Demystifying Writing

How does a novel happen?

In theory, it is a pretty simple process. First find something to say. Then – to paraphrase Coleridge – put the best words in the best order. And boom. Hello, Booker.

But for a first time novelist sat in front of their laptop, this simple process quickly takes on a paralysing complexity. How to plot; even whether to plot. Where to find ‘your voice’ and how to recognise it when it appears. Whether to revise as you go or plough unjudgementally through the first draft.  When to share; who to consult; what instincts to trust. When your oeuvre to date consists solely of articles, poems and short stories, writing a full-length novel can feel like attempting to run the Marathon des Sables in a pair of flip-flops.

It doesn’t help that the writing process is couched in myths, superstitions and euphemisms. Still in thrall to the classical concept of a creative ‘daemon’ or ‘genius’, not to mention that fickle bitch Muse, we are encouraged to believe that truly great prose is bestowed from without; cue generations of hacks watching Jeremy Kyle in their pyjamas while waiting for the elusive ‘inspiration’ to strike.

A linked narrative is that of the writer as tortured genius, in which transcendent talent can only be found through a legacy of childhood abuse, extreme pallor and a copious supply of Jim Beam. Sitting through Bruce Robinson’s recent film adaptation of The Rum Diary, watching Johnny Depp stagger from typewriter to moonshine and back again, I found myself wishing that it were in fact that easy. Kubla Khan has a lot to answer for.

In her TED Talk on creativity, Amy Tan flips the concept of external agency on its head and even wonders (not without irony) whether writers are born with “some abnormal chromosome that causes this muse-like effect”. As ridiculous as it is, we secretly like this idea. As readers, it fuels our idolisation, giving authors a divine glamour somewhat absent from the realities of mundane, lonely graft. As writers, it sanctions our belief that the successful few possess some sort of magic which, if only we could harness it, would alleviate the drudgery of authordom and provide a short-cut to published bliss. And so we pore over the Guardian’s Writers’ Rooms, and order a new rug.

So it took a lot of pride-swallowing for me to apply for this year’s Faber Academy Writing A Novel course, run by the Bloomsbury publishers. Having passed through a phase of reading every ‘fiction mechanics’ manual I could get my hands on, from Stephen King to Milan Kundera, I had concluded that the advice of others simply left me an insecure, confused mess. And I had long decried creative writing programmes; they made, I insisted, easy money from fragile dreams, while bestowing a whiff of desperation upon their participants. Ian McEwan was the first and only student on Malcolm Bradbury’s inaugural MA Creative Writing course at UEA in 1970; “my writing life,” he has said, “has been one long uphill struggle to persuade the world that I didn’t do a creative writing course.”

The truth, two months in? It’s a revelation. The talks from authors such as Hanif Kureishi and Helen Dunmore are a privilege and a pleasure, but it’s actually the nuts-and-bolts stuff that inspires. The calm, razor-sharp observations of tutor Richard Skinner, combined with a torrent of down-and-dirty writing exercises, have reminded me that a novel happens kind of like a chair happens: you build it, slowly but zealously, with care, humility and craft. Which means that learning certain simple tools can make the difference between producing an Established & Sons throne or an Ikea stool.

There is alchemy in combining technique with toil. Sure, there are moments when you drop into the zone and feel like a great shining truth-creature might just be slipping you a microscopic drop of genius juice. But you know that is usually the effects of espresso on an empty stomach. The real talent you need to be a writer is tenacity, and the only idol worth worshipping is practice.

Most writing advice boils down to three golden rules. Show don’t tell; lose the adjectives; keep going. But those three rules are mantra enough for fifty years of growth.

And OK, I still used my writerly ambitions as the excuse for drinking ten (yes, ten) dirty martinis in one setting last week. I have recently discovered the Paris Review’s Art of Fiction archive, and spend every tube journey pouring over decades’ worth of interviews for that as-yet-undiscovered crucial tip. Yesterday I wasted a good hour’s writing time choosing the exact pot plant that would turn the dining table into a mecca of mellow productivity.

But you know what? Every time I read an incredible book, I am all the more impressed for knowing that is was born of crepuscular effort as much as intangible mojo. The last word has to lie with Epictetus: “If you wish to be a writer, write.”