Several months ago, in my first ever Arts Hub column, I confidently pronounced that, upon learning I was writing a book, every single person had just one of three reactions.
Now, six months on, and a full two and a half years through struggling to complete this damned book, I can speak with far greater confidence. I can tell you that when people see me they have only one question: have you finished yet?
I should be happy. Interest in whether or not I’ve finished might also mean interest in what I’m writing. And that, in turn, might mean I’ll actually have someone read the book if and when it’s finished (or, more to the point, if and when it ever gets published).
But in that awful, paranoid, insecure thing that is the mind of a yet-to-be published novelist, I immediately assume the worst. I imagine they are having a go at me, that they suppose my work has already been rejected by every publisher in the English-speaking world and that I’m hoping they’ll forget I ever mentioned it in the first place. Or, worse still, they might think I’ve done nothing, that it’s been yet another idea of mine that was never matched by the required level of follow through and that for all this time I’ve been doing nothing other than watching tv.
The reality is though that I’m still – yes, still – trying to finish that same book I started in April 2005.
Think of how long ago that was – it was before the London tube bombings, before England won the Ashes and then immediately lost them again, even before Facebook existed or Britney had her baby. In time it has taken me to get to here I could have almost finished an entire undergraduate degree, qualified as an airplane pilot, or put all of that time and effort into earning the money I haven’t beenmaking as a result of this book. Sometimes, it’s hard to remember why you ever started doing something so silly in the first place.
When things get really bad my wife tries to perk me up by reminding me that, if writing a book were that easy, everyone would have done it. And you know, sometimes that’s enough to bring my confidence back and get me thinking optimistically again. I tell myself, “She’s right you know – everything worth doing takes time and hard work”. I even remind myself that I’m not alone in my struggle: Joseph Heller took almost a decade to produce Catch-22.
Usually though my hopefulness doesn’t last.
It doesn’t last because I also remind myself that Catch-22 really was worth waiting almost a decade for, and most days I’m far from certain that what I am writing is. And besides, it was the only decent thing Heller wrote in his whole lifetime. Possibly only Harper Lee has been less prolific. But then again, those two didn’t have to be prolific because they put together one masterpiece each – they had something to say.
But most authors who make a living as a writer really have to write not one but several best sellers. And I’m not even there with my first.
If I really want to torture myself, I’ll drop into a bookstore just to see how many people have already finished what I haven’t yet. If you ever want to feel insecure as an aspiring novelist, do this: stand in the middle of any Borders and surround yourself with the names of people on spines, the hundreds of thousands of successful people who have already done it. Some people even managed it many, many times. Wilkie Collins, for instance, churned out (according to the ever-reliable Wikipedia) “27 novels, more than 50 short stories, at least 15 plays, and over 100 pieces of non-fiction work”. Not bad, even if many of his stories were.
The thing is though, when I am not indulging myself in such ridiculous self-pity (I’ve already pointed out how privileged I am to have the opportunity to write anything at all) I know that my wife – and all those Confucian sayings – are right.
To make anything decent, to get every little detail right, takes time, no matter what it is. And, when you have not yet been published it is far better to get everything right and give yourself the best chance of doing it perfectly than it is to whip something up and hope that someone will take it on.
I suppose that it is only when you have already published one masterpiece and publishers know people will buy your books no matter what, that you reach the point where you can afford to hand your agent crap knowing you and she will still get paid.
Until then, the answer is no – I still haven’t finished writing this damned book.
