On Writing

The weather is disgusting today. I wanted to give my creative mind a rest and thought it was about time I wrote about my writing, my novel, the thing that consumes most of my days and keeps me away from here for long periods. I used to channel my need to write through Blip. On a day when I failed to come up with much of a photograph I’d make up for it by trying to write something interesting. In many ways, Blip helped me rediscover my writing mojo. Now that I’m putting my creative energy into this novel of mine, there are many days when there is nothing left for photography or journaling. Time passes quickly while I’m writing. Without a record on Blip, those writing days simply disappear into the existential ether. And that’s actually one of the reasons why I remain determined to keep taking my portraits every day. They do at least record where I was and give an indication of what the weather was doing, providing some indication that I was present to the wider world on that particular day. 

A week ago I finished editing a long and important chapter of the novel, some of which was first written a couple of years ago. It required a lot of reshaping, taking most of the last month to complete. My editing process is now firmly established. The pencil scribbling in my notebook gets transcribed to a very rough draft on the computer. That gets printed out and annotated with lots of notes—lines are deleted, new ones inserted, paragraphs swapped around. The whole process is then repeated. Another version is printed and more annotations are made—dialogue gets developed, sentence structure corrected, words changed. The first few iterations are pretty intense and hard work. There is normally a lot that needs to be honed into the right shape. I then enter the most enjoyable phase, when the hard graft has been done and it comes time to play, adding flourishes to the prose—a  bit of tweaking here, a bit of tweaking there—little touches that can add a great deal, hopefully, to the quality of the writing. Following that phase, the final iterations are more technical, the focus on the fine detail rather than the structure and the tone. These can be tedious, and not even strictly necessary at this stage, but the perfectionist in me demands that they are done.

(As I write about this process of mine it occurs to me how scarily similar it is to how I once used to write software, completing some piece of code, each iteration getting rid of a bug until it worked to meet its requirements and pass all its tests.)

After the final pass a chapter will often get put away for a few months. I try not to look at it—meaning that when I do come to read it back, the writing seems new, almost unrecognisable as my own. This is perhaps when a failing memory can be helpful. I’m able to read my words with fresh eyes and a measure of objectivity. The distance allows me to see more clearly what works and what doesn’t. I can see where cuts can be made. A few more editing iterations and I get to a point where I’m happy for my critique partners to take a look. They help me to see things from the wider perspective of the reader. That’s so hard to do as the writer. Their input is utterly invaluable.

This last week has seen me switch gears and pick up my notebook again to do some more original writing, the actual creation of the novel. This transition can be quite hard to make. It requires a different state of mind to that required for editing. There’s much more freedom involved. I have to not think too much and just jot down whatever comes into my head—sequences of dialogue, personal memories, descriptions, ideas, anything—all without worrying about whether it makes any sense. A lot of what ends up in my notebooks is useless, but it’s the source material from which the story gradually emerges. I have to pan for the gold, so to speak, discarding the dross. Slowly, almost magically, a scene will begin to take shape. It’s as if the story is telling itself through me. I’m merely the vehicle by which it comes to life.

(Worryingly, that also rather reminds me of how I used to write software, designing stuff in my notebook, not really sure what I was doing or where I was going. My code told some pretty cool stories but I wouldn’t want to be the person left to maintain it!)

I’m nearing the conclusion of the novel now. There are two big climactic scenes I have yet to write. Although there is a rough outline in my head, I don’t yet know how all the plot threads are going to resolve. I have to let the scenes play out and rely upon my characters to show me the way. I have to hold them in my head, watch what they do, listen to them talking. From the very outset they’ve led the plot, in all sorts of strange and unexpected directions. One of the main drivers that keeps me writing is wanting to find out for myself what happens next. 

I know only too well that unless you’re extremely talented or famous or very lucky—usually a combination of all three—a novelist can’t realistically expect their first work to be read by many people. It would be crazy to think otherwise. This is perhaps why I tend to hide this endeavour away and not talk about it much. It can feel like the most outrageous folly, nothing more than a huge waste of time. But then I have to remember that I’m really writing for myself. I’m aware that I’m immensely privileged to have the wherewithal to write for as many hours as I do. At a time when I’m barely able to fill in a simple form without suffering brain fog, I’m somehow still able to spend whole days accessing the words I need to tell a story. I’ve no idea how that works, just that I’m extremely grateful. The working of my brain has always been mysterious but never more so than it is right now.

I harbour hopes that the finished work will be readable and have some wider value, that it will be capable of emotionally engaging with people and offer a glimpse into a different way of looking at the world. I like to think that it will be entertaining and even raise a few laughs. That would be a wonderful bonus. But the most important thing is the journey itself and what I learn along the way. It has already been worthwhile in that respect.

I hope to have offered here some insight into what a painstaking process this is for me and how it consumes my mental energy. I’m a slow writer. And easily distracted. Like today. This piece has been easy to write. Now I need to return to the difficult stuff. That blank page is calling me back.

If you’ve got this far, thank you for taking the time to read. That’s always an honour for any writer, the only honour we should ever really be interested in.