How Does It Feel? Publishing Your First Novel

Speaking at a promotional event for the recent Granta Best of Young British Novelists edition, Steven Hall was asked about the professional pressures faced by authors of literary fiction in the twenty first century, compared to the writers of previous generations. In response, Hall said that he felt authors were now required to think in much more entrepreneurial terms, promoting themselves as brands and boosting their incomes through writing for television and computer games. The internet and social media play a role; where authors could previously earn money through journalism, they are now expected to provide content to online editions and blogs in return for ‘exposure’. The decline of high street bookshops has led to increased competition for shelf-space, and writers are sometimes obliged to personally attend stores in order to have their work stocked in them. Around the same time, Joanna Kavenna wrote about the difficulty of finding a publisher for literary fiction. An increasing number of authors now double as creative writing tutors – aspiring novelists can learn from the likes of Scarlett Thomas at the University of Kent and Jeanette Winterson at Manchester, amongst others. So how does the reality of life as a published author compare to the ideas we might have of it? I spoke to a number of writers about their first experiences of publication to find out. 

Nicholas Royle is one novelist who also doubles as a creative writing lecturer, at MMU in his case, and his warning to aspiring authors seems to back up Hall’s point: ‘I know hardly any writers who started writing because they were drawn to it as a career. You'd be mad to think it might represent a stable or sensible career choice. A tiny percentage will make a career of it. It does sometimes seem, teaching creative writing, as if there are more people who want to write than want to read.’ He also sees economic factors affecting the book trade as a barrier to getting published: ‘The publishing world has contracted. There are many fewer publishers and those that remain are – and I hate to use such jargon, but it does fit – risk averse. They're interested for the most part only in money, in books they know will sell. So it's harder to get a deal with a big publisher. And it's virtually impossible without an agent. An agent is now widely seen as a must-have.’

Most of the authors I spoke to agreed with his point about agents. Jenn Ashworth, author of three novels including this year’s The Friday Gospels, found representation before she secured a publisher, saying ‘I think that's probably still the conventional way of going about things for people who don't have contacts, who don't network, which I didn't then, and still don't.’ Jenni Fagan attracted attention from independent publishers by herself, but signing with an agency opened doors to larger companies: ‘I was published by Blackheath Books after they saw me reading at the Betsy Trotwood in London. They asked for a submission and I handed them some crumpled poetry I had in my bag. I was also lucky to have some established writers see me read and they encouraged me to submit work to a few agents. I had just been shortlisted for a major book prize at the time and I sent out a few chapters of The Panopticon to half a dozen agents. I had a lot of interest and although they advise writers to meet as many agents as possible, I made a decision very quickly. At that point the novel went out to bigger publishing houses.’ 

There are other options though. It may not be common for unsolicited manuscripts to get picked up by major publishers, but it does happen, as Sam Mills says: ‘The first novel that I had published was the YA novel A Nicer Way to Die, which I sent to Faber directly. An editor pulled it off the slush pile and liked my writing, so within 24 hours of submission, I had a reply asking for more. My first novel for adults, The Quiddity of Will Self, was submitted to publishers via my agent. Some editors were passionate about it, but they said it was so odd they weren't sure how to market it, so it took a year to sell. I ended up signing with an indie press who I loved working with.’ Entering competitions can also help. James Higgerson submitted his first book for the annual Luke Bitmead Bursary, run by Legend Press. ‘I came second overall and came back to them with my next book, which they considered for their general list. It was the competition that brought me to their attention.’ While the big, traditional publishers are struggling, some independent companies have been doing well, and this in turn has created opportunities for writers without representation. Some imprints, such as Bluemoose and Melville House prefer to deal with authors directly, according to Royle, and can be a sensible choice: ‘Indie presses have been enjoying some success lately, with prize shortlistings and decent sales figures for certain books. Then there are loads of really small – and in fact not so small – specialist presses for all sort of genre writers. And then of course there's self-publishing and the e-book boom, which allows anyone to publish whatever they want.’ Dan Holloway’s campaigning work with the Society of Authors has led to self-publishing being seen as an increasingly credible option, with self-published books now being eligible for the Folio Prize. 

In terms of background, creative writing courses are seen as a good learning process for aspiring writers. Idiopathy author Sam Byers studied for an MA at UEA, and went on to do his PhD there too: ‘I found both extremely helpful. I think there's a bit of a myth going around that these courses try and 'teach' creative writing. I found what these courses did was allow me to meet other writers, to read their work and have them read mine. It gave me a sense of how writing is both created and received, rather than just seeing myself as operating in isolation.’ Jenn Ashworth worked on her first novel whilst taking her MA at Manchester University’s Centre for New Writing, and saw the benefits in a similar light: ‘It didn't feel like training, more like a rare opportunity to concentrate totally on my writing and, for the first time, listen to people who'd read my work carefully talk about it in front of me.’ It isn’t essential though. Sam Mills studied English at Oxford but didn’t follow this with a creative writing course – although she says the years she spent reading endless novels was the equivalent of an immersive course in fiction writing - while Nicholas Royle didn’t even have an English degree, studying languages instead. 

Most writers will have more than one novel behind them when they get published for the first time – a combination of practice and rejection can help to strengthen the character. Sam Byers wrote three novels during his twenties: ‘The first I barely even sent out to anyone - I think I knew even then I was pretty young and had a lot to learn. When I wrote the third I had the rejection letters from the second blu-tacked to the wall above my desk’. Jenni Fagan has a similar story: ‘I wrote my first novel when I was 21, it was my autobiography so I don't know if that counts. I put it in a drawer and never looked at it again. I had written lots of short stories, plays, some short film scripts that kind of thing — but really everyone starts their first fiction novel blind to a certain degree. I had at least got a lot better at writing dialogue and so on through all my other writing endeavours.‘ Jenn Ashworth was relieved that her two early efforts never saw the light of day: ‘One I wrote when I was sixteen, on an old typewriter, then typed up on a very very very old desktop computer that my aunt gave me. There are still floppy disks around with it on somewhere, though, as I remember, it was very heartfelt, dire, passionate stuff. Teenage girl type of stuff. The second I wrote while I was at Uni - about a woman who made a hot air balloon in her garden shed. That was bad too. Really bad. Looking back it is a relief that all traces of it were lost when the laptop computer I used to write it on was stolen in 2003.’

Almost all of the authors I spoke to were working or studying while they wrote the novel which got them published. Royle began working on his first novel at university, and continued the process after graduation: ‘I started it while I was a student and continued working on it through various periods of employment (as a bar manager, waiter, cashier, information officer) and unemployment (sitting around, travelling around Europe, walking around London).’ For some, a job can be a positive influence. Jenni Fagan was pregnant and working for a full-time degree whilst she worked on The Panopticon, but a writer’s residency at Lewisham Hospital gave her time to work. Sam Byers is keen to stress the benefits of employment: ‘When I began Idiopathy I was working full time, so writing had to be squeezed into early mornings, evenings and weekends. You can actually get a lot done in very little time. Somehow, the constraint sort of focuses you. You know you have to use your time wisely, so you do. Now I work half the week and write the other half. It's an ideal balance at the moment. I find it keeps me focused on writing days, but also forces me to step away from whatever I'm working on every week and allow some of the issues to resolve themselves in my mind. I also fear disconnection with the day-to-day world. While being at home seven days a week working on fiction does sound enticing, there is also a very real danger of disappearing completely into a sort of ego-bubble.’ Ben Myers was already an experienced music journalist when his first novel was published: 'before my first novel I had published a couple of music biographies too, though they were ostensibly done to buy me time to work on fiction. The novel always came first.'

One of the most daunting experiences for a first-time novelist must be sharing their work, first with editors and then the public. James Higgerson sums up the sense of nerves: ‘I was scared of the edit because I was worried the editor would re-read it and realise she'd made a massive mistake! It wasn’t a brutal process though.’ Sam Byers explains the editor’s role further: ‘I loved it. I'm very fortunate in that I have a fantastic editor who really understands what I'm trying to do. He tends to highlight areas of roughness or sloppiness pretty quickly. Everyone needs an editor, without exception, even if it's just someone you trust and whose input you value. If you've been working on something for, say, three years, there comes a moment when you need to step back, let go of it a bit. An editor will always be able to see things that you've lost sight of.’ 

Public attention can be difficult; writing is often seen as an occupation for introverts. Few people enjoy presenting to work colleagues, so imagine the stress of reading your prose to an audience of strangers. Jenni Fagan admits to still feeling nervous onstage - ‘apparently it doesn't show but I think the more readings you do the more confidence you develop.’ Bookstore appearances are more fun: ‘I like chatting to people at signings and getting a chance to meet people who are out there supporting my work, that's a nice part of the job.’ For James Higgerson, the opposite applies: ‘Readings have surprised me because I've enjoyed them. I hate public speaking and I'm not a performer, but my launch and the readings I've done have been good. I also went to a book group and talked with them for a couple of hours and they were excellent. That side of things I've really relished. I also really enjoy the Q&A bit at the end. Signings are the polar opposite. As a new writer known to no-one, a signing is very different than if you are an established author. It puts me in the role of salesman, which is my least favourite role. The whole thing is awkward and smacks of desperation. You sit behind a table and try and catch the eye of potential customers, who on the whole are deterred from looking at your book because you're sat there and they might feel obliged to buy it.’

Reviews can also be tough, though not necessarily for the reasons you’d expect. Sam Mills explains: ‘I had plenty of positive reviews for Quiddity, as well as a few negative – it was a divisive book. Yet all of the reviews, regardless of whether they were good or bad, made me suddenly feel self-conscious about my writing. When I began my second novel, I struggled for a few months; I was suddenly aware that I was worried about trying to please people. Gradually, I shrugged it off and got back to writing exactly what I want to write, not worrying about what people think.’ To avoid this, some writers like Sam Byers attempt to stay out of the limelight as far as possible, avoiding promotional appearances and ignoring press: ‘I was very fortunate in that I'd watched several other people go through the process of publication. I had a very good sense of how I wanted to handle it and the dangers that come with any kind of public exposure, so once it started happening it actually felt fine. I think it's important not to really take it too seriously. I am a profoundly unimportant person, and I like to see my work and responses to my work in that light.’ For Ben Myers, reviews were an especially odd experience: 'It felt strange because I was writing reviews of bands and books and films for a living and suddenly the shoe was on the other foot. Perhaps it made me more philosophical and accepting of the fact that a review is just one person’s opinion on any given day.' 

So, once your novel is (hopefully) out on the shelves and being reviewed, how much does your life change? Does life as a published author live up to expectations? Nicholas Royle’s debut may not have sparked a second wave of Beatlemania, but there were still some pleasant surprises. When I asked him if there had been any surprises, he replied ‘yes, I wasn't constantly stopped by people in the street! But seeing my book in the bookshop was enormously exciting, and seeing it reviewed in the broadsheets even more so.' According to Ben Myers, the third book is when you start getting real attention: 'I suppose being published legitimises you as a writer to some extent – to non-writers. Most people say to me ‘Oh, you’re a writer? Do you ever imagine you’ll be published?’ They’re surprised to hear that I am. I had it happen the other day. Only with my third novel have I felt a wider positive reaction from all sorts of people – oil riggers, hairdressers, academics, bare-knuckle boxers - and that has been a pleasant surprise.'

Other writers talk about feeling pressure. One prize-winning author, whose debut novel had helped their publishers make a profit for the first time in years, felt that their second book was ruined by their editor’s demands for a quick follow up. Other authors, in receipt of six-figure advances, were also expected to follow up their debut within a year. This pressure can take many forms. For James Higgerson, there is uncertainty: ‘There's pressure on me to follow my first book up with no guarantees that anyone will publish it. I'm not sure where it would leave me if I couldn't get another publishing deal, which weighs on my mind a lot. This new book is very different to The Almost Lizard and that could be my downfall. I also struggle with my job now, because (not so) deep down I just want to be able to write all of the time, but the reality is that I can't, and can't expect to for a really long time.’ Jenn Ashworth was also worried about changing styles: ‘the thing people really liked about the first novel - Annie and her voice - was really streets away from what I wanted to try with my second novel, which is more muted - less funny and much stranger, really. So I was worried the second wouldn't be enjoyed by people who liked the first. But I think everyone probably thinks that.’ For Jenni Fagan, time is the big problem: ‘there are a lot more additional demands to do interviews, or readings, or just respond to people who get in touch. I still work as hard as ever on my writing and I am constantly still stealing enough time to do so’. 

How do writers feel when they look back on their debuts? Nicholas Royle, the most experienced of the authors I spoke to, said he looked back ‘with a sort of fond indulgence tempered by shock that I allowed myself to make so many bad mistakes. I was forever telling, not showing, but at the same time showing off what I knew or had researched. I wanted to cram everything in. I still had to learn that the most important words are not those on the page, but those you leave out.’ Jenn Ashworth’s response was similar. Overall, she feels ‘affectionate. There are many things about it I'd do differently now. And many things about it that I'm proud of, still. But I can only look back on it - I haven't read it since I checked the proofs back in 2008 so I bet there's a lot that I've forgotten. There are two or three extracts that I do for literary festivals and events like that, but it isn't living, isn't interesting to me in the same way as the current work in progress always is.’ Ben Myers is in an odd position of having made two (or three) debuts: 'I feel proud that I wrote a book (The Book Of Fuck) at the age of 24 that got published and has achieved cult status amongst a few people around the world, but I view the next novel (Richard) as my first. Then again, because that was based upon a real person and therefore was semi-biographical I view my third novel (Pig Iron) as my true debut....'

Finally, what makes a great debut? Nicholas Royle’s latest book features a character who teaches a course on first novels. Personally, he looks for ‘Something new and fresh and different. Something good. Something that has those qualities that are so hard to define but that you sense as soon as you start reading. You generally know on the first page if someone can write, and then it's a question of seeing if they can write a novel.’ Sam Mills is a judge on the Luke Bitmead Bursary, which offers first-time writers a cash prize and a publishing deal with Legend Press. Whilst the award is a group decision, she says ‘I look for good prose and something fresh and unusual; I was particularly excited the year that J.R.Crook won for Sleeping Patterns. My advice would be to eschew commercial considerations. When you read a piece of writing that is written to suit a market, it usually has an air of insincerity about it and often appears workmanlike. Whilst it is useful to study genres in order to have an understanding of structure – even as a basis for subverting narrative structures – try to forget about conforming and do something different, daring, surprising. Also, good writing is a balance of the head and the heart - whatever intellectual choices you make about your ideas and themes, writing always needs to come from a raw place inside you.’

So, modern writers do face new challenges, and they do have demands on their time which may not have occurred in the past. There is a definite sense of uncertainty for new writers, and building a career is hard - it is common to see authors slip by the wayside if a second or third book doesn’t sell. One anonymous author said that after their latest novel had experienced solid, rather than spectacular, sales, their editor encouraged them to ‘be less clever next time’. Choosing the right publisher can be crucial – not only do authors need to find a sympathetic editor, they also increasingly need a marketing department which can secure their book a place in Waterstones promotions. But there are new opportunities too – independent publishers are making an impact in the market, with the likes of And Other Stories and Salt enjoying commercial success, and the higher royalty share offered by e-book publishing can be a lifeline. Blogs can help writers to find audiences away from the broadsheet review sections, and there is a growing number of book groups for authors to discuss their work with. So, will having your novel published change your life? Probably not, unless your name is JK Rowling or EL James, but its not time to despair yet, things are not quite as bad as Kavenna suggests. There are still opportunities for young writers out there, and maybe the digital revolution will create even more, for those willing to look outside of the big publishing companies.