When you announce to the world you are writing a novel, there are three standard reactions. Those who read a lot (and, I suspect usually harbour dreams of becoming a novelist themselves one day) tend to smirk. “Good luck,” they’ll tell you through gritted teeth. “But you do realise only one percent of manuscripts ever get published. You’ll have to be very, very good if you hope to be one of them.”
Those who read a little bit, and who will ultimately decide how many books you’ll sell if you are fortunate enough to break into that one percent you are constantly warned about, tend to respond by asking you about plot. “What’s it about?” is the first question they’ll throw at you. Then they’ll be unable to contain their disappointment when, ten minutes and hundreds of intricate questions later you’re unable to provide them with an enthralling account of every single twist and turn in this as-yet-unfinished thing you have started.
But the hardest people to deal with of all are the non-readers. When you tell them you’ve given up years of your life to putting together something that isn’t even true (well, not entirely) they always ask “why?” And that is the toughest question of all.
Why I have chosen to write a novel seems to me a question that is almost impossible to answer, particularly if I had hoped to give the impression that I am a normal, down-to-earth kind of guy and not the pompous twit they suspect I am. “Actually, you know, I think I see the world in an insightful, unique and entertaining way and I’m convinced when you read my book, you’ll agree.”
The reality is though, unless someone really does think they’ve got something to say, why would they have started writing in the first place? So I guess, if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that is one of the reasons why I’m doing what I’m doing.
That, however, is just an admission for this column, and not something I’d risk scaring people off by dropping on them the first time we meet (yes, yes, I’m well aware of the irony of dropping it on you right now). If someone wants to know why I write, I usually tell them I have no choice. I am completely and utterly unsuited to most normal sorts of work.
It’s true. I am way too uncoordinated to do anything with my hands; way too intolerant to work in an office environment (I had to learn that one the hard way); and way too irresponsible to do anything that requires supervision of anything or anyone else. Writing is the only means through which I can prevent myself from starving and maintain my sanity.
When I realised this almost four years ago, I quit work as a lawyer and took up an existence as a freelance writer and journalist, writing about the fascinating world of… the law. Writing a novel seems kind of like the natural progression of taking that first step. If I could churn a thousand words out in no time at all, how hard could eighty thousand words be? Now, it seems I’m trapped in this path. A by-product of taking myself out of the nine-to-five world means I have stopped learning all of the skills (and buzzwords) that most people take as given. So now, even if I wanted to return to stable employment, I am more-or-less completely devoid of any of the skills usually required to hold down a job. And every day I spend away from employment, it gets worse.
The reality is though, that is a convenient excuse. Even if I had stayed in a sensible job, I still would have had a crack at writing something “feature length”. It just would have been substantially harder and substantially more stressful than it has been. And, as you find out over the course of this column (if you are kind enough to check back some time), the process of putting together my book has already been stressful enough. The plight of a first-time novelist – which seems to consist of long periods of gloom, rare moments of euphoria and, ultimately odds you never, ever seem likely to conquer – is not one you would wish upon anyone. Well, OK, maybe your worst enemy. But only then if you were a particularly cruel type of person, which I am not yet unconvinced I am not.
The reason I think I am writing a novel, is that, like most people who end up doing it, I just can’t help myself. Even if it’s completely crap and no one reads it and it never, ever ends up between bound covers, I think I’m doing it just because the possibility exists. Because, without the skills of a carpenter, or an architect, or a musician, or even a businessperson, writing a novel might really be the only chance I have of ever making something.
