Image courtesy of Chocolate Geek

This question was prompted by a book I’m reading, novel in a year, by Louise Doughty. The book is divided up into weeks, and every other week has an exercise. One of the early exercises is to sum up why you want to be a novelist, in one sentence. One sentence – that’s tricky.

The Love of it

I spent some time trying to think of some deep purpose to my ambition; something original, that might sound wise or insightful. But I kept coming back to the fact that I really like reading novels. I’ve always liked them. As far back as I can remember, I have enjoyed getting lost in another world. Novels are long enough to do that, and I find them much more absorbing than any other medium.

And what I enjoy, I want to emulate. Or, if not emulate (although there have been many authors I admire, I only want to sound like myself when I write), at least make my own version thereof.

My Readers Need Me!

No, I cannot pretend that I have some altruistic desire to share the pleasure I get from reading – to impart the same with my own work. In part, that would seem rather arrogant of me, I think. It’s not that I don’t believe that there are people out there that would enjoy my work, but I do not assume that the world is clamouring for a novel by Matt Roberts. And I don’t see it as my duty that I write for these people; that it would be a selfish tragedy to deny them such works of genius!

Apart from that, I do not require readers to want to write a novel. Without anyone to read it, I would likely still write it anyway.

Climbing the Mountain

The challenge might be another part of it, though. It’s a long old process, especially for those of us who can only write in small snatches. But I imagine a day when my novel is finally completed, and know that the relief and pride that come from such an accomplishment will be worth it. That is one of the things that spurs me on. Without relishing the challenge, I believe I would be consigned to writing quarter-finished pieces, constantly starting on the next project, but never finishing.

So, why do I want to be a novelist, in one sentence?
I want to become a novelist, because I love novels, and relish the feeling of satisfaction I’ll have when I finally complete my own.

Perhaps not amazingly profound, but true, and motivation enough. Have you ever taken the time to consider why you want to be a novelist, poet, shirt story writer, script writer etc.? I’d love to read your reasons!

What’s so good about it? Well, it’s extremely dense, for one thing. That doesn’t sound like a pleasant read, but every page is chock full of science, social commentary and insightful character actions and thoughts. In this the density does not become a slog but the reason to continue. It’s engaging and there’s something to learn on every page.

Now, when I read a good book, it’s often an inspiring thing. Many is the Stephen King or Chuck Palanuik book that’s been finished with one thought echoing round in my head, “I want to write”! But Red Mars is one novel where the mountain looks too steep. I think of just the science alone, and I cringe at the hours, days, weeks that must have been involved to get that level of detail. Then there’s the social and political commentary. While the events that take place are easy enough to dream up, it’s the detail (again) of the characters’ comments, beliefs and ideals that intimidate. Not forgetting that the book spans some thirty odd years in the lives of completely believable characters. And this is the first book in a trilogy!

Now, I do realise that this is quite a bit of whingy hand-wringing on my part. In truth (and even though it’s been quite a while since a book has affected me like this), I shrugged it off fairly quickly. There will always be someone better than you (much, much better probably. No offence), but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a place for you and that you should give up. I’m saying “you” but I am of course referring to myself, too.

I guess I can keep it as an example of something to aspire to, even if I think I’ll never get there. An even better take home message, is that our writing is different, and should stay that way. I should not be intimidated (or even inspired) to alter my writing style in worship of another writer. I shall continue with my writing and let my style grow, not in isolation, but in its own way.

We could get a really terrifying list of books here, but let’s embrace that! What books have intimidated you, and why?

Well, here’s the thing, and I know I’m probably preaching to the converted here, but you should want to be influenced! You should expose yourself to as many voices as possible in the hope that it will help your own voice mature; you should want to be inspired by other writers’ ideas (this doesn’t mean you have to rip them off, as suggested by the comment above).

Reading others’ writing can teach us so much. Here’s a quick (and by no means exhaustive) list of things to look out for when reading:

• Structure (of whole story, of chapter, of paragraph)
• Pace
• Characterisation (how is a character put across?)
• How does the theme come across?
• Use of description (when and how much)

Okay, that really wasn’t exhaustive, but it’s the main things that I think about at the moment when I’m reading a novel (currently reading Red Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson by the way, which is amazing).

The single most important thing for me though (and feel free to disagree. That’s what commenting is for!) is you should learn what you like. What sections did you enjoy most? Why was that? Was it because of a particularly witty bit of wordplay, because it made you laugh, it got your blood pumping, you just got introduced to a new favourite character, you were intrigued, you had a plot epiphany… on and on and on. Read widely, and you can build quite an impressive list of things you like, and even better, these valuable lessons will start to infiltrate your own writing almost automatically.

You want proof? Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t give you anything rock solid. The best I can come up with is that I have observed that those people who are in the habit if reading, are more comfortable with the act of writing. I myself feel that I am a much better writer due to my enjoyment of books since childhood.

I know. Not exactly an exhaustive study under scientific conditions, is it. But it makes intuitive sense that those who read will learn something about writing from it, especially if that’s where your focus lies.

There are other reasons to read a lot, which I will probably cover in another post. In the mean time, if you would like to discuss it in more detail, the comments section beckons!

…About Running is, I feel, an absolute must read for aspiring writers. The book itself is a journey through Murakami’s training for the New York marathon, and as the title suggests, it’s partly about how you train yourself to run long distance. However, the parallel’s he draws between training to be a runner and training to be a writer are highly appropriate.

Because this is what I feel I need to do. Of course, some people just have the talent to write, and can do so easily. But as Murakami notes, there is a difference between natural talent and developing the skill. You need not have a vast amount of talent to write as long as you develop the necessary skills. You can train yourself to focus, to concentrate, and to build your endurance. In essence, it’s a lot about what this site is about. I myself feel I have some degree of talent when it comes to – not necessarily writing per se – but in generating interesting material. Of course, its fine being able to generate the material, but it’s pointless if I can’t get it down on paper (or more rather, in my hard drive)

This is where the training comes in. Dedicating a set period of time each day to writing, to focusing solely on the act of getting things written down is essential. Especially for longer works. Writing a longer fiction is a lot like running a marathon. It can take months, perhaps a year to get through a complete draft, and when you look at it in terms of that, it can be daunting, a lot like a runner standing at the starting line and looking to the finish 26 miles away. How can I do this?

It’s all about the training.

I won’t even pretend that I can explain it as well as this book does, but a few major points I took away from what I’ve read thus far concern techniques that Murakami utilises, that were also utilised by Hemmingway and Raymond Chandler.

Firstly is dedicating the time to writing, sitting down at your desk (or in your private writing space) and focusing. Even if you don’t write anything, just dedicating the time, building up your stamina and concentration for writing will serve you well, especially for those longer projects.

And secondly, once you’ve developed this focus and concentration, and you do write, and then always leave your writing at a place where you feel you can continue on. In other words, stop writing before you run out of steam. That way, the next day, when you set out to write, you’ll be itching to continue where you left off; you’ll develop a flow and a rhythm to your writing which will make it much easier.

As someone who used to train extensively at the gym, and get into a set routine which improved my fitness, built my energy and shed the surplus weight, I can’t believe that I never thought of writing in the same way before. I guess it was an unconscious thing, I just wrote, and did so daily, or if not daily, then at least once every few days, but I managed to get through it. But like my training at the gym, my writing regimen slipped, so it feels tough for me to get through a few pages, just like I can slide off a treadmill sweating and panting, because I’ve let it all slip.

Anyway, I highly recommend this book; I can honestly say it has inspired me to concentrate more on my writing…

If I can find the time…

I was recently reading a book (yeah, great, what else are you going to do with a book, watch it?) Now I can’t remember if it was Bad Things by Michael Marshall, or whether it was something else, but this is the book that sticks in my mind, so it’s the example that I’ll use. Now I personally feel that Marshall is a master of pacing. The opening chapters are languid and easy going, not rushed at all, but I enjoy that. It puts you in a place, lets you get the feel of the characters, and helps settle you for the journey. And once things get underway you get swept up in the ride. Towards the end of the book, the chapters get snappier, shorter. Now, I’ve never really been a fan of tons of shorter chapters. Some books (such as those by Dan Brown) I check out to see how many chapters there are and when I note that there are over a hundred I roll my eyes. Yes, having lots of fast short chapters help you rush through the book, and keeps the pace up, but you don’t get time to see the characters, the situations, you’re along for the ride. It’s like watching a film and not being able to rewind to catch a moment you think you might have missed.

Alternatively, sometimes I’ll see a massive doorstop of a book with only twenty chapters and I know I’ll have to drag myself kicking and screaming through it.

Maybe it’s a psychological effect.

Anyway, back to the short chapters. It struck me just how effective it was at ratcheting up the tension. A whole host of chapters jostling together, switching between different characters, passing almost in real time, really gets you on the edge of your seat, and whenever that happens, I feel I have to push through all the way to the end. I get to the last few chapters and I cant just leave it, I have to read them all. If I leave the last two chapters say, I feel like its switching a movie off five minutes from the end, and coming back to it later.

The reason I bring this all up is due to the climax of my first major project I got finished. During its (extremely long) development, I’ve received advice from various people (including Matt), most especially about my chapter lengths. Initially my chapters were short, and jumpy, which didn’t create a good rhythm. Then I arrived at the climax. Due to the way my redrafting had gone, the climax ended up being a race against time. What I decided to do with this was drop the reader right in it with the main character, and not let up until the end. So something like the last fifth of the book is one long chapter.

Great. I didn’t have a problem with that. When I first wrote it, my fingers could barely keep up with my brain while I was getting it all down, and I felt the rush that the character was going through. I showed it to some people for feedback and what did they say? It was exhausting. Not because having all of this in one block slowed it down in any way, but because it was relentless, they felt they needed time to breathe. And in retrospect, I can understand. Shorter, snappier chapters (especially when you switch between several characters all working towards the same goal) can keep the pace right up there, but without the associated exhaustion. Now, all I have to do is figure out how to break up this finale without my mind snapping…

Although I feel very comfortable with my writing voice during the act of putting pixels to.. er.. pixels I guess, I have often wondered how other people perceive it. I am just as paranoid as the next writer it seems. I have for a long time had the sneaking suspicion that my writing style is… not boring as such, but lacks a certain dynamism. There are very few jokes aside from the dry observational variety, and I sometimes feel I present situations rather plainly. That is as best as I can put it, although you will have the opportunity to judge for yourselves eventually of course (a whole new can of paranoid worms there).

Now, I don’t mean this to be in any way detrimental to Carl Sagan’s writing, which as I mentioned, I am thoroughly enjoying. But I found some relief in knowing that if anything his style of writing was “dryer” than mine. Again, I don’t mean to be critical, and perhaps “dry” is the wrong word to begin with. This is not a situation where I think, “well, his writing is worse than mine, and he got published”. It’s more a case of, “his writing is perhaps plainer, more dry than mine, but it is still interesting to read”. Very much so in fact.

Interesting does not sound like much of a compliment, I’ll grant you, and it perhaps represents a kind of minimum requirement of a text for most people. However, being interesting is very important to me when it comes to the creative endeavors of others. A piece of music does not have to be emotive, or have clever lyrics, or even be pleasant to the ear, for example. But it must be interesting; it must have something about it that keeps me listening. The same goes for visual art or written text.

So, to find another author who exhibits some of the traits that I worry about in my own style, and that I still find interesting to read, and want to read more of, is a great source of reassurance. I guess the lesson is to trust your own style. I often will read something and really love the voice of the author. Something in me tells me I could never write like that. And, of course, that will be true for a great many authors I read. But, perhaps the aim of writing like an admired author is something of a red herring anyway. After all, your aim should never be to write like them, but to write like yourself. That is what your “voice” is all about.

I think you should be less concerned with what other people think of your writing, and be more worried about what you think of it. Do you like it when you write it, and later, when you read it back? Worrying about other people will come later, of course, and at some point you may lose the objectivity that tells you what you’ve written is great (after going through the fifth draft of a chapter, for example), but remember, it’s your voice, and if you find it interesting, chances are someone else will.

Who here is confident about their writing voice, and why? What gave you that confidence?

First off, “On Writing” is an excellent book, and you should read it. I don’t know why I didn’t read it much much earlier.

The chapter in question concerned grammar (it’s only a short bit, and still interesting, so don’t let that put you off). Recently I had been a bit worried about whether to use adjectives or not, and especially in dialogue attribution (he said, angrily, for example). I’ve never liked using it. It always felt wrong and looked childish. But there was a nagging feeling that maybe I should be using it sometimes. After all, the words were invented for a reason.

But Stephen King says otherwise, and as soon as I read it I knew I was being stupid all along. Of course I was right! It didn’t even warrant the slightest bit of worry. Still, it’s nice to have your thoughts confirmed by a master.

I knew it already because Stephen King knew it. I read loads of King when I was younger,  so it’s no surprise that I should pick up good habits from his writing, and others. And that’s the second point of this post. It sounds obvious, but we should all be reading. Read read read read read. You probably don’t read enough – I know I don’t.

Do you sometimes have a crisis of confidence over silly little things? Maybe you disagree about adjectives. Any good examples of where they work really well?

It was something of a mini revelation. Only a very small point, and very obvious, but one of those things that had occurred to my conscious mind before – it had never struck me (as they say).

It’s the closing chapter of the “CV” section of the book, and is entitled “what writing is”. In it he writes that when he is writing

I’m in another place, a basement place, where there are lots of bright lights and clear images. This is a place I’ve built for myself over the years. It’s a far seeing place.

I recognise this of course, as many writers will. There is a place you go inside your head to see the things you do, and it is from that place that paragraphs will form and travel down your arms, to your fingers, to the page.

It is a little beside the point, but after reading this I thought I would imagine my writing place. The image that came to mind was a warm dungeon, candlelit, and possibly with a well-stocked fireplace nearby. In it I’m writing with pen and paper. I don’t know why that image comes, although it might be to do with Stephen King describing his own place as being in a “basement”. It might be a fun idea to imagine your own writing place and picture it every time you sit down to write. Any ideas in the comments, please.

Anyway, where were we? The real point of this post is what Stephen King goes on to say about reading. He describes it as a similar place, and when I think about it, it does feel like that. It’s interesting to think of reading being the same “place” that writing comes from. I keep a wad of scrap paper stuffed into the back of any book I’m reading. If I feel I want to make a note, I take a piece of paper, write the page number on it (in case it falls out), and write my notes on that, putting it between the pages like a bookmark when I’m done. At this point I wrote:

Writing uses the same place as reading does. That semi-conscious, slightly dark and blurry place. Not like you’re looking at things through distorted glass – that’s too cold and distant. More like you’re submerged in warm water.

Weirdly, I never made the connection.

It’s a more “prosey” note than I’d normally make, but I was inspired – I’d never thought of it like that! Reading is easy for me. I enjoy it a lot. Seeing writing as very similar to reading (the same even), takes some of its intimidating nature away.

In short, I will try and think of writing as another from of reading. Instead of reading from the page, I am reading on to it. This change in attitude may make writing easier. What do you think?

The Dip

The dip itself is the moment where your hard work stops giving you rewards. Any venture, says Seth, begins with a period of enthusiasm that rewards your efforts. Learning something new is the simplest example. Soon though, this honeymoon period wears off, praise from your peers peters out, and your efforts seem to go unnoticed. Sound familiar? This is the dip.

The good news is though, that getting through this period leads to great success and benefits. The rewards far out way those you started out experiencing. This is because getting through the dip on the big issues in your life makes you a rarity, and makes you valuable.

By way of illustration, let’s look at J. K Rowling. She is the perfect example of someone who struggled through a dip that lasted years while she created her world and tried to convince someone that others would want to read her stories about a boy wizard. Now look at her. In this case, getting through the dip, and not quitting, led to huge rewards.

The other side of the coin is that quitting is actually allowed, and required. Sure, our example author didn’t quit writing Harry Potter, but she quit an awful lot of other things in order to do it. Seth Godin’s book advocates strategic quitting in order to become the best in the world at something. After all, you can’t be the best in the world at everything.

What use is it?

So, with the nutshell description and example out of the way, how does it actually read? Well, it’s short. But even that doesn’t save it from waffle. The basic concept takes barely a page to explain, after all. After that there is some useful, practical advice about half-way through, and again at the end, but in between it’s a bit woolly. The problem is there’s very little structure, so the middle of the book feels like a series of flash cards, held up in no particular order. Seth seesaws between advocating quitting and sticking, rather than take them in turn. This makes it hard to pick out words of wisdom.

Where it is useful is as a consciousness raiser. He rightly points out that you know these things already, but by making sure that you recognise dips (and potential cul-de-sacs and cliffs), you can learn to react appropriately and with intent.
For example, after reading, you’ll realise
- the dip won’t last forever
- the dip is malleable, and working harder might get you through it quicker
- the rewards will be waiting
- if you’re in a Dip, you are likely on the right track
- working through the dip is actually the shortcut you’ve been looking for

More importantly, you’re more likely to recognise these things whilst in the dip, encouraging you not to quit, or before you start a new writing project if you realise you are not going to see it through. And if you’re not sure, the book is short enough that you can pick it up and give it a good read every now and then to keep you aware of what you are facing and why it is worth it.

And dips are everywhere in writing (and in life I guess). There is likely a dip in each project you do (writing a novel seems like a slog after your enthusiasm for the idea wears off); there is a dip in getting published, or in getting enough copies out there if you’re self-publishing; there is even a dip in just getting a writing routine going.

My experience of The Dip

I had my good writing experiences in primary school, and then later in secondary school. In primary school my stories always took longer than anyone else’s because I loved writing them. In secondary school I rediscovered my talent for it as a young adult, enjoying writing and getting praise for it from teachers.

But, I never got into the habit of writing, and the moments of inspiration, where I felt I had got something right, became fewer as I progressed through university. From then on, any time I started to have a go at writing, I was already starting in The Dip.

So, you can say that when I started this blog, I was already sold on the dip concept. That is the reason I started writing this in the first place – as a means to chip away at the dip of simply getting myself to write regularly. At the time though, I hadn’t read the book and would not have put it that way. Still, like my other recent attempts to motivate myself, this serves to reinforce my reasoning and attack the problem with renewed gusto. For that, I have to recommend it.

I’d like to know how many other writers have read this book. What did you think? Was it useful? Any other books in a similar vein that you can recommend?