life.
