A Novel Question

 

 

My novel question is this:  why admit to trying to write one?

Why confess to spending hours in a head all by yourself, obsessing over things that aren’t real and trying to write them down?

The vast majority of novels are barely read;  people who write them must be egotists. How else do they persuade themselves for thousands of words to keep writing; that their work is good enough to finish the thing?  There lies, perhaps, a barely distinguishable line between someone with confidence in their outstanding abilities (like JK Rowling), and someone sad, deluded and hopelessly over-committed (like me?).

Yes- that’s right.  Deluded!  I nearly fell off my unicorn at the thought.  Honestly though:  why admit to trying?  Who wants to publicly end up like the woman who wrote this?

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/apr/01/what-im-really-thinking-the-failed-novelist

In the beginning, I decided not to answer such pivotal questions.  Sidestepping is easy:

–   *surprised look*  – ‘But I’m not trying to write a novel

–  ‘You’re not?’

–   ‘No.  i’m just writing a story.  For fun.  Just for me.’

It’s a great line.  It re-frames the whole idea:  suddenly, I am not some desparado bent on creating a masterpiece, but someone who sits there for hours rearranging the structure of a few sentences because it gives them mental satisfaction.  Readers?  Smeaders.

Reputation intact then.  But is it true?

Who cares?  I used it anyway.  I used it when I started to ask my friends about stuff I didn’t understand.  If they smiled to themselves, I didn’t notice across cyberspace.  I just appreciated it that they helped me out.

In fact, I grew in confidence until I stuck a few of them in a Facebook group, and even sometimes picked up the phone.  I found myself having all sorts of hypothetical conversations with this generous expert gang.

So then I got brave and contacted Sheffield University.  I told them I was a writer doing research: technically true, because I write.  They invited me in and were nice to me and showed me their department.  I went out feeling as though I’d been right to go there and was a step closer to my goal.

Nearly a year later, I’ve finished the first draft of my 110,000 word ‘story.’   Unable to contain myself, I Face-booked that I’d just written a novel.

Then I read it back and gulped.  When had that happened?  Was ‘novel’ actually my word for it now?  It must have crept in steadily over the course of a year;  I’ve become one of those weird egotists after all.  A potential delusional being who likes to spend all evening with her lap-top.  I felt as though, in using the n-word, I had just laid myself bare.

I was still sitting blinking, when a strange thing happened:   ‘likes’ started pinging in.

In fact, people were saying positive things.  Quite a few who’d enjoyed the blog even asked to read it, which made me happy.  Then I thought:  ‘Not yet.  I’ve got to make it as good as I can get it, first.’

So I’ve nonchalantly sent it to a very few (well, two) trusted people, to try and flag up the story’s main problems.  Nonchalance is a must:  I’m obviously not on tenterhooks to learn whether my perception of the current draft’s problems is anywhere consistent with theirs.  I don’t want to put them under any pressure, other than to be honest and tell me every tiny bit that is shit; not to give it praise it doesn’t merit.  I know everyone says that, but it’s true.  I want to know how to make it better, after all.

Anyway, where was I?  Nonchalant.  Yes.  I nonched home from printing and posting out the snail-mail copy, then nonchalantly sat down.  Hubby looked over at me and said mildly, ‘So your sent it second class, I take it?’

Well, obviously – er – I mean, no.

But there’s no point in being ashamed, I suppose.  I’ve put more hours of my life into that than my career for the past year.  I am a person who has invested hours in hoping that I might write something that someone might want to read.  One day.  After some small improvements.  Possibly.  And then, I’ll let it loose on someone.  Somewhere.

So yes.  I am presumptuous.  I am weird.  I am possibly delusional.  I am, after all, an unpublished novelist.  And what’s really weird about it is that I am actually okay with that fact.

Only since I started using the N-word, I have realized that I am not as much as an out-lier as I thought.  Did you know that Sheffield has a novel-off, where people read out bits of their novels in a competition a bit like the X-factor?

In the library, I found out that there’s a group, with other people, all trying to write novels, too!  They are probably human, because they meet in a pub.  I might slink in there one day, and join in.

Before-hand, I’m going to do a recce though.  I’m only going in if there’s a ring on the wall outside, that I can tether my unicorn to.