On his entertaining blog, Abominations, fellow scribe Marc Schuster writes about a letter he once received from Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk. “The reality of a career,” wrote Palahniuk, discussing various literary matters, “is that you’ll always be writing a Next Book.”
Very true.
Even when I’m trying to make a deadline and am up to my neck in a manuscript, I’m pondering what the next book will be. There’s always that fear the ideas will stop coming. As I write non-fiction books, it’s probably easier for me to stumble across story ideas than someone who writes fiction—but there’s always that worry in the back of my mind that I’ve drained the well dry.
Add to that the anxiety experienced by every journeyman author: Will I find a publisher who wants to release whatever I do next? I’ve had a pretty good run, thus far. Penguin published my first two books in the States and will be publishing my sixth book in October. I’ve had three mainstream publishers in the UK release my work. But none of that’s a guarantee that another publisher will take on my work in the future. I think scoring a bestseller probably seals that deal.
By the way . . . Marc’s latest book, available for pre-order, is called The Grievers.
In a New York Times article last week, author Dominique Browning writes that while on a recent flight, she lost herself in a good book. So rapt was her attention, she stopped worrying about whether she would make her connection—in fact, she didn’t realize they had taken off until she pried her eyes from the page and looked out the window. The book, she writes, was the perfect kind of book to distract one’s mind from the many discomforts of air travel:
My heart and mind were plunged into an epic battle between good and evil, the struggle to establish a new world order, the heartbreak of love fractured by political imperative, the tragedy of families torn apart.
Was I reading War and Peace? Hardly. I have given up flying with Great Literature.
The book was George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones. When traveling, Browning tells us, her literary tastes veer towards Martin, Patricia Cornwell, P.D. James, and other scribes who write what many would call “genre fiction.” She loves the “narrative drive” of such authors and their ability to draw you into a story. No argument there. Martin, Cornwell, and James have all written fabulous books—and Browning openly discusses the joys of reading popular genres. What bothers me about the article is that she states several times that such books aren’t “Great Literature.” At one point, she writes:
I no longer take Great Literature on the road. It belongs nestled in my arms, deep in a comfortable chair by a crackling fire, where I can tend lovingly to every detail it whispers, where I can pay close attention to the dexterous play of intelligence and the lilting nuance of verbal agility.
There are those like Harold Bloom who believe only Shakespeare or Cormac McCarthy can write great literature (McCarthy’s refusal to use quotation marks drives me nuts, by the way), but that’s an idiotic stance. I’m not saying Browning is elitist, as Bloom would never admit to liking a fantasy novel, but I would argue a book that consumed her attention the way Game of Thrones did on that flight qualifies as great literature. When you get right down to it, a book’s main purpose is to entertain. A good book is a good book. It doesn’t matter who wrote it or when. Yes, we can be impressed with a writer’s vocabulary and the “nuance” of their “verbal agility”—but if the book ultimately bores us, is it still great? The definition, of course, is purely subjective. I love Steinbeck and John O’Hara’s Appointment in Samarra, but I also think Stephen King’s The Shining and Bag of Bones are examples of great literature.
Great literature draws you in, makes you forget your everyday worries and renders you oblivious to the passing of time. Going by this definition, I’d qualify the works of the late James Crumley—one of the most underrated crime novelists out there—as meeting such criteria. Consider the beauty of this passage from his book The Wrong Case:
A car full of drunks hissed over the Ripley Avenue bridge and down the ramp above us, fleeing through the night down black and wet streets, heading home or to another gaily lighted bar rife with music and dancing and sweaty women with bright eyes and lips like faded rose petals. As the driver down-shifted, the exhaust belched, the tires snickered across the slick pavement, a girl’s shrill laughter flew out, abandoned like an empty beer can in the skid. The colored lights from the discreet Riverfront sign reflected off the dark asphalt, wavering as the wind sifted the rain, glowing distantly like the lights of a city beneath a black sea.
It’s a wonderful piece of descriptive writing, typical of Crumley—a passage you’d want to enjoy in a comfortable chair by a glowing hearth, relishing the skill of an amazing writer. There is no shame in admitting that a popular author has created something of superior quality. Any writing that is able to remove us from the realities of everyday life is great literature.
Last night, while reading Hemingway: A Biography by Jeffrey Meyers, I came to what I consider the best part in any literary biography: a breakdown of the subject’s writing process. Even if reading the biography of an author I don’t necessarily enjoy, I’m always fascinated by the way they work and the approach they take when hunkering down with a manuscript. Last week, I posted Ian Fleming’s advice on writing. Here, according to Meyers, is Hemingway’s strategy:
Study the best literary models.
Master your subject through experience and reading.
Work in disciplined isolation.
Begin early in the morning and concentrate for several hours each day.
Begin by reading everything you have written from the start or, if engaged on a long book, from the last chapter.
Write slowly and deliberately.
Stop writing when things are going well and you know what will happen next so that you have sufficient momentum to continue the next day.
Do not discuss the material while writing about it.
Do not think about writing when you are finished for the day but allow your subconscious mind to ponder it.
Work continuously on a project once you start it.
Keep a record of your daily progress.
Make a list of titles after you have completed the work.
An interesting list, to be sure. The one thing that struck me was his advice to stop writing when things are going well to ensure you have something to write about the next time you’re at your desk. I’ve done this from the beginning, and it serves me very well. Working in “disciplined isolation,” however, is not something I can do. With a 10-month-old baby in the house, I have to change my fair share of diapers!
As for not discussing the work in progress . . . that’s a rule I break all the time. I tend to obsess on a story once I get going on it. If I’m stuck, I complain bitterly to my wife. If things are going really well, then I’m more than happy to blather on about it. I also never read a manuscript I’m working on until I’m completely done with the first draft. I think reading what you’re putting down on paper as you go along is a terrible idea. Personally, I’m guaranteed to fall into the trap of early editing and start rewriting everything before I have the rough draft done. That, for me, is the kiss of death.
I don’t write early in the morning but late at night when the house is dark and quiet. I’ll write for several hours if I can—but if the words aren’t flowing, I won’t force it. Admittedly, I don’t write slowly or deliberately. If the idea is fully formed in my head, I frantically pound the keys to get it down on paper before it vanishes into the ether. My revisions are slow and deliberate, but my first draft is a race to get the story out.
According to Meyers, “It often took Hemingway all morning to write a single perfect paragraph.”
Watching TV last night, I saw a commercial for the latest book churned out by the James Patterson factory. My general rule is to chat only about authors I like and not badmouth those I don’t—but Patterson drives me crazy (my apologies to the impressive number of Patterson fans out there). I tried reading Kiss the Girls several years ago when the Morgan Freeman movie hit theaters but just couldn’t get through it. The writing was pedestrian and the one-page chapters distracting. That aside, it’s not his writing that bothers me . . . it’s his approach to writing.
Those of us who write do so because we love the act itself. It’s wonderful to see your thoughts take shape on a page, and it’s an amazing feeling to finish a story and hold in your hands a completed manuscript. While I have yet to score a bestseller and certainly can’t afford to write books fulltime, I dream of the day—if it ever arrives—when I can devote myself fully to the profession. Of course, I want to make enough money doing it to sustain myself and my family, but my passion for writing is the primary motivator.
So, what does this have to do with James Patterson?
I don’t consider him a true writer. He’s more of an idea factory who leaves the writing to others. You’ll notice on most of his recent efforts, it’s his name and that of another author’s on the cover. He’s certainly not the only guy doing this these days. Tom Clancy and Clive Cussler are two others who come to mind—but Patterson seems to have taken it to a whole other level. In 2009, the Hatchette Book Group announced it had signed a deal that would see Patterson bang out 17 books through 2012 . . . that’s 17 books in three years. According to his website, Patterson already has four books due out this year: one in March, two in May, and one in July (he already released one earlier this month). Last year, he put out nine. Some may consider Stephen King a factory (personally, I’m a fan), but at least the man writes his own books.
I can only assume at this point in his career, Patterson doesn’t care about any sort of artistic integrity or quality control. He merely wants a paycheck. My feeling is that if you want to write books, then write books—don’t contract someone else out to do it. The publisher is also to blame here, as it obviously doesn’t care what’s slapped between two covers. You can’t churn out nine books in a year from one author and expect to deliver a quality product.
Ultimately, it’s the fans who are cheated.
My rant is over. I don’t know—maybe I’m just being overly critical.
Browsing other book-related blogs this morning, I came across the following video on Wragsthinks. Always interesting to hear writers discussing their habits.
I love reading biographies of my favorite authors. Among the few books I’m reading concurrently (it’s a terrible habit) is Ian Fleming: The Man Behind James Bond by Andrew Lycett, first published in 1995. If your exposure to Bond is limited to the movies, I highly suggest you check out Fleming’s novels. The only similarity between the books and the films are the titles and the names of characters. Fleming’s stories are far grittier than what you see on the silver screen. The writing is also superb.
Fleming wrote all fourteen Bond novels at his Jamaican retreat, Goldeneye. Here, as described by Lycett, is his writing routine:
Ian had finally decided to launch into the novel which had been rattling around in his head for so long. He was not a man to tackle such projects half-heartedly. Every morning after a swim on the reef, he breakfasted with Ann in the garden. When he had finished his scrambled eggs and Blue Mountain coffee, he kissed her and made his way across the small veranda into the main living-room. He shut the big doors, closed the jalousies, and opened his big roll-top desk. For three hours, he pounded the keys of his twenty-year-old Imperial portable typewriter. At noon he emerged from the cool of his retreat and stood blinking in the heat of the day. After lunch, he slept for an hour or so, and then, around five, he returned to his desk to look over what he had typed earlier in the day. When he had made his corrections, he placed his manuscript in the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk. Ian was a man of routine, and that writing regimen, now established, continued for the next dozen years, whenever he was at Goldeneye.
The book would eventually become Casino Royale. It’s interesting to note that Fleming edited the manuscript as he went along. I’ve tried doing this but find it to be the kiss of death, as I end up scrapping everything I’ve done. I generally try to get the whole thing down on paper before I take the red pen to it.
Fleming, needless to say, took his writing very seriously. Here is some advice he sent to a friend, who was struggling with a manuscript. It’s great and probably pertinent to every writer:
You will be constantly depressed by the progress of the opus and feel it is all nonsense and that nobody will be interested. Those are the moments when you must all the more obstinately stick to your schedule and do your daily stint . . . Never mind about the brilliant phrase or the golden word, once the typescript is there you can fiddle, correct and embellish as much as you please. So don’t be depressed if the first draft seems a bit raw, all first drafts do. Try and remember the weather and smells and sensations and pile in every kind of contemporary detail. Don’t let anyone see the manuscript until you are very well on with it and above all don’t let anything interfere with your routine. Don’t worry about what you put in, it can always be cut out on re-reading; it’s the total recall that matters.
It’s been nearly two months since I shipped my latest manuscript off to my publishers in the US and UK. Today, I heard from my British editor, who gave the pages a big thumbs-up—much to my relief. Having spent three years researching and writing the book—titled Human Game (see the post dated Jan. 12, “What happens after ‘The Great Escape’)—I had lost all perspective on it by the end. After you’ve read for the sixth or seventh time something you’ve written, it becomes a challenge to determine whether it’s any good. The positive opinion of someone outside your immediate circle of friends and family goes a long way in boosting the old confidence level. Hopefully, my U.S. editor will also think kindly of what I’ve submitted!
As the book winds its way through the editing process, I find myself torn between the desire to take time off and dive right into my next project. As stated in the post below, I work a day job to pay the bills. My writing, for the most part, is done in the evenings after my wife and son are in bed. Having my evenings free to lounge about in front of the television or to catch up on my reading is always a thing—but always present in the back of my mind is that nagging urge to get cracking on the next manuscript. Human Game clocked in at almost 100,000 words—the longest thing I’ve written by far. While I definitely need time to recharge the batteries, my compulsion (and that’s what it is) to write never seems to rest.
The reason for this may have something to do with being neurotic; it definitely has something to do with how I view myself. Although my day job is in marketing, I consider myself—professionally—a writer first and foremost. My other job is what enables me to pursue my writing. If I’m not writing, then I feel I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m merely wasting time. Watching something take shape on the page is one of life’s great pleasures! I don’t possess any grand illusions about myself; I just know what I like—and want—to do. Actually, it’s what I need to do. If I put writing off for too long a period, I eventually feel like something inside of me is going to explode.
But there’s one more reason . . . and that’s the hope that whatever project I may be working on will be “The One.” Years ago when I started writing, my primary goal was simply to be published. Once I achieved that benchmark, the next goal I set was to become a full-time author. It’s a lofty ambition and one that few writers are fortunate enough to achieve—but without a dream, how dull would things be?
A final note: It turns out researchers at Harvard have diagnosed a condition in some folks called Hypergraphia. In short, this is defined as the overpowering urge to write. Here’s an article from Psychology Today I found last night while cruising about the Web.
If you nurture dreams of becoming a published author, you may envision martini lunches with your agent and large-scale advances that allow you to quit your day job. Such fantasies are not uncommon. Before Penguin published my first book in 2005, I harbored such illusions. Now, with six books released through major publishers in the United States and Britain, I still work a “day job” to pay the bills.
While I haven’t given up the idea of being a full-time writer, experience has taught me that those who can actually afford to work solely on their writing are the exception in this trade. Don’t get me wrong, seeing your book in print is a wonderful thing–but you should keep your expectations in check. I recently came across this article, which ran in Salon several years back. It’s pretty grim reading for anyone who hopes to make their living as a scribe–but it’s also a good cautionary tale.
As I try to get back into the swing of blogging (and maintain the necessary discipline), I’ll also be experimenting with various designs—so please forgive me if I keep changing the appearance of the blog. I’m pretty happy with the current design, but we’ll see how long that lasts.
The past year has been spent working on the manuscript to my upcoming book, HUMAN GAME. If you’re a fan of the movie THE GREAT ESCAPE, you know how the film ends. For those of you not familiar with this Steve McQueen classic, here’s a brief synopsis: In Stalag Luft III, a prison camp for Allied airmen deep in the heart of Germany, a group of inmates decide to orchestrate the breakout of 250 prisoners. Each escapee is equipped with fake travel documents, German money, rations, identity cards, civilian clothing, compasses, etc.
The men built three tunnels, codenamed “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.” To avoid the camp’s underground microphones, vertical shafts to each tunnel were dug 30 feet down before horizontal digging commenced. Construction of the tunnels continued around the clock and required the requisitioning of nearly 1,219 knifes, 582 forks, 408 spoons, 246 water cans, 1,699 blankets, 192 bed covers, 161 pillow cases, 1,212 pillows, 655 straw mattresses, thirty-four chairs, the frames of 90 bunk beds, 3,424 towels, ten single tables, fifty-two twenty-man tables, more than 1,200 bed bolsters, nearly 1,400 beaded battens, seventy-six benches, 1,000 feet of electrical wiring and 600 feet of rope. Four thousand bed boards were used to shore-up the tunnels. Lights wired into the camp’s electrical supply provided illumination underground; air pumps made of discarded kitbags, empty powdered-milk tins, wood-framing, wire mesh and tar paper supplied fresh air to those doing the digging.
Let’s jump ahead in our narrative a bit . . . The escape took place on the night of March 24/25, 1944. In the event, only seventy-six airmen got away before a guard discovered the exit to Harry—the tunnel ultimately used in the escape. Three of those seventy-six made it safely back to England; the others were recaptured. Fifty were handed over the Gestapo, taken to desolate killing fields throughout Germany, and gunned down.
The movie ends with the execution of the fifty. HUMAN GAME picks up immediately thereafter and details the Royal Air Force’s hunt for the Gestapo gunmen. It took three years of researching and writing to complete, and is based primarily on the official records kept by the RAF’s Special Investigating Branch, which handled the investigation. The Caliber imprint of Penguin will release the book in October. I’ll post more details as they become available.
In the meantime, here’s a trailer to THE GREAT ESCAPE—one of the greatest movies of all time!
Humility is showing up for a book signing and finding only two of twenty seats occupied. This, I’m afraid to say, has happened to me on more than one occasion—and repetitiveness does not ease the pain. It is, however, a reality of being a struggling author. As I slug away on my current manuscript, I’m debating whether I’ll submit myself to this kind of humiliation again.
Some years back, I did a book signing in which the only people who showed up were two high school students for an English class project. Because their assignment required them to take notes, they asked if I’d read an excerpt. This I did . . . while one of them loudly slapped their gum. Needless to say, they left without purchasing a copy.
On the plus side, they at least stayed awake. At another even some years later, as I sat talking with a small group of readers, a homeless guy entered the store, took a seat in the back row and promptly fell asleep.
Not as bad as talking to mostly empty seats—but still painful—is sitting at a table in a bookstore, surrounded by stacks of your books, waiting for someone to approach and buy a copy. I found myself in this situation last summer. One guy approached the table, picked up a book, flipped through its pages and asked me, “Did you write this?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling.
“What’s it about?” he asked.
I gave him an abbreviated plot synopsis, after which he asked me how long it took to write and countless other questions. For almost 45 minutes he grilled me on every aspect of the book before saying, “Well, I don’t have any money—but it sounds neat.”
I try to remain positive in such situations. After all, someone is taking the time to ask me about something I’ve written—but one can only take so much.
I recently went on Google to read about other authors who have endured similar experiences. By chance, I stumbled across this brilliant video by mystery writer Parnell Hall.
My parents slipped a copy of Stephen King’s Misery into my hands when I was thirteen. I tore through it in a matter of days and decided shortly thereafter I wanted to be a writer. Taking it upon myself to read King’s other books, I thought—early on—that I’d want to pen ... Continue reading »
