In any drawn-out labour, there comes the time when you need to ask: ‘How am I doing?’
To share or not to share?
In any drawn-out labour, there comes the time when you need to ask: ‘How am I doing?’
Writing is not amenable to an annual assessment and review. You can’t ask your boss or your colleagues what they think. So one of the questions I faced after completing that first draft: should I show it to someone and, if so, who?
It was pretty pointless doing that if all I wanted was a pat on the back. I realised that having my ego stroked, while undeniably welcome, wouldn’t help Grosse Fugue be as good as it could possibly be. But if I wasn’t planning to publish, why reveal it? What could it gain?
Well, the truth was simple. I might have started off with noble intentions of purity of purpose, my high artistic ideals never to be sacrificed on Mammon’s altar. But the more I wrote, the clearer became the notion that the world should not be deprived of such breathless brilliance, that I owed it to my fellow humans to share my work. Or, more seriously, that maybe, just maybe, it would no longer be satisfying enough just to write, now I had to be read.
It’s only fair in this sort of confessional to be open and honest. I did harbour huge ambitions for the book. Once it was sitting there, I wanted it to make a difference, to challenge as well as to entertain and move.
Two Russians were banging around in my head. Myakovsky remarked that “Art is not a mirror to reflect the world, but a hammer with which to shape it.” Perhaps more appositely, Zamyatin said this: “There are books of the same chemical composition as dynamite. The only difference is that a piece of dynamite explodes once, whereas a book explodes a thousand times.”
Well, I wanted my novel to explode a thousand and more times.
I had decided to postpone the sharing thing until I’d completed a first draft. Then I started talking to people and, if they seemed genuinely interested, I’d give them a print-out to read.
And then I waited for a response.
I don’t recommend this approach. Silence can only be interpreted as judgement-by-cowardice. Some commented constructively, others were enthusiastic. But I lost count of the number of people who said bugger all. This was hideous.
So, in the end, I decided to see how literary agents would respond. That was fun.
Ian Phillips is a freelance writer for businesses whose first novel, Grosse Fugue, will be published by Alliance Publishing Press on April 3rd. He’s tweeting developments @Ian_at_theWord.
Adrian,
You're right to stick to your knitting, if it suits you. Authenticity is key in any campaign of the kind you're envisaging.
We all know that getting published is as much about skewing the odds in your favour as it is about the sheer happenstance of luck. The industry is studded with examples of the fortuitous discovery on the one side, and the publication of wretched dross on the other, merely because it fits a particular commercial formula.
Those odds can be tweaked by visiting sites like this, investing in courses, conferences and mercilessly picking brains. But, in the end, we nail our colours to the mast of quality, hoping that we (a) have copious amounts and (b) find the right agent/publisher who recognises it. The extent we are able/willing to get our work out there determines, in the end, whether that quality is spotted. This is where self-publishing, ebooks and marketing come into play, of course.
As to quotes, well - yup - you got me, I am rather partial. In my book there are no quotes in chapter heads. One section does have a quotation at the outset but it is, effectively, part of the text (which is, in any event) rather off-the-wall.
I do deploy the odd quote but they tend to come in set-pieces, like speeches and interviews. I don't think it's easy to make them work in ordinary dialogue or narrative stream.
I'm agnostic about epigrammatic quotes at the outset of chapters. It all depends on the context, though would worry that once one embarks upon the device, an apposite quote MUST be found for each chapter, which may be a burden and/or lead to artificiality/a variable standard.
I guess there comes a point where we have to be a little brave about it.
Writing in the comfort of our space - be that a kitchen or study or bedroom - we create a world in which we set our story in and want to perfect that as well as the story itself. The book becomes something very close and personal to you.
When the time comes we decide to let people in, to join our imaginary world. Knowing full well that this world and our characters is something we have lovingly created for years. And we know they will pass comment on it.
I've learnt to take criticism, not put up a barrier and act upon it - I studied graphic design at college/university so criticism of my work was commonplace. As I have said before, I know I can trust my wife who is reading through the first draft of my novel. Even before I asked her to read through it I asked her to be brutally honest. She has.
I'm sure though, that when the time comes for me to share it outside of the comfort of my home, that agents/editors and publishers will have their own views. And like you Ian, that's when I think it will get really interesting!
Good luck with that, Gayle.
If your experience is anything like mine, there won't be a categorical verdict on what you've created.
I always ask my clients one question at the outset of any project: "What will success look like?" I think we do well to answer that question before we share our work. For some, the praise, admiration even, of friends and family may well suffice. For others, it may be an albeit uninformed verdict of commercial viability.
Of course, with partners, it's different as you really don't want them to feel that the hours we spend locked in our garrets has been time wasted - and apart - from them, even if they acknowledge the imperative nature of our drive to write.
I never really posed the success question to myself. Doing so retrospectively, I think I was looking for validation of my writing skills from people I knew who read widely. It mattered less their reaction to the actual story. I wanted (? needed) to hear that, yes, I could write.