It’s interesting to consider what it takes to become a writer.
It’s a key focus among the questions that people commonly ask – ‘How did you get published?’ ‘What’s your writing process?’ ‘What word processing program do you use?’
As evident by the raft of self-publishing platforms out there, many, many people want to be able to call themselves writers, and want to be able to generate income by doing what they love. And they’re looking for the secret, the magic trick that will transform them from amateur to professional.
But the truth is, there really is no one thing.
Of course, you likely know this, but when I consider what I’ve done, in comparison to others I speak to who haven’t yet seen the same success with their writing efforts, I think the main difference is that I get it down and I send it out.
I’ve always been fairly disciplined in this respect, and good at maintaining a level of writing momentum. Even when my most recent novel slowed me down (significantly), I still kept writing, I kept working on other things. Within that process, I had to really re-assess whether this is what I wanted to do, whether I wanted to keep pushing, and once I had decided that I needed to stay with it, I had to re-arrange my day-to-day scheduled to make time for fiction work.
And eventually, I got it down, and I’ve written a lot more since (in what may come as welcome news for those struggling with a difficult project, once I’d gotten my second book out, and freed my mind of it, I was back into full swing, and I’ve written more in the last 12 months than I had in the previous 5 years).
For me, I feel like that’s been key – having the persistence to get the work done in the first place, then the confidence in it to send it out.
Many aspiring writers I talk to will say that they’ve always wanted to write, but they’ve never had the time. You won’t get anywhere unless you actually do it. Then there are others who would never dream of showing anyone else their stuff – or at least, not until it’s 100% perfect, and that, in many ways, is a noble, logical approach. But at some point, you need to send it out. So what if it gets rejected, or if you don’t hear anything back? At least you’re pushing. At least you’re trying to get to that next stage.
There is also a level of natural ability, and research required. I guess that’s another element which is often overlooked – while you might not necessarily see it, writers are constantly reading in the genres they write in, and in general, they’ve thoroughly studied writing theory and process too. It may not be obvious, but every writer has to do this work – if you want to write and be published, you have to know the market, and you have to understand what works.
Reading what’s out there, and understanding literary analysis is key.
As a basic example, sometimes my wife will be like ‘why don’t you just write some big selling commercial fiction book and set yourself up financially?’ Because I can’t – because in order to do that. I would have to read hundreds of books in that genre, in order to understand the language flows, the tropes, the ways in which to best communicate that type of story. Genre fiction may seem more straight-forward than ‘lit fic’, more formulaic to a degree, but you still have to do the work to make your stuff great. You have to know the style, in and out – you have to read, a lot.
Again, this is what all authors do, and that’s likely why there is no magic pill, no secret tip that can turn you into a published author. Because, for one, there is no set path – there are no prescriptive guides, everyone’s evolution is different. And really, it comes down to work, to your capacity to learn and adapt, to your commitment to understanding your story, your genre, and your ability to connect everything together into a compelling piece of your own.
Maybe, then, that’s the secret. It’s not easy, it’s no shortcut. But the truth is you have to do the work.
Get it down, fix it up, then send it out. Then start on the next thing.
I have a confession to make – I don’t always finish the books that I start.
And it’s not necessarily because they’re not engaging or interesting, it’s not boredom, definitively, that’ll make me put something down. As a writer, I read for education as much as for entertainment, and I often find myself so inspired or my imagination so triggered by the way the book is written or a certain idea within the text, that I drift into my own work and move back to writing.
I imagine a lot of writers have the same, though definitely when I tell some people that I don’t finish every book I read, they can’t understand it. For some, starting a book or a movie also requires completion – you have to know how the story ends, it’s like a need, a compulsion. But the ending, for me, is hardly a consideration. If I’m inspired by a certain aspect, or taken by some element, then I try to run with that and use it as fuel for my own work.
That’s also not to say I don’t complete anything – I read plenty of books to completion. But it’s almost become a guilty admission, a shameful secret. I don’t always get all the way through to the last page of every story. Yet, I probably still get as much value from the process as somebody who has done so.
It also feels kind of hypocritical – I don’t finish every book I read, yet I pain over every single page of my work in the hopes that it’s engaging enough to keep people interested. That, of course, relies on people reading to completion, so I write for people who do read. But then again, I guess if there’s some aspect of my work that people find inspiring, that’s fine too – I’d be glad I was able to provide some level of value.
It is interesting though when people ask ‘What are you reading?’ or ‘What have you read this year?’ I’ve read lots and lots of things, and I always have several books on the go. But could I give you a full rundown of the plot of each one – no. But I can show what things I’m working on.
It’s not the same, but that’s kind of how I look at it.
I was amazed when I saw it, startled for a moment. It was right up near the roadside, behind the high fence of the reserve. A deer, a huge male. Antlers reaching up like dried lightning, poking from the side of its great head.
The fence surrounded the lake, a water source for the region, and the wire mesh was around eight feet high with twists of barbed wire crowned along the top. It traced the distance of the lake and its surrounds, kept it all in, a haven for animals like this.
The deer didn’t know about the fence, that it kept people out, and the big one – there were two others a distance behind. The large male stood looking out at the road, monitoring the cars flashing by. The others went about business, nudging at the leaves across the ground.
And the cars were rushing by. It’s an 80 kilometre zone, so normally you’d just zoom on through, but today, I saw the deer.
A sambar deer is what it was. Good eating, my uncle told me later.
I turned the car around and drove back along the road slow, scanning the forest, then I pulled over so I could see, so I could watch the animals as they moved between the trees. Till they faded away, merged into the thin trunks and dried leaves. Till they were gone.
I sat there, watching on, watching the other cars go by. And I felt like stopping them, like standing out in the roadway and pointing at the sambar deer, saying ‘Have you ever seen this?’ ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’
A trend that’s developed in literary circles over time is the politicization of literary works, particularly through festivals, events, etc.
And that’s not necessarily a bad thing – all art, by some measure, is political in nature. But much of that is driven by surrounding circumstance, and comes through in capturing the authenticity of the world in which the work is set, as opposed to the author setting out to make a statement on the same.
Most authors – and I’m speaking in generalization here – start with the story first, the idea that sparks something in them, that compels them to explore further. That story will likely have political and societal elements, but the impetus for writing, in most cases, is not those factors. It’s the story first, the exploration of an idea, then the craft of writing to capture it in the right way. Definitely, if there’s a timely angle or element, and you can accentuate that within the context of the broader narrative, you should, but the driving force is the human heart, the experience at the core, the story that captures best what intrigues you, as the writer, about this tale.
I guess, my concern with the overt politicization of literature is that we risk amplifying elitism – already, literary fiction is seen as the domain of the well educated, the higher end of society. But literature is for everyone, it’s about sharing the world from a different perspective, and as such, we should be looking to share the idea of writing and literary creation to people at all levels of society, in order to encourage them to capture their own experiences in a way that best suits their message.
You don’t have to be an academic professor well versed in mythical theory to write a great novel, you can be anyone, anyone at all who has a passion for writing. That’s what we should seek to encourage. Given this, my view is that literary events, in the majority, should be more focused on the process of creation, the sparking of ideas, the method through which you learn the craft itself. The passion for the process is more important than the political drive behind the narrative.
That won’t universally be the case, I know, and there are many literary events that do focus on such. But the discussion around literature, at times, has been hijacked by the political movement/s of the times. There are positives and negatives to this, but really, focusing on the elements of the craft themselves is most crucially important.
Author Jonathan Franzen appears to have stirred up controversy with his ’10 Rules for Novelists’ piece recently published on LitHub.
And you can see why – people are upset because it challenges how they do things, it implies their approach will be less successful, and the listing takes a very elitist view, particularly through the use of the term ‘rules’.
But really, who cares?
If you don’t agree with Franzen’s ‘rules’, don’t apply them to your process.
It’d be hard to argue that there’s zero value to them – Franzen has published many critically acclaimed novels, he clearly knows a thing or two about the endeavour, likely more than most. But as with all things related to writing, you need to find what works for you, then work with that. Once you’ve established why you’re writing, what you’re trying to achieve, what you want to get out of the process, then you can adopt (or indeed ignore) outside recommendations and ideas in a more creatively beneficial way.
The truth is, there are no prescriptive ‘rules’ to writing. If there were a set of clear guidelines you could follow, then every aspiring novelist would do so, and we’d all be published and successful, etc. But that’s not how it works.
If someone says ‘you can’t do this’, someone else will be able to show you an example which defies it – some would say, for example, that you can’t have pictures in a literary novel. But ‘The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time’ does just that, and it works perfectly to illustrate the relevant points. Every ‘rule’ can be broken if it fits into what you’re trying to achieve.
The truth of great writing is just that – that you need to find the truth of the story you want to tell, then expose that within the narrative.
Every story you write, or want to write, will have a personal connection to you, a reason that you connect with it, and if you can find that and link it back to your own psychology, then definitely, your work will be better for it (this is what Franzen’s referring to in his second rule above). Writing is a way of better understanding the world and your place within it, better understanding the human experience more broadly, and connecting with others. It’s the ‘why’, it’s viewing things from another perspective and not merely reading or writing the words, but feeling them too.
You need to find the voice of the characters, you have to understand them, you need to feel what they feel. Then you need to re-create that emotion within the body of your readers.
That’s no easy feat, but there are no prescriptive ‘rules’ on how to achieve this.
The more tangible you can make the world of your novel, the more effective it will be – and you do that through honesty, through knowing the story, the scenes, the characters. If you really, truly know these elements, and can translate them into the right words, through your learned experience and understanding of effective language, then your story will work.
Definitely, it’s worth noting how other authors go about doing this, but there are no ‘set in stone’ regulations on literary communication.
In a recent episode of The Garrett podcast, author Jessica Townsend – who’s book ‘Nevermoor’ is one of the biggest selling debut Australian children’s books on record – provided a great note of advice for aspiring writers, but it wasn’t a big focus.
Here’s what Jessica said:
This is so important – most people get so caught up with the story they want to get out and onto the page, that they neglect the more intricate details which enable users to connect with your characters and scenes.
This, I’d argue, is also one of the key strengths of George R.R. Martin’s ‘A Song of Ice and Fire‘ series – while the setting is clearly fantasy, and there are events and elements which cannot exist in real life, the truly engaging aspects that really draw you in as a reader are based on how people would actually live in that reality.
For example, in most medieval fantasy stories, the princess gets rescued, the nobleman wins out, the kingdom is saved. But if you really consider the reality of such a world, it would truly be brutal. Justice is often based on strength, power can be wrested by combat. If this is how things really were, it wouldn’t be the good guys who would win, it would be the ones who had the fewest morals, who were willing to do whatever it took to exert dominance and control – which is exactly what happens.
That subverts the stereotypical fantasy format (at least in a mainstream sense), but it feels much more real, the responses and reactions that each character has feel more genuine, with each having his or her own motivations and ideas.
That level of detail is what makes a story come alive – the idea of fiction is to re-create the emotion of the scene, the world you’re creating, within the mind and body of the reader. The smells are important, the little elements that stand out, that trigger a response.
A description like:
“It was so dark he couldn’t see a thing.”
Is nowhere near as viscerally effective as:
“The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings.”
Okay, that’s probably cheating – few can do so as well as Cormac McCarthy. But you get the point – you don’t have to go overboard and include every detail, but you do need to understand what’s actually happening, why every character is there. What people would notice if they were within the scene.
You might not think such details are hugely relevant, but if they stood out to you, they’ll likely help set the scene for your reader. Jessica hasn’t highlighted it a major point, but it is crucial, and it will make your writing ‘come alive’, to use an artsy cliche.
Yesterday, I was lucky enough to be part of an art project with Tim and Zoe from ‘31 Days In‘. The duo are travelling to different parts of the world as part of an effort to capture the essence of each location with their art – and they’ve done some great stuff, worth checking out the link.
As part of the project, they created this great image of my and my dog Chester at home.
“Poetry is the biggest help in writing stories that I know. You learn so much about rhythm and acoustics and compression and selectivity. No wasted words, no “furniture moving.”
Her Body Like a Lantern Next to Me
There’s this movie I am watching: my love’s belly almost five months pregnant with cancer, more like a little rock wall piled and fitted inside her than some prenatal rounding. Over there’s her face near the frying pan she’s bent over, but there’s no water in the pan, and so, no reflection. No pool where I might gather such a thing as a face, or sew it there on a tablet made of water. To have and to haul it away, sometimes dipping into her in the next room that waits for me. • I am old at this. I am stretching the wick again into my throat when the flame burns down. She’s splashing in the tub and singing, I love him very much, though I’m old and tired and cancerous. It’s spring and now she’s stopping traffic, lifting one of her painted turtles across the road. Someone’s honking, pumping one arm out the window, cheering her on. She falls then like there’s a house on her back, hides her head in the bank grass and vomits into the ditch. • She keeps her radioactive linen, Bowl, and spoon separate. For seven days we sleep in different rooms. Over there’s the toilet she’s been heaving her roots into. One time I heard her through the door make a toast to it, Here’s to you, toilet bowl. There’s nothing poetic about this. I have one oar that hangs from our bedroom window, and I am rowing our hut in the same desperate circle. • I warm her tea then spread cream cheese over her bagel, and we lie together like two guitars, A rose like a screw in each of our mouths. There’s that liquid river of story that sometimes sweeps us away from all this, into the ha ha and the tender. At night the streetlights buzz on again with the stars, and the horses in the field swat their tails like we will go on forever. • I’m at my desk herding some lost language when I notice how quiet she has been. Twice I call her name and wait after my voice has lost its legs and she does not ring back. Dude, I’m still here, she says at last then the sound of her stretching her branches, and from them the rain falling thick through our house. I’m racing to place pots and pans everywhere. Bottle her in super canning jars. For seventeen years, I’ve lined the shelves of our root cellar with them. One drop for each jar. I’ll need them for later.