Well, I’ve finished the first draft of my novel. The natural corollary of this is telling you what you should learn from my experience.
There’s a paradox with writing advice. The people who most need it, and those that seek it the most, are start-up writers sifting through the ten thousand magical formulae out there for the particular magical formula that will elevate their writing into the troposphere.
Yet all those giving and being asked for the advice are grizzled veterans with years, or decades, of writing experience under their belts. Their actual memory of starting up as a writer is distant and sozzled by too many glasses of scotch and wearing that fedora too tight for too damn long (seriously, what the hell is it with writers and fedoras?)
So the upside is I can reflect on all this new-to-writing stuff and it will be fresh, as fresh as last week (literally – I finished writing the book a few days ago). The downside is I’m quite possibly a terrible writer. Just like the claim that the world is 6000 years old or that wind farm syndrome is a real thing: there’s no credible evidence I can write fiction.
I do drink a lot of scotch though, so I feel compelled to get this all down. If I were to actually make it as a writer and someone asked me for writing advice ten years from now, I’d remember bugger all about what I did starting out. I’ll probably just say something fatuous and vague like, “do whatever works for you.” Seriously, you ever hear me say that, you have my permission to go ahead and punch me right in the dick.
1) Write every day
Many, many writers will say: “go at your own pace and do whatever works for you.” To which I retort: shut the hell up, arseholes.
Let explain my pithy rejoinder.
Your pace is not fast enough. My pace isn’t fast enough. My pace is reading half-a-dozen Philip K Dick short stories, watching an old noir film, building a pillow fort with my son, watching clips of men getting hit on the groin on YouTube and then making myself a delicious cheese tabasco and egg bagel. That’s my pace: zero words.
Procrastination is endemic to the human race, doubly so to writers, and triply to those arseholes in the fossil fuel industry when it comes to converting to renewables.
The sub-point being: crash or crash through
Write every day. You can have the weekends off if you want. I take Sundays. Set yourself a minimum each day, and reach it. If you’re feeling good, exceed it. If you’re feeling cruddy, bash out the minimum then go sit in a pillow fort with a cheese bagel and a large glass of scotch. It’s a win-win-win situation.
The most satisfying days are when I don’t want to write. I’m sick, or my son is sick, or I’m trapped under a heavy object and can’t feel my legs. Those days, when I reach my minimum, I feel absurdly invigorated. If you’re a writer, writing is by definition good for your soul; more than ever on days you feel you aren’t up for it.
Writers are sensitive creatures. This isn’t a criticism. We have to be sensitive because we expose ourselves to the universe, soak in all that pain and longing and dark matter and then pour it all back out onto the page. The problem with this is that other writers know writers are sensitive souls and so say, “hey – write at your own pace. Do what you need to do. You’re ok and I’m ok.”
Here’s the thing: you’re not okay and I’m an arsehole.
I’ve never met a writer who is okay and I wouldn’t want to. Not being okay is what drives a writer to write – bringing structure to the chaos in their minds, form to brooding, meaning from the absurdity of existence, release from the pent up anger at being criticised for wearing a fedora.
Don’t give another writer absolution for not writing: give them hell.
2) Listen to everyone (but what the fuck would they know)
Join a writer’s group: listen to everything they say. Find a book or blog twitter account or essay by a writer you love: read it. Consider carefully every criticism of your beta-readers.
Just be prepared to discard a lot of it. There’s this fine balancing act between humility and ego. Too much of one, and your story looks like it a bloated minute outlining the thoughts of a committee, too much of the other, and you’ll end up with a self-indulgent splayed spatchcock of a piece with way too many authorial digressions, filter words, and ruminations on people wearing hats.
As that emo millionaire Neil Gaiman said: “Remember: when people tell you something’s wrong or doesn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.”
3) Listen to yourself (knowing you’re a damn fool)
For me, it starts with a feeling, a nagging at the edge of my conscious mind. Maybe it’s the ending, which looks clean and neatly edited on paper, but still leaves me feeling dissatisfied. Or a middle section that in the reading looks serviceable, but away from the page is utterly forgettable. Or dialogue from a character that sounds snappy, but just doesn’t ring true. Sometimes it’s a critique from a reader that raises a problem you never considered – as per Gaiman, they can’t quite put their finger on the exact problem, but they have found a problem.
For me, the solution either comes instantly or weeks later. There’s no in-between. I’ll either cry BULLSHIT instantly and re-write it on the spot, or it come out of the blue sometime later – when I’m going for a run, or drifting off to sleep, or watching people get hit in the groin on YouTube.
Sub-point: carry a notebook or smart-thing that allows you to put your revelations down immediately.
4) Write short stories
The best decision I’ve made so far with my writing was to do a series of short stories to help me ‘world build’ for my novel. They’ve done that, which is quite nice, but more importantly they’ve ushered in vast improvements to my writing craft.
While the short story form is quite different to that of the novel, I nonetheless found it particularly useful for at least four reasons: learning to use language economically, learning to submerse the reader immediately in a rich and textured new world, and to efficiently portray characters with depth.
Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, the dramatically shortened cycle of write-edit-critique-edit-submit-rejection for the short story does in a month what normally takes more than a year with a novel.
As I edit my novel today – which I began 18 months ago – it is abundantly clear that my writing has improved significantly. Short stories are largely to thank for this. 18 months from now I may (indeed, I hope to) say the same thing again.
5) Don’t get cranky at your partner when they critique your work
My wife is a saint, a veritable saint I’m telling you. She also reads everything I write before it goes to my beta readers. I almost always react badly: “that’s not what I’m trying to say at all – you don’t understand!” or “NO NO NO NO!” or “I’m filing for divorce!”
Then I sleep and reflect on criticisms and almost always it is good advice. But if it weren’t, there’s no point in reacting badly. Your work needs to be critiqued like Vox Day needs an uppercut: a lot.
Don’t ask for something your work desperately needs and then begrudge the person giving it to you.
Sub-point: Reliable first readers are like 21-year-old bottles of Glenlivet: rare, magnificent, and not to be consumed too quickly.
I have a couple of beta readers who are not writers, but simply love reading. I love them.
After this I belong to an award-winning, frequently published (and therefore intimidating) writer’s group who have a crit circle. Their feedback, plus the feedback from my reliable friends, is worth its weight in literary gold (does that metaphor make sense? I don’t think it does. This is the problem with my articles: I don’t subject them to beta reading).
Okay, this is getting too long. Not much evidence of a sparse, economical writing style here. Thus, I will finish with the following succinct suggestions:
6) Exercise every day – it helps you think, sleep, and gives you more energy to climb the novel-writing mountain.
7) Read widely and well
8) Get out of the house or apartment – otherwise your stories will drift towards being about a loner sitting in an apartment.
9) Disconnect from the internet completely at least one day per week – the creative mind needs room to breathe.
10) A lot of time in front of the computer often means a lot of time on social media: resist the urge to shout at people on social media, especially when you’re drunk.
11) Don’t, in the initial excitement that comes with embarking on writing a novel, send it to a publisher too early. The first draft of your first four chapters is terrible. Believe me – I learned this the hard way.
12) Same goes for short stories – get critiques on your work, edit, then let it sit for a couple of weeks. Then come back to it and re-read fresh. Early on I was sending out short stories immediately – too embarrassed to show them to beta readers but apparently not embarrassed enough to deter me from sending them straight to professional magazines. Duh.
13) Live in Ha Noi. Seriously, this city is amazing.
14) Love what you do. I came to writing fiction at the age of 37, after a decade in semi-skilled labour followed by a decade as an aid worker. Writing, as a way of life, beats all of these hands down (though being an aid worker is rewarding in different ways). As a writer your work requirements are to write, read, and think as much as you can. Never bemoan such a privileged, intellectually satisfying, rewarding calling.
Email: Voight0Kampff (AT) gmail.com.
Twitter: @DarklingEarth