How do you know when your novel is finished? Should you ever revisit a character? And what do you do when the last draft has been sent off to your editor? In the second part of my series on novel-writing and publishing, I asked authors how they felt about finishing projects, and the challenges they faced on the way.
For Kerry Hudson, becoming a published author has freed her up to work on new projects: ‘When I was working full-time I worked typically on just one writing project but now I'm working solely on writing I'm developing workshops, a one-woman play based on Tony Hogan... to be toured around UK council estates and I'll be working on my edits for Thirst, my second novel, over the next few months too. I also spend a lot of time preparing for author events and looking for residencies and other opportunities. My day-jobs have always been hyper-busy so I guess that's something I've just carried on with my writing.’ Cathi Unsworth agrees about the constraining effect of having a day job, and demonstrates the work ethic most writers have to show nowadays: ‘I can only really work on one book at a time – I have a fairly demanding job four days a week, plus all the admin stuff that goes with being a writer – interviews, website, Facebook, readings, etc. I am also mentoring two students on Norwich Writer’s Centre Escalator programme this year, so virtually every second of the day has to be accounted for’.
When it comes to research, the writers I spoke to try to immerse themselves in their subjects as far as circumstances allow, even if they don’t always swamp the reader with detail, McEwan-style. James Smythe gives an example: ‘the next book I'm going to be writing has the working title of Style, and it's sort of set around the fashion and magazine industries. These are industries I know something about, but probably not enough to write about them with any sort of authority. And while I don't want to research a topic until I'm exhausted and bored of it, I want to know what it is that I am writing, and why. I have to understand it. That doesn't mean I'm going to report things as solely fact - when writing SF, I understand the laws of physics, but might, for story's sake, choose to ignore or defy them - but I have to know.’ Miller agrees: ‘my current novel in progress is set against the financial crisis and some of the characters are City boys, so I read everything I could about economics - and then left most of it out of the actual book. I need to know what a credit default swap is - but my readers probably don't.’ The internet is a valuable resource here, as Ms Unsworth says: ‘I read a lot, and visit newspaper archives and Colindale, which is a really fun part of the process. If I can dig out relevant people to talk to then I like to do interviews for background too. But I have to say the Internet has probably allowed me to do my work – it’s like having a portable library.’
Travel can also be a useful part of the process. Jess Richards’s novel Cooking With Bones is set in the imaginary village Seachant, but she drew on visits to Polperro in Cornwall for inspiration: ‘Visiting places which have elements I'm going to use in the setting really helps with detail, imagery and description - and can throw up some surprising objects and buildings which I wouldn't have come up with alone. If I was to use a named place as a setting I'd definitely spend a lot of time there, to make sure I was describing it accurately and capturing the atmosphere.’ Kerry Hudson agrees: ‘I don't write books that require a lot of academic research and I'm very nervous about reading books in the same theme for fear of being influenced - I want my books to be all mine. I do, however, firmly believe in experiencing what I'm writing about and so travelled across Russia by train to rural Siberia for my second and my third is somewhat travel related too. I'm very description orientated so I want to know the minute detail of smell, taste, touch and then I want to write about them in my own, often slightly unusual, way. I joke that I'm a 'method writer' but if I can have an adventure while writing a good book then all the better.’ This might be one of the nicer parts of the writing process. There’s a hint of wish-fulfilment in James Smythe’s comment that ‘two future books are both set in New York City - I feel like a trip back there will help immeasurably.’ He does concede that google maps is a ‘useful proxy’, but Miller warns that ‘it’s no substitute for being on the ground’.
In terms of drafting, each author has their own system. Miller emphasises how time-consuming re-writes can be: ‘As I tell my students, one is not a writer, one is re-writer. If you don't have the stamina and compulsion for obsessive redrafting, you're probably not a writer, so do something else! This is where the real work must be done. I lose count of how many times I might redraft a novel. Hundreds? I print out chapters and work over them with a pen and then type that up and then print it out again and make more changes. At the same time I'll be writing a new chapter - I try to move forwards while looking back. At present I've finished the full draft of my third novel: twice I wrote 50,000 words (about half the book) then stopped, realised what I'd done was wrong and started again - those are major rewrites but within that everything is being rewritten all the time. I'll probably do another re-draft over the summer taking into account input from my agent.’ Ms Richards also admits to being an ‘obsessive and constant’ rewriter: ‘the first draft is the hardest, as I can't tell what's important till the whole story is written, and yet still can't resist redrafting chunks of the first draft while I'm writing it. After that stage I cut great chunks out, add more scenes where they're needed, remove sub-plots or minor characters which didn't go anywhere... It's a little like playing a concertina in terms of word count - making cuts from some sections and growing others simultaneously.’
This must be one of the most demoralising aspects of the writing process for many. James Smythe frequently consigns huge chunks of text to the recycle bin: ‘I have developed a process, over the last few years: write a novel; throw it away; write that novel again as it was meant to be in the beginning. It sort of works. I'm not one of those writers who can go through and tweak; I cut huge swathes of text and then rebuild it.’ Cathi Unsworth says that editing the most important part of writing for her, whilst her day job has helped her to develop a thick skin: ‘It’s all in the edit for me. The most rewrites I have done is 13. I have always worked with a really good editor, John Williams, who has told me when it is time to stop and have tried to learn as much from him as I possibly could while we have worked together. Also, being a journalist for over 25 years instils in you certain principles that are fairly ruthless when it comes to editing.’
In terms of knowing when to stop, outside help is often required. For Smythe, ‘I know it's finished when the publisher tells me. I'd still be tweaking some of the books now, if I could.’ The consensus is that there is a gut feeling. Kerry Hudson says ‘A novel's probably never finished but I usually have a strong instinct about what I aim to achieve and I keep at it until that instinct is satisfied.’ Nikesh Shukla agrees: ‘it tends to be on a case by case basis, but I would say, you know it's ready when you can do nothing more to it without making it worse, when it feels like fiction, and not like an idea you had, and when the characters are doing what you want them to. I don't know. If there was an exact science, it'd be marketed as Finesse Juice and sold with the Writers and Artists Yearbook.’ Jess Richards says ‘I know I've finished when I'm certain the novel has got a chunk of my heart in it. I can't quite describe that feeling, but it's something to do with emotionally reconnecting with a theme, and making sure there's a section of writing that gives me goose bumps or makes me cry whenever I read it.’ Maybe the final word here should go to James Miller though: ‘I think Paul Valery said a poem is never finished, merely abandoned. The same is true with novels.’
Struggling to find time is a theme for many. Kerry Hudson describes the conflict between employment and writing. When asked what gets in the way of writing, she turns the question round: ‘It’s more a question of what writing gets in the way of, which is almost everything else. When I was working my day-job, which was managing events for charities, it was difficult. I was engaged in a constant tug of war and I worked long hours. Back then I wrote mornings, evenings, weekends and wanted to do so much more in both areas but it taught me that, even when it seems impossible, there's always space to write and that even if it's only ten minutes you write, they can be the best bit of your whole day.’ Cathi Unsworth agrees: ‘Sadly I don’t have the resources or the annual leave to do much travel. Though I don’t think this has stopped me from producing work that is well researched and authentic.’ Time is also the enemy for James Smythe (well, that and interview requests from bloggers): ‘I write a lot, and every day. I find time, because I have to. If I had more, I would write more. I don't have kids yet, which I'm aware gives me a freedom I might not otherwise have. So, time gets in way, but I have to make the most of it. Oh, and my email inbox. That's a seemingly never-ending pain in the arse.’
And what of the dreaded writer’s block? Most of the writers I spoke to were wary of building the problem up too much. Smythe says ‘My solution to writer’s block is to not believe in it. It's how I think you have to deal with it. Some days you'll write a lot; some nothing. Don't give it a name, don't call it an issue, and it can't become one.’ Miller agrees: ‘I don't really believe in writer's block. Certainly, one can have a crisis of confidence - which is something different and more serious - a loss of faith in the project or one's talent, but make this an existential/spiritual problem and it can be severe. However, in terms of 'writer's block' - which I understand as being stuck on an issue of plot or character - well, I firmly believe that the answer to any problem with the narrative is immanent within the narrative itself, so I tend to re-read what I've written, over and over again. I've left clues as to what should happen for myself - it's just a question of learning to recognise those clues.’
When the process gets tough, Kerry Hudson is an advocate of running as a cure: ‘Sometimes there's stuff going on inside or outside that means you can't write for a while but it's just getting stuck, it's not a medical condition. If I get stuck I see a good film or exhibition or I go for a run. I believe running can cure many things.’ This is a solution that often works for James Miller too: ‘going for long walks is helpful, as is having trusted reader's look at what you've done so far, as is reading other books, listening to music, watching films or pursuing a mild version of Rimbaud's 'systematic derangement of the senses'. Anything to create the break. Sometimes not writing and not looking at the work is an important part of actually writing it! You need to go away, do something else, cleanse the vision a bit and then you can see what you've been doing more clearly.’ Cathi Unsworth looks for inspiration in work she admires: ‘I suffered on one novel terribly – but it was less like writer’s block and more a fear I wasn’t putting across things as well as I should have. My way round it was to constantly walk around the territory where the book was set, and to read and watch as many inspiring books, films and TV programmes as possible, to remind myself the ways of good, concise storytelling and beautiful prose.’
For Jess Richards the cause can often be emotional: ‘I don't trust myself to write from the point of view of the characters when I'm feeling very emotional, and that can be any emotion, including numbness. I worry that I'll give them a feeling that's mine and not their own.’ But ultimately, the way forward is to push on: ‘Sometimes even if I don't have any confidence in what I'm writing I just force the words out which eventually gets me back on track. I don't think any writing is wasted, as I learn from it, even if I get rid of a lot of it. Sometimes I imagine the block as a brick wall, and I'm hammering it down by writing through it. At times I tell myself not to even try writing anything at all, and then wait till just after I'm absolutely desperate to start again. That's a good one.’
This approach also works for Nikesh Shukla: ‘Write forward. Because I have to steal my writing time in and around a day job, a marriage and an addiction to HBO shows, I have to not allow myself to get stuck. I know people boringly say they write 1,000 words a day. What I think they mean, and what I do, is ensure I move forward every day. Even if you know what you're doing will have to be fixed in the next draft, you move forward. I start at the beginning and I finish at the end. I don't go back, I don't edit as I go, I move forward, or die, like Jaws. Because I've become since finishing Coconut Unlimited a serial re-editor, a serial finesser, so I now know that I can fix things in my next pass-through. That's when I cure the block, because I've already written through it... even if it's just writing in red, 'SOMETHING EMOTIONAL HAPPENS', I'll get there. I know how my novels and my short stories begin and end, the puzzle, the fun part, is getting the reader from one to the other.’
So when an editor has pried the manuscript out of the writer’s hands and declared ‘no more drafting’, what happens next? For Cathi Unsworth, there is a period of downtime needed, to make herself fresh for the next book: ‘I need about six months to come out of one world and then start exploring another. And then six months or longer researching the next one – I have to feel I am really in the world my characters are inhabiting for it to work.’ This theme is echoed by Jess Richards: ‘I'm not sure about recovery time, though it sounds like a nice idea. I definitely need time to get to know new characters, explore where they are, how they speak and what's going on for them. When I first started Cooking With Bones, I had to consciously avoid the dialect from Snake Ropes as it kept creeping into the first few pages’.
Shukla also took some time out after his first novel, for a variety of reasons: ‘Because it was my first book, I went out on book tour and I also had a bereavement in my life. I wasn't ready to write. I tried to write something but it ended up being a comedic attempt at self-help instead of seeing a bereavement counsellor, or taking a walk. The thing with your debut is, it's a well-worn truth - you have everything before that book to throw at it... with the one after, you only have everything between your debut and sophomore to throw... and so on and diminishing returns, so the trick is to get better at writing, instead of worrying about having experiences to fictionalise. For me, at least. Because I'm a writer who draws from real life, rather than being able to conjure pure fiction. That's something I've had to get better at.’
Other writers prefer to throw themselves straight into another project. Kerry Hudson found switching to a different type of project helpful: ‘I didn't have any time between my first and second but after my second I wanted to use my brain in a different way for a while hence the play. I love writing the first draft of a novel though so it's hard holding back: just you, the page, a story and no expectation - bliss!’ Both James Smythe and James Miller feel a sense of horror at not working. Smythe says he waits ‘a day, two maybe. I keep going. I roll from one to the other, because I love writing. When I've sent a book off to an editor, I start to worry; might as well distract from that worry with writing.’ Miller is even more explicit: ‘I keep going. I already know what the next novel will be about and am keen to get started. The fact is, without a novel to work on, life is a yawning void of meaningless horror. Writing keeps death at bay.’
When the novel is finished, most authors I spoke to still retain an emotional connection with the characters. Richards, for example, says she will ‘often imagine the characters are all growing older now, and I'd love to see what they've been up to in a few years’ time. I'm not sure that I'd ever write sequels, but it would be good to check in with them anyway.’ Whilst not necessarily writing sequels, Smythe will occasionally return to situations and characters in apparently unconnected novels: ‘I do revist the books through subsequent books. There's a pretty overt reference to the titular Machine in the sequel to The Explorer, and I love that - being able to tie things together for anybody that reads closely enough to care’. Miller says he is tempted to revisit characters ‘all the time. For example, my second novel, Sunshine State was one exploration of my concerns about climate change and the impact this will have on our society, but then when I was asked to contribute a story to Beacons: Stories for our Not So Distant Future - an anthology of climate change fiction, I was only too keen to return to the world of the 'storm zone' I'd created in that novel. All my work overlaps and inter-links and characters recur, albeit in slightly different forms or with new names. I've written quite a few weird short stories that extract characters from Lost Boys and Sunshine State and explore their meaning in different ways or pursue ideas that occurred to me when writing those books’.
Whilst creating thematic links can be satisfying, there is also a danger to creating series, as Cathi Unsworth recognises: ‘Sherlock Holmes and his effect on Conan Doyle is a warning from history to me. However, in the three books I have written about London, I come back to the same areas and see the geography changing as the city is constantly remodelled, which is something I find fascinating. I do sometimes make tiny links, which no one has ever noticed, between characters between books in different times. For instance, a minor villain mentioned once in Bad Penny Blues has the same surname as a major character in The Singer, whose father is a fence. But I think the main thing that links them is the concerns about society that they explore. I would hate to be trapped in an on-going relationship with just one person over the course of endless books.’
Finally, how does it feel to have the proof copy in your hands? For Ms Unsworth, it is ‘the best feeling, and what you do it all for. It is like having a baby – well I imagine. The closest I’ll ever come to having a baby anyway.’ James Smythe agrees: ‘It's amazing. It's a feeling that never seems to get old, as well. I hope it never does. It's so great, to see the culmination of the work there and bound; and, somehow, it feels indelible at that point. It's a book, and that's what this is all about.’ Kerry Hudson feels ‘Grateful and very lucky! It isn't easy getting (and staying) published in these tough times and to me it is still a miracle that I get to do this and people read the books and that's my job. Amazing.’
James Miller sees the arrival of the proofs as a moment of calm: ‘I feel great. It's one of the best moments, a real feeling of achievement and closure, a brief pause between the stress of finishing the book and the immense stress of publication’. For Jess Richards, that feeling comes later: ‘I feel nervous, as the proofs go out for review, and though I know it's a process which is necessary for the book, as an introvert, it feels quite exposing. I need to learn how to deal with this better - it's a steep learning curve.’ The arrival of the print copies, though, is full of excitement and potential: ‘I'm happiest when the final version is in my hands. That's the moment it feels real. There's nothing quite as magical as smelling a new book and imagining the colours of all the people's eyes who might read it’.
For Nikesh Shukla, the arrival of his first novel was ‘amazing’, but there are added pressures with his second: ‘With Meatspace, less so, because now I have a book out there to measure expectation, be it my own or the three people who bought the first one, against. So now it feels more nerve-wracking than it did before. I mean, with the first one, that was weird because it all unfolded at exactly the same time as a major bereavement in my life. I didn't get a chance to enjoy it. I was too busy becoming a self-promoting machine who moved on autopilot, because if I stopped to think about it, my biggest fear and my biggest dream were happening in tandem. So, the only regret I had about it then, was not being able to enjoy it or feel like it was a major success for me. The actual highlight, was the first time I saw it on the shelf. With Meatspace, the regret I have is that I took so long to write it. Maybe that's a good thing, though. The highlight, was writing it, because second novels are difficult. That whole second album syndrome, that's not just for albums.’
So, how do authors know when a novel is finished? Maybe they don’t, maybe they are just abandoned after all. For most, the moment of catharsis comes with the printed copies; this can be a brief experience to be enjoyed before plunging into another project, or the start of a long process of shedding the mindset of that novel and beginning to explore a new one. Most of all, there seems to be a determination to keep moving, and avoid falling into James Miller’s yawning void of meaningless horror…
To read Jenni Fagan, Sam Byers and more talk about their experience of publishing their first novels, click here
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