Note: these are ‘general’ creative writing courses rather than specific, ie, screenwriting, theatre, novel, journalism, etc.
Bath Spa University
Birkbeck College
Canterbury Christchurch University
City University
De Montfort University
Edge Hill University
Goldsmiths College
Kingston University
Lancaster University
Liverpool John Moores University
London Metropolitan University
Loughborough University
Manchester Metropolitan University
Newcastle University
Northumbria University
Nottingham Trent University
Queens University, Belfast
Roehampton University
Royal Holloway, University of London
Sheffield Hallam University
Trinity College, Carmarthen
Trinity College, Dublin
University College, Falmouth
University of Bedfordshire
University of Bolton
University of Chester
University of Chichester
University of Dundee
University of East Anglia
University of East London
University of Essex
University of Glamorgan
University of Glasgow
University of Gloucestershire
University of Hull
University of Kent
University of Manchester
University of Oxford
University of Plymouth
University of Portsmouth
University of St Andrews
University of Sussex
University of the Arts
University of Ulster
University of Wales, Lampeter
University of Wales, Swansea
University of Warwick
University of Winchester
Monday, 24 September 2007
Aphorisms & Words Of Wisdom On The Craft Of Writing
I write when I’m inspired, and I see to it that I’m inspired at nine o’clock every morning.
Peter De Vries
When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap.
Cynthia Heimel
It takes less time to learn how to write nobly than to write lightly and straight forwardly
Nietzsche
To write simply is as difficult as to be good.
W. Somerset Maugham
The business of the novelist is not to chronicle great events but to make small ones interesting.
Schopenhauer
Writing is neither profession nor vocation, but an incurable illness. Those who give up are not writers and never were. Those who persevere do so not from pluck or determination but because they cannot help it. They are sick and advice is an impudence.
Hugh Leonard
The art of fiction does not begin until the novelist thinks of his story as a matter to be shown, to be so exhibited that it will tell itself.
Percy Lubbock
At the beginning of their careers many writers have a need to overwrite. They choose carefully turned-out phrases; they want to impress their readers with their large vocabularies. By the excesses of their language these young men and women try to hide their sense of inexperience. With maturity the writer becomes more secure in his ideas. He finds his real tone and develops a simple and effective style.
Borges
I never re-read what I’ve written; I’m far too afraid to feel ashamed of what I’ve done.
Borges
I do the first line well, but I have trouble doing the others.
Moliere
You cannot start a book with an intention, a calculation. You start writing before you know what you want to write, or what it is you’re doing.
E L Doctorow
Writing teachers invariably tell students, write about what you know. That’s, of course, what you have to do, but on the other hand, how do you know what you know until you’ve written it? Writing is knowing. What did Kafka know? The insurance business? So that kind of advice is foolish because it presumes that you have to be able to go out to war to be able to do war. Well, some do and some don’t. I’ve had very little experience in my life. In fact, I try to avoid experience if I can. Most experience is bad.
E.L. Doctorow
Writing a book is like driving a car at night. You only see as far as your headlights go, but you can make the whole trip that way.
E L Doctorow
One of the dumbest things you were ever taught was to write what you know. Because what you know is usually dull. Remember when you first wanted to be a writer? Eight or ten years old, reading about thin-lipped heroes flying over monstrous viny jungles toward untold wonders? That’s what you wanted to write about, about what you didn’t know. So, what mysterious time and place don’t you know?
Ken Kesey
As to plotting or thinking ahead, I don’t in a novel. I let it come page by page, one a day. Try and write out a scheme or plan and you will only depart from it. My way you have a chance of something living.
Henry Green
For God’s sake don’t do it unless you have to. It’s not easy. It shouldn’t be easy, but it shouldn’t be impossible - and it’s damn near impossible.
Frank Conroy
If a young writer can refrain from writing, he shouldn’t hesitate to do so.
Andre Gide
Everyone who does not need to be a writer, who thinks he can do something else, ought to do something else.
Georges Simenon
You can’t want to be a writer, you have to be one.
Paul Theroux
If you want to be true to life, start lying about it.
John Fowles
Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so slightly, but still attached, to life at all four corners.
Virginia Woolf
Truth may be stranger than fiction, but fiction is truer.
Frederic Raphael
Fiction should be a story. In any story there are three elements: people, a situation, and the fact that in the end something has changed. If nothing has changed, it isn’t a story.
Malcolm Cowley
A writer is not someone who expresses his thoughts, his passion or his imagination in sentences, but someone who thinks sentences. A Sentence-Thinker.
Roland Barthes
Writers are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Hemingway
A writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.
Hemingway
The only tool a writer needs is a built-in shock-proof shit detector.
Hemingway
What is wrong with most writing today is its flaccidity, its lack of pleasure in the manipulation of sounds and pauses. The written word is becoming inert. One dreads to think what it will be like in 2020.
Anthony Burgess
Finishing a book is just like you took a child out into the yard and shot it.
Truman Capote
I truly do not care about a book once it is finished. Any money or fame that results has no connection with my feeling for the book.
Steinbeck
I don’t know about method. That what is so much more important than the how.
Ezra Pound
When they come, I write them; when they don’t, I don’t.
Kerouac
Derivative writers seem versatile because they imitate many others, both past and present. Artistic originality has only itself to copy.
Nabokov
Peter De Vries
When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap.
Cynthia Heimel
It takes less time to learn how to write nobly than to write lightly and straight forwardly
Nietzsche
To write simply is as difficult as to be good.
W. Somerset Maugham
The business of the novelist is not to chronicle great events but to make small ones interesting.
Schopenhauer
Writing is neither profession nor vocation, but an incurable illness. Those who give up are not writers and never were. Those who persevere do so not from pluck or determination but because they cannot help it. They are sick and advice is an impudence.
Hugh Leonard
The art of fiction does not begin until the novelist thinks of his story as a matter to be shown, to be so exhibited that it will tell itself.
Percy Lubbock
At the beginning of their careers many writers have a need to overwrite. They choose carefully turned-out phrases; they want to impress their readers with their large vocabularies. By the excesses of their language these young men and women try to hide their sense of inexperience. With maturity the writer becomes more secure in his ideas. He finds his real tone and develops a simple and effective style.
Borges
I never re-read what I’ve written; I’m far too afraid to feel ashamed of what I’ve done.
Borges
I do the first line well, but I have trouble doing the others.
Moliere
You cannot start a book with an intention, a calculation. You start writing before you know what you want to write, or what it is you’re doing.
E L Doctorow
Writing teachers invariably tell students, write about what you know. That’s, of course, what you have to do, but on the other hand, how do you know what you know until you’ve written it? Writing is knowing. What did Kafka know? The insurance business? So that kind of advice is foolish because it presumes that you have to be able to go out to war to be able to do war. Well, some do and some don’t. I’ve had very little experience in my life. In fact, I try to avoid experience if I can. Most experience is bad.
E.L. Doctorow
Writing a book is like driving a car at night. You only see as far as your headlights go, but you can make the whole trip that way.
E L Doctorow
One of the dumbest things you were ever taught was to write what you know. Because what you know is usually dull. Remember when you first wanted to be a writer? Eight or ten years old, reading about thin-lipped heroes flying over monstrous viny jungles toward untold wonders? That’s what you wanted to write about, about what you didn’t know. So, what mysterious time and place don’t you know?
Ken Kesey
As to plotting or thinking ahead, I don’t in a novel. I let it come page by page, one a day. Try and write out a scheme or plan and you will only depart from it. My way you have a chance of something living.
Henry Green
For God’s sake don’t do it unless you have to. It’s not easy. It shouldn’t be easy, but it shouldn’t be impossible - and it’s damn near impossible.
Frank Conroy
If a young writer can refrain from writing, he shouldn’t hesitate to do so.
Andre Gide
Everyone who does not need to be a writer, who thinks he can do something else, ought to do something else.
Georges Simenon
You can’t want to be a writer, you have to be one.
Paul Theroux
If you want to be true to life, start lying about it.
John Fowles
Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so slightly, but still attached, to life at all four corners.
Virginia Woolf
Truth may be stranger than fiction, but fiction is truer.
Frederic Raphael
Fiction should be a story. In any story there are three elements: people, a situation, and the fact that in the end something has changed. If nothing has changed, it isn’t a story.
Malcolm Cowley
A writer is not someone who expresses his thoughts, his passion or his imagination in sentences, but someone who thinks sentences. A Sentence-Thinker.
Roland Barthes
Writers are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
Hemingway
A writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.
Hemingway
The only tool a writer needs is a built-in shock-proof shit detector.
Hemingway
What is wrong with most writing today is its flaccidity, its lack of pleasure in the manipulation of sounds and pauses. The written word is becoming inert. One dreads to think what it will be like in 2020.
Anthony Burgess
Finishing a book is just like you took a child out into the yard and shot it.
Truman Capote
I truly do not care about a book once it is finished. Any money or fame that results has no connection with my feeling for the book.
Steinbeck
I don’t know about method. That what is so much more important than the how.
Ezra Pound
When they come, I write them; when they don’t, I don’t.
Kerouac
Derivative writers seem versatile because they imitate many others, both past and present. Artistic originality has only itself to copy.
Nabokov
Writing A Monologue
Writing a successful monologue is a particularly challenging task; it’s more akin to creating a poem than a piece of traditional ‘beginning, middle, end’ drama. Like close-up in film, the monologue provides an incisive and penetrating look into one character’s humanity, a character who attempts to communicate whilst wrestling with their own desires, beliefs, relationships, histories and inner conflicts/contradictions. A character in a monologue talks freely and often discloses things which are usually kept private - sometimes consciously, often not.
When writing your own monologue you may find it easier to contextualise your piece, ie, to employ a dramatic device which makes your characters’ talking to themselves plausible. They might, for example, be looking at/holding the photograph of a loved one, or have been left in charge of a sleeping grandchild. Alan Bennett’s twelve monologues which comprise his famous ‘Talking Heads’ series (which you should read/study) are not contextualized; they provide their own context. The character simply acknowledges the presence of an invisible listener and begins to speak.
A monologue may be delivered by an inner voice, revealing the character’s secret, unarticulated thoughts, or it may be exterior, including other voices - family, friends, lovers, etc.
As with real speech, the monologue will rarely – if ever - be neat and tidy, a seamless linear flow of clear, explicit thought. In life, however eloquent we might fancy ourselves to be, we all back ourselves into conversational cul-de-sacs, employ non-sequiteurs, fail to fully explain what we mean, use inappropriate language, etc. We rely, consciously or otherwise, on the listener to fill in the gaps, to tease meaning from our words. Your monologue should reflect the ‘raggedness’ and unfinished quality of genuine speech whilst, of course, remaining rigorously focused and on-target.
Know who is speaking:
Creative writing manuals invariably advise new writers to create character biographies before embarking upon the serious business of writing their novel, screenplay, etc. These painstakingly scripted life stories, frequently chart each person’s existence from conception to death - pages and pages of material which microscopically chronicle their every experience, no matter how trivial. I would argue that this obsessive note-taking, far from liberating the writer, enabling them to bring their dramatis personae to life, all too frequently results in a dull, uninspired troupe of one-dimensional creatures. Characters are born in the imagination.
For your monologue it is enough to know, in the broadest terms, what kind of person your character is. Does he love sport to the point of neglecting his family? Is she obsessed with cleaning? Does he have a problem with commitment/fidelity? If you can explain how your character would react in any given situation, and how his or her reaction would be different from yours or those of people you know, he/she will come across as a living, breathing individual during the performance of your piece.
You might find it helpful to personify some aspect of yourself whilst writing. However, when authors try to write directly from their own experience, they often end up examining, and exhibiting, every facet of their personalities, which can result in a thin, ‘fragmented’ protagonist. In truth, as individuals, we are various people at various times. Choose one of your many moods and write from that place. What would your depressive side say? Or your passionate self? The mendacious or egotistical you?
A useful ‘twist’ is to give your character traits that are at cross purposes with their occupation or current situation, ie, the elegant, cultured man who has to work as a cleaner in a high-class hotel, or the man’s man who has to wait in the lingerie department most Saturdays while his wife shops and has to help her choose items. (Sadly this particular species of male has yet to become extinct.) Knowing the kind of person from whose point-of-view you're writing will help colour their diction so they don't sound exactly like you.
To take an opposing point of view, I have found from my own experience that choosing a character who bears little, or no, relation to me whatsoever can, paradoxically, make the task of writing easier. It’s all about giving the imagination free rein. (Think of my own example, performed in class.)
Know why your character is speaking:
The cardinal sin committed in many monologues is that the playwright forgets to give the character a reason to be addressing the audience. It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of thinking that because you are passionate about the words which appear on your computer screen everyone else will be interested too. Not so! Your character should have a motivation for opening his/her mouth, even if this is not an integral part of the monologue. Speech is an action. You don't talk unless something prompts you to do so. And you don't speak at length unless you’re attempting to influence an outcome in your favour. Even those people who seem to go on for hours without saying anything of significance or interest – we can all, no doubt, think of numerous examples from our personal lives - have a reason for doing so; maybe it's to calm themselves, or hold another person's attention because the speaker is inwardly lonely. When you have your character, put her/him in a situation in which she needs to accomplish an objective. Think of your monologue as a dramatic scene and it will become more active and consequently more engaging.
Know to whom your character is speaking:
The listener is the (essential) element all too often overlooked in monologues. Many novice playwrights (and some professionals) are primarily interested in what they themselves have to say, their own oh-so-witty turns of phrase, abstruse classical allusions and dazzling metaphors. They never, or rarely, pause to consider those poor audience members who have to sit and listen to their solipsistic, masturbatory outpourings.
You must be aware of the reaction your ‘message’ is having on the listener. What is their role in the drama? Think of your own conversationary tactics for a moment. When you are trying to convince someone of something and you recognise that you’re failing you will naturally change your strategy in the hope of being more persuasive and more likely to get what you want – how quickly we move from conciliation to conflict. Being constantly aware of the listener will keep you - and your character - alert and responsive; it's not going to be easy for him/her to spew soliloquies about sunsets or the moonlight illuminating the tropical lagoon. He's going to have to work. At the very least a clearly defined listener will give the speaker a specific target to vent at, someone to rail against.
In the same way that you’ve decided on what kind of person the speaker is, choose what sort of individual he is talking to. The speaker will tailor his delivery to his intended audience (not the theatre audience). Pause for thought: you converse differently with your immediate superior at work than you do with your son or your mother, or the postman. A defined listener will have his own agenda for being in the same room with your protagonist, and this will naturally add conflict, which will up the dramatic ante of your piece and make it more compelling, and best of all, it won't make your audience want to ignite their hair and beat out the flames with a shovel as a means of avoiding what’s happening ‘on stage’.
The Function of Speech in Drama – with particular emphasis on the monologue
• To reveal character
• To provide the audience with relevant information
• To foreshadow what is to come
• To carry exposition, ie, explain events which have occurred ‘off stage’
• To reflect the speaker’s mood/emotional state
The monologue might conveniently broken into its constituent parts thus:
The Hook:
Grab people's attention. Don't necessarily start at the beginning of the story the character wants to tell. We can come in towards the end of the tale, thus the audience is eager to find out what happens next, as well as wondering what led to this.
The Grab:
Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Your opening words are crucial for the tone of your piece. Don't ramble on and on - get right into the heart of your story. Find the ‘voice’.
The Heart:
Why is this character talking to us? Why now? The best monologues, once they've hooked and grabbed us, tell a story we've never heard before – or, more likely, supply a fresh twist to an old tale.
The Soul:
Who is this person? Where are they from? What are their hopes, dreams, and disappointments? If you can answer all these questions, your character will start coming to life.
The Colour:
This is more than location - it's the way your character sees, and reacts to, the world around them.
The Music:
Great writing is like music. You state a theme, expand upon it, build a crescendo, then slowly come back down to earth. Because of this musical quality of dialogue, it's absolutely essential that you read your piece aloud.
The Sound:
Reading aloud is an essential part of the writing process. Does the dialogue sound natural? Does it flow? Can you identify musical stops and starts, changes of rhythm and pace? All of this becomes much clearer when hearing your words spoken out loud.
The Fury:
Writing is rewriting. This is the really difficult part of the process - once you've completed your first draft, put it to one side, make a cup of tea, then come back to it. Try reading it out loud and see what can be improved. Then do this again. And again. And again!
The Edit:
Remember, it's possible to convey a lot of emotion with very few words (your ultimate goal) - and silence is extremely powerful. Beware ‘flashy’ dialogue or clever one-liners - it's how the monologue works as a whole that counts.
The End:
In the words of T.S. Eliot: "in my beginning is my end".
Remember where your monologue started from? Well, after your monologue has whisked us away on a voyage full of heart, soul, colour and music, that's roughly where we should end up - right back at the beginning.
When writing your own monologue you may find it easier to contextualise your piece, ie, to employ a dramatic device which makes your characters’ talking to themselves plausible. They might, for example, be looking at/holding the photograph of a loved one, or have been left in charge of a sleeping grandchild. Alan Bennett’s twelve monologues which comprise his famous ‘Talking Heads’ series (which you should read/study) are not contextualized; they provide their own context. The character simply acknowledges the presence of an invisible listener and begins to speak.
A monologue may be delivered by an inner voice, revealing the character’s secret, unarticulated thoughts, or it may be exterior, including other voices - family, friends, lovers, etc.
As with real speech, the monologue will rarely – if ever - be neat and tidy, a seamless linear flow of clear, explicit thought. In life, however eloquent we might fancy ourselves to be, we all back ourselves into conversational cul-de-sacs, employ non-sequiteurs, fail to fully explain what we mean, use inappropriate language, etc. We rely, consciously or otherwise, on the listener to fill in the gaps, to tease meaning from our words. Your monologue should reflect the ‘raggedness’ and unfinished quality of genuine speech whilst, of course, remaining rigorously focused and on-target.
Know who is speaking:
Creative writing manuals invariably advise new writers to create character biographies before embarking upon the serious business of writing their novel, screenplay, etc. These painstakingly scripted life stories, frequently chart each person’s existence from conception to death - pages and pages of material which microscopically chronicle their every experience, no matter how trivial. I would argue that this obsessive note-taking, far from liberating the writer, enabling them to bring their dramatis personae to life, all too frequently results in a dull, uninspired troupe of one-dimensional creatures. Characters are born in the imagination.
For your monologue it is enough to know, in the broadest terms, what kind of person your character is. Does he love sport to the point of neglecting his family? Is she obsessed with cleaning? Does he have a problem with commitment/fidelity? If you can explain how your character would react in any given situation, and how his or her reaction would be different from yours or those of people you know, he/she will come across as a living, breathing individual during the performance of your piece.
You might find it helpful to personify some aspect of yourself whilst writing. However, when authors try to write directly from their own experience, they often end up examining, and exhibiting, every facet of their personalities, which can result in a thin, ‘fragmented’ protagonist. In truth, as individuals, we are various people at various times. Choose one of your many moods and write from that place. What would your depressive side say? Or your passionate self? The mendacious or egotistical you?
A useful ‘twist’ is to give your character traits that are at cross purposes with their occupation or current situation, ie, the elegant, cultured man who has to work as a cleaner in a high-class hotel, or the man’s man who has to wait in the lingerie department most Saturdays while his wife shops and has to help her choose items. (Sadly this particular species of male has yet to become extinct.) Knowing the kind of person from whose point-of-view you're writing will help colour their diction so they don't sound exactly like you.
To take an opposing point of view, I have found from my own experience that choosing a character who bears little, or no, relation to me whatsoever can, paradoxically, make the task of writing easier. It’s all about giving the imagination free rein. (Think of my own example, performed in class.)
Know why your character is speaking:
The cardinal sin committed in many monologues is that the playwright forgets to give the character a reason to be addressing the audience. It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of thinking that because you are passionate about the words which appear on your computer screen everyone else will be interested too. Not so! Your character should have a motivation for opening his/her mouth, even if this is not an integral part of the monologue. Speech is an action. You don't talk unless something prompts you to do so. And you don't speak at length unless you’re attempting to influence an outcome in your favour. Even those people who seem to go on for hours without saying anything of significance or interest – we can all, no doubt, think of numerous examples from our personal lives - have a reason for doing so; maybe it's to calm themselves, or hold another person's attention because the speaker is inwardly lonely. When you have your character, put her/him in a situation in which she needs to accomplish an objective. Think of your monologue as a dramatic scene and it will become more active and consequently more engaging.
Know to whom your character is speaking:
The listener is the (essential) element all too often overlooked in monologues. Many novice playwrights (and some professionals) are primarily interested in what they themselves have to say, their own oh-so-witty turns of phrase, abstruse classical allusions and dazzling metaphors. They never, or rarely, pause to consider those poor audience members who have to sit and listen to their solipsistic, masturbatory outpourings.
You must be aware of the reaction your ‘message’ is having on the listener. What is their role in the drama? Think of your own conversationary tactics for a moment. When you are trying to convince someone of something and you recognise that you’re failing you will naturally change your strategy in the hope of being more persuasive and more likely to get what you want – how quickly we move from conciliation to conflict. Being constantly aware of the listener will keep you - and your character - alert and responsive; it's not going to be easy for him/her to spew soliloquies about sunsets or the moonlight illuminating the tropical lagoon. He's going to have to work. At the very least a clearly defined listener will give the speaker a specific target to vent at, someone to rail against.
In the same way that you’ve decided on what kind of person the speaker is, choose what sort of individual he is talking to. The speaker will tailor his delivery to his intended audience (not the theatre audience). Pause for thought: you converse differently with your immediate superior at work than you do with your son or your mother, or the postman. A defined listener will have his own agenda for being in the same room with your protagonist, and this will naturally add conflict, which will up the dramatic ante of your piece and make it more compelling, and best of all, it won't make your audience want to ignite their hair and beat out the flames with a shovel as a means of avoiding what’s happening ‘on stage’.
The Function of Speech in Drama – with particular emphasis on the monologue
• To reveal character
• To provide the audience with relevant information
• To foreshadow what is to come
• To carry exposition, ie, explain events which have occurred ‘off stage’
• To reflect the speaker’s mood/emotional state
The monologue might conveniently broken into its constituent parts thus:
The Hook:
Grab people's attention. Don't necessarily start at the beginning of the story the character wants to tell. We can come in towards the end of the tale, thus the audience is eager to find out what happens next, as well as wondering what led to this.
The Grab:
Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Your opening words are crucial for the tone of your piece. Don't ramble on and on - get right into the heart of your story. Find the ‘voice’.
The Heart:
Why is this character talking to us? Why now? The best monologues, once they've hooked and grabbed us, tell a story we've never heard before – or, more likely, supply a fresh twist to an old tale.
The Soul:
Who is this person? Where are they from? What are their hopes, dreams, and disappointments? If you can answer all these questions, your character will start coming to life.
The Colour:
This is more than location - it's the way your character sees, and reacts to, the world around them.
The Music:
Great writing is like music. You state a theme, expand upon it, build a crescendo, then slowly come back down to earth. Because of this musical quality of dialogue, it's absolutely essential that you read your piece aloud.
The Sound:
Reading aloud is an essential part of the writing process. Does the dialogue sound natural? Does it flow? Can you identify musical stops and starts, changes of rhythm and pace? All of this becomes much clearer when hearing your words spoken out loud.
The Fury:
Writing is rewriting. This is the really difficult part of the process - once you've completed your first draft, put it to one side, make a cup of tea, then come back to it. Try reading it out loud and see what can be improved. Then do this again. And again. And again!
The Edit:
Remember, it's possible to convey a lot of emotion with very few words (your ultimate goal) - and silence is extremely powerful. Beware ‘flashy’ dialogue or clever one-liners - it's how the monologue works as a whole that counts.
The End:
In the words of T.S. Eliot: "in my beginning is my end".
Remember where your monologue started from? Well, after your monologue has whisked us away on a voyage full of heart, soul, colour and music, that's roughly where we should end up - right back at the beginning.
Writing About Sex
This brief meditation on the perils of dealing successfully, and professionally, with the myriad facets of both love and sex within your writing - you are almost certainly going to have to wrestle with at least one of these volatile topics during the composition of your novel*; indeed, love, passion, desire (call it what you will) is the fuel which drives the vast majority of literature - arose out of my many, sometimes heated, discussions with individual students, and those in a group setting. Nothing, I’ve discovered, polarises a gathering of novelists manqué more than matters relating to human mating. The scramble to claim the moral high ground can be undignified in the extreme.
(*I retain the word ‘novel’ for convenience; these notes are adapted from the pack I produced for the students on my novel writing course. The advice given applies equally to all forms of writing.)
Let’s begin by setting out a few general principles:
Your love scene[s] (which, herein after, also refer to all forms of sexual activity) should be written, and placed within your work, so that they are central to the story and, in some fundamental way, advance the plot, disclose necessary information and reveal character - ideally all three.
All such scenes must maintain and/or directly contribute to the novel’s innate tension and on-going conflict. They should not be there merely for decorative effect.
Characters should remain consistent once in a state of dishabille. Albert, your timid, unworldly, myopic public librarian cannot, whilst frolicking in the building’s subterranean book store with his equally astigmatic colleague, Lola, come across as some frighteningly adept and rapacious sex machine, a prodigiously gifted lover who has experienced every position described within the covers of the ‘Kama Sutra’ at least once. Beware: it’s all too easy to sacrifice your characters’ true personalities as soon as their underwear makes contact with the Wilton.
The language you use to tell the reader what Lo and Al get up to beneath the duvet should be suitably fresh and original, evocative and rich - whilst also remaining fully compatible with the linguistic tonal values of the novel as a whole. Waxing heavily poetic (or pornographic) during moments of passion is certain to create a fatal sense of falsity in the proceedings if these episodes conflict stylistically with what has gone before – and with what is to come. At all costs avoid the use of cliché - not by any means an easy task - which will have the effect of dousing poor Lo and Al (and the reader) with a bucket of iced water. Cliché (the literary equivalent of bromide) is the best antidote to sexual desire there is; don’t prescribe it for your characters and then expect them to perform with anything approaching conviction.
A major problem with writing love scenes revolves around the questions of when, how much and how often. These factors will likely be determined by the kind of novel you’re writing. Sex in a thriller has a different role from that depicted in a romance or a horror story, say, even though the physical act may essentially be the same. Remember, scenes of a strictly sexual nature are not mandatory - unless, of course, you’re writing one of those sordid little ‘Black Lace’ style numbers whose characters if not actually dead (and perhaps even a state of advanced rigor mortis doesn’t disqualify them) indulge in an almost continuous (and frequently ludicrous) round of sweat raising screwing.
So, never insert a love scene into your narrative just to achieve a state of temporary tumescence in an otherwise flaccid plot. Never attempt to bribe the reader into staying with your story with a little acrobatic, and distracting, sex. Don’t play the pimp. Most readers are canny, and perceptive, enough to immediately see through your ruse and will readily, and rightly, condemn you for your gross impertinence and boorish tactics.
Sexual encounters do not stand isolated within a novel; they should be the culmination of everything has gone before, a natural consequence of past events - a release of tension which has been relentlessly building between two characters for example. Check the veracity, and legitimacy, of your amatorial encounters by reading the relevant chapter/section both including, and excluding, the scene in question. Does the sequence loose some vital energy and power through Lo and Al failing to proceed from coffee and conversation to full-blown simultaneous orgasm on the moonlit veranda?
Any scene in your novel (if it’s functioning correctly) is likely to be a miniature version of the story itself. It is imbued with similar properties: rising action, conflict, climax and resolution - just like the act of love itself in fact. You can (and indeed many authors have) profitably use the ebb and flow of lovemaking to give your scene its shape and rhythm - its dynamic.
There must always be something at stake for the participants beyond the mere gratification of sexual desire. Will Lo’s twenty-two stone psychopathic partner learn of her current whereabouts, and what will be the result for her (and Al) if they’re caught in flagrante delicto by homicidal Harry and his shiny hatchet? Will Al’s ailing, neurotic and possessive mother disinherit him if she discovers what her little short-sighted son gets up to on his nights away from the kitchen sink? The stamps Al collects on such illicit occasions are not the kind you can stick in an album. How will Al conceal the mounting evidence of his torrid affair with literature loving Lo? (‘Oh, please, please, Al baby, beat me again with that annotated copy of ‘Moby Dick!’)
As a result of Al and Lo’s sexual conjoining the balance of the story must alter.
As alluded to above, one of the commonest problems for writers embarking upon a love scene is the (often unconscious) temptation for the author to come - I’m sure you know what I mean - between the tremulous couple about to catch sight of what’s lurking in each others undergarments. The conduct of the characters concerned begins to conflict horribly with the set of emotional/behavioural patterns which, hitherto, they’ve lived by, and observed, quite contentedly and convincingly. This is frequently the moment when clichéd thought on the part of the writer translates into clichéd action/reaction upon the page. The demon of chauvinism often rears its repulsive reptilian head at this point.
In any sexual liaison there will, inevitably, be some subtle power struggle taking place, but within your novel sex should not be portrayed as just a gratuitous and reflexive act of possession by the man. This is an anachronistic, and reductive, approach to the subject which you should strive to avoid - unless, of course, that’s the whole point of the scene. Similarly male sexuality is not solely comprised of brute force, ego and ignorance (am I in danger here of endowing the male of the species with a sensitivity that so few of them exhibit?), the man’s erection rendering him mute of voice and thought, and devoid of all feeling not centred around the groin.
Characters must remain consistent at all times - and especially during those heady moments of immediate pre and post sexual congress. The author has absolutely no business intruding upon their private time together forcing them (deliberately or otherwise) to enact his/her own erotic fantasies. Onanism is not part of the novelist’s remit once his characters are stripped for action. Wishfulfilment has no place here – and I’ll not thank you for bringing up ‘Wuthering Heights’ at this point!
It’s axiomatic that certain individuals will behave wholly unexpectedly given a specific set of circumstances. We witness such anomalies in human conduct daily on our roads; the meek become manic once their backsides ease into the driver’s seat of their penile Mondeos. If self-effacing, mousy little Albert is one of life’s sexual Jeykll and Hydes then this fact must be subtly foreshadowed within the text prior to his producing a length of copper piping and a tube of super-glue while lusty Lo hunts around in the bathroom for a vanilla flavoured condom. (See my above comment on male sexuality.) Al’s use of Araldite as an aid to gratification must seem both surprising - and yet inevitable - based upon the reader’s understanding of his character as presented by the author.
The biggest challenge facing the novelist is how to convey the theme of love and the ‘mechanics’ of lovemaking using language which is both interesting and innovative (and appropriate) - and completely devoid of the hackneyed phrase and the fifth hand sentiment. Most sex scenes tend to fall into the categories of the clinical, clichéd, or overly poetical. Thus we are treated to Lo’s genitalia being described in terms more suited to a gynaecologist preparing a pre-operative diagnostic report, or a tweed jacketed TV gardener detailing the luxuriant glossy bloom of some exotic orchid. ‘The engorged silky petals of Lola’s labia opened under the warm rain of his breath…’ Spare me, per- leese!
Test each line, each shiny nugget of description, ruthlessly; if anything on page (or screen) sounds even remotely familiar, trite (or merely risible) then cut it and try something new. Be sure to eschew over-indulgence in metaphor and simile. Sex and love attract these literary embellishments like a magnet suspended above a dish of iron filings. Trust the ability of the reader’s imagination to supply the necessary details of Lo and Al’s physical appearance during arousal, and their subsequent bedroom maneouvres.
How graphic/explicit you choose to be in your use of sexual language might depend largely upon how comfortable you are using words like ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck’. (Never, though, fall into the trap of employing euphemism - ‘his rampant manhood’) If such notorious four letter words would not fall naturally from the tongue of your dunking duo (and you’ve not employed them thus far in your narrative) then don’t use them here just for effect or shock value. If, on the other hand, Lo is one of those decent, ultra-respectable women who like to indulge in coprolalia during sex, then don’t deny her her mouthful of orgasm-inducing expletives.
I’m aware that my stance might appear to be an avowedly heterosexual one; however each of the points raised above apply equally to gay and lesbian relationships. The ‘political’ and moral complexities which surround gay sex are not so very different from those which inform heterosexual activity. How the writer handles his/her characters’ sexual orientation will depend upon the story they are trying to tell and the psychological, emotional and cultural make-up of the characters who populate the narrative.
To conclude: always be true to your characters’ psychological, spiritual and emotional dispositions (see above). Keep your own prejudices/hang-ups firmly under wraps. Any form of self-censorship, however mild, will destroy the impact of your work and make it sound banal or, even worse, specious. In the same way that you would never burst in upon a couple making love in real life, refrain from doing so in your fiction. Your characters’ morality is very much their own business. Bear this - often unpalatable - fact in mind whenever you find yourself creeping towards the bedroom door with that large zinc pail of icy water.
NB: Since originally penning the above, I’m pleased to report that further help is available in the shape of ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ by Elizabeth Benedict (Souvenir Press. £9.99). An edited version of my original review, which you may find helpful, is given below:
Very few writers, however accomplished (and who are not called Nabokov), can do sex convincingly, and satisfactorily; indeed the great majority suffer, at some time, from the literary equivalent of various sexual nasties: premature or retarded ejaculation, impotence, vaginismus, dysparreunia, nonorgasmia, etc. (Urgh!) Novelist and teacher Elizabeth Benedict offers a diagnosis and course of treatment for those writers afflicted with one (or more) of the above conditions. As a creative writing tutor, I’ve ploughed through more than my fair share of writing primers, very few of which justify their existence. I’m therefore both delighted, and frankly surprised, to be able to give Benedict’s book an unconditional – er - thumbs up. For those sweatily toiling at the coal-face, hewing their novel word by word, the advice and guidance provided is steeped in commonsense, and possesses a genuine insight into the problems which every writer encounters once their character’s make a beeline for the bedroom. Benedict draws on the work of many respected authors (Edmund White, Toni Morrison, John Updike, Roddy Doyle) to identify the problems, and solutions, relating to matters sexual. The general reader need not feel excluded, relegated to the role of voyeur. For anyone with an interest in contemporary fiction, there is a great deal here to enjoy and consider. This is as much a work of literary criticism as it is a writing manual. ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ takes into account the profound change in our sexual attitudes in recent years. AIDS, cyber-sex, adulterous and married sex, solo sex, and more, are covered. Benedict is at pains to point out that the creation of a convincing sex scene must take on board every aspect of fiction writing: dialogue, mood, plot, the psychology of relationships, character. Hear, hear! Wise, stimulating and so-o-o sexy. A course of Viagra between soft covers.
(*I retain the word ‘novel’ for convenience; these notes are adapted from the pack I produced for the students on my novel writing course. The advice given applies equally to all forms of writing.)
Let’s begin by setting out a few general principles:
Your love scene[s] (which, herein after, also refer to all forms of sexual activity) should be written, and placed within your work, so that they are central to the story and, in some fundamental way, advance the plot, disclose necessary information and reveal character - ideally all three.
All such scenes must maintain and/or directly contribute to the novel’s innate tension and on-going conflict. They should not be there merely for decorative effect.
Characters should remain consistent once in a state of dishabille. Albert, your timid, unworldly, myopic public librarian cannot, whilst frolicking in the building’s subterranean book store with his equally astigmatic colleague, Lola, come across as some frighteningly adept and rapacious sex machine, a prodigiously gifted lover who has experienced every position described within the covers of the ‘Kama Sutra’ at least once. Beware: it’s all too easy to sacrifice your characters’ true personalities as soon as their underwear makes contact with the Wilton.
The language you use to tell the reader what Lo and Al get up to beneath the duvet should be suitably fresh and original, evocative and rich - whilst also remaining fully compatible with the linguistic tonal values of the novel as a whole. Waxing heavily poetic (or pornographic) during moments of passion is certain to create a fatal sense of falsity in the proceedings if these episodes conflict stylistically with what has gone before – and with what is to come. At all costs avoid the use of cliché - not by any means an easy task - which will have the effect of dousing poor Lo and Al (and the reader) with a bucket of iced water. Cliché (the literary equivalent of bromide) is the best antidote to sexual desire there is; don’t prescribe it for your characters and then expect them to perform with anything approaching conviction.
A major problem with writing love scenes revolves around the questions of when, how much and how often. These factors will likely be determined by the kind of novel you’re writing. Sex in a thriller has a different role from that depicted in a romance or a horror story, say, even though the physical act may essentially be the same. Remember, scenes of a strictly sexual nature are not mandatory - unless, of course, you’re writing one of those sordid little ‘Black Lace’ style numbers whose characters if not actually dead (and perhaps even a state of advanced rigor mortis doesn’t disqualify them) indulge in an almost continuous (and frequently ludicrous) round of sweat raising screwing.
So, never insert a love scene into your narrative just to achieve a state of temporary tumescence in an otherwise flaccid plot. Never attempt to bribe the reader into staying with your story with a little acrobatic, and distracting, sex. Don’t play the pimp. Most readers are canny, and perceptive, enough to immediately see through your ruse and will readily, and rightly, condemn you for your gross impertinence and boorish tactics.
Sexual encounters do not stand isolated within a novel; they should be the culmination of everything has gone before, a natural consequence of past events - a release of tension which has been relentlessly building between two characters for example. Check the veracity, and legitimacy, of your amatorial encounters by reading the relevant chapter/section both including, and excluding, the scene in question. Does the sequence loose some vital energy and power through Lo and Al failing to proceed from coffee and conversation to full-blown simultaneous orgasm on the moonlit veranda?
Any scene in your novel (if it’s functioning correctly) is likely to be a miniature version of the story itself. It is imbued with similar properties: rising action, conflict, climax and resolution - just like the act of love itself in fact. You can (and indeed many authors have) profitably use the ebb and flow of lovemaking to give your scene its shape and rhythm - its dynamic.
There must always be something at stake for the participants beyond the mere gratification of sexual desire. Will Lo’s twenty-two stone psychopathic partner learn of her current whereabouts, and what will be the result for her (and Al) if they’re caught in flagrante delicto by homicidal Harry and his shiny hatchet? Will Al’s ailing, neurotic and possessive mother disinherit him if she discovers what her little short-sighted son gets up to on his nights away from the kitchen sink? The stamps Al collects on such illicit occasions are not the kind you can stick in an album. How will Al conceal the mounting evidence of his torrid affair with literature loving Lo? (‘Oh, please, please, Al baby, beat me again with that annotated copy of ‘Moby Dick!’)
As a result of Al and Lo’s sexual conjoining the balance of the story must alter.
As alluded to above, one of the commonest problems for writers embarking upon a love scene is the (often unconscious) temptation for the author to come - I’m sure you know what I mean - between the tremulous couple about to catch sight of what’s lurking in each others undergarments. The conduct of the characters concerned begins to conflict horribly with the set of emotional/behavioural patterns which, hitherto, they’ve lived by, and observed, quite contentedly and convincingly. This is frequently the moment when clichéd thought on the part of the writer translates into clichéd action/reaction upon the page. The demon of chauvinism often rears its repulsive reptilian head at this point.
In any sexual liaison there will, inevitably, be some subtle power struggle taking place, but within your novel sex should not be portrayed as just a gratuitous and reflexive act of possession by the man. This is an anachronistic, and reductive, approach to the subject which you should strive to avoid - unless, of course, that’s the whole point of the scene. Similarly male sexuality is not solely comprised of brute force, ego and ignorance (am I in danger here of endowing the male of the species with a sensitivity that so few of them exhibit?), the man’s erection rendering him mute of voice and thought, and devoid of all feeling not centred around the groin.
Characters must remain consistent at all times - and especially during those heady moments of immediate pre and post sexual congress. The author has absolutely no business intruding upon their private time together forcing them (deliberately or otherwise) to enact his/her own erotic fantasies. Onanism is not part of the novelist’s remit once his characters are stripped for action. Wishfulfilment has no place here – and I’ll not thank you for bringing up ‘Wuthering Heights’ at this point!
It’s axiomatic that certain individuals will behave wholly unexpectedly given a specific set of circumstances. We witness such anomalies in human conduct daily on our roads; the meek become manic once their backsides ease into the driver’s seat of their penile Mondeos. If self-effacing, mousy little Albert is one of life’s sexual Jeykll and Hydes then this fact must be subtly foreshadowed within the text prior to his producing a length of copper piping and a tube of super-glue while lusty Lo hunts around in the bathroom for a vanilla flavoured condom. (See my above comment on male sexuality.) Al’s use of Araldite as an aid to gratification must seem both surprising - and yet inevitable - based upon the reader’s understanding of his character as presented by the author.
The biggest challenge facing the novelist is how to convey the theme of love and the ‘mechanics’ of lovemaking using language which is both interesting and innovative (and appropriate) - and completely devoid of the hackneyed phrase and the fifth hand sentiment. Most sex scenes tend to fall into the categories of the clinical, clichéd, or overly poetical. Thus we are treated to Lo’s genitalia being described in terms more suited to a gynaecologist preparing a pre-operative diagnostic report, or a tweed jacketed TV gardener detailing the luxuriant glossy bloom of some exotic orchid. ‘The engorged silky petals of Lola’s labia opened under the warm rain of his breath…’ Spare me, per- leese!
Test each line, each shiny nugget of description, ruthlessly; if anything on page (or screen) sounds even remotely familiar, trite (or merely risible) then cut it and try something new. Be sure to eschew over-indulgence in metaphor and simile. Sex and love attract these literary embellishments like a magnet suspended above a dish of iron filings. Trust the ability of the reader’s imagination to supply the necessary details of Lo and Al’s physical appearance during arousal, and their subsequent bedroom maneouvres.
How graphic/explicit you choose to be in your use of sexual language might depend largely upon how comfortable you are using words like ‘cunt’ and ‘fuck’. (Never, though, fall into the trap of employing euphemism - ‘his rampant manhood’) If such notorious four letter words would not fall naturally from the tongue of your dunking duo (and you’ve not employed them thus far in your narrative) then don’t use them here just for effect or shock value. If, on the other hand, Lo is one of those decent, ultra-respectable women who like to indulge in coprolalia during sex, then don’t deny her her mouthful of orgasm-inducing expletives.
I’m aware that my stance might appear to be an avowedly heterosexual one; however each of the points raised above apply equally to gay and lesbian relationships. The ‘political’ and moral complexities which surround gay sex are not so very different from those which inform heterosexual activity. How the writer handles his/her characters’ sexual orientation will depend upon the story they are trying to tell and the psychological, emotional and cultural make-up of the characters who populate the narrative.
To conclude: always be true to your characters’ psychological, spiritual and emotional dispositions (see above). Keep your own prejudices/hang-ups firmly under wraps. Any form of self-censorship, however mild, will destroy the impact of your work and make it sound banal or, even worse, specious. In the same way that you would never burst in upon a couple making love in real life, refrain from doing so in your fiction. Your characters’ morality is very much their own business. Bear this - often unpalatable - fact in mind whenever you find yourself creeping towards the bedroom door with that large zinc pail of icy water.
NB: Since originally penning the above, I’m pleased to report that further help is available in the shape of ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ by Elizabeth Benedict (Souvenir Press. £9.99). An edited version of my original review, which you may find helpful, is given below:
Very few writers, however accomplished (and who are not called Nabokov), can do sex convincingly, and satisfactorily; indeed the great majority suffer, at some time, from the literary equivalent of various sexual nasties: premature or retarded ejaculation, impotence, vaginismus, dysparreunia, nonorgasmia, etc. (Urgh!) Novelist and teacher Elizabeth Benedict offers a diagnosis and course of treatment for those writers afflicted with one (or more) of the above conditions. As a creative writing tutor, I’ve ploughed through more than my fair share of writing primers, very few of which justify their existence. I’m therefore both delighted, and frankly surprised, to be able to give Benedict’s book an unconditional – er - thumbs up. For those sweatily toiling at the coal-face, hewing their novel word by word, the advice and guidance provided is steeped in commonsense, and possesses a genuine insight into the problems which every writer encounters once their character’s make a beeline for the bedroom. Benedict draws on the work of many respected authors (Edmund White, Toni Morrison, John Updike, Roddy Doyle) to identify the problems, and solutions, relating to matters sexual. The general reader need not feel excluded, relegated to the role of voyeur. For anyone with an interest in contemporary fiction, there is a great deal here to enjoy and consider. This is as much a work of literary criticism as it is a writing manual. ‘The Joy of Writing Sex’ takes into account the profound change in our sexual attitudes in recent years. AIDS, cyber-sex, adulterous and married sex, solo sex, and more, are covered. Benedict is at pains to point out that the creation of a convincing sex scene must take on board every aspect of fiction writing: dialogue, mood, plot, the psychology of relationships, character. Hear, hear! Wise, stimulating and so-o-o sexy. A course of Viagra between soft covers.
Point of View
Point-of-view for most writers means: First Person, Third Person and Omniscient. There seems little reason (other than for novelty value – and the desire to be noticed) to opt for the likes of, say, second person. These guidelines will concern themselves with First Person (FP), Third Person (TP) and Omniscient (Om), and examine briefly the advantages and disadvantages of each. It’s not part of my remit to persuade you into favouring one viewpoint over another - despite my own distinct preference for FP!
First Person (single & multiple viewpoints):
Graham Greene stated that FP offers the novelist a great technical advantage in that she/he is not open to the temptation of deviating from the main storyline. There is no opportunity to go blithely wandering off down the attractive highways and byways of the narrative merely because they appear interesting, or offer a welcome diversion from the story’s current obstructive, rock strewn path. FP forces the writer to tackle such ‘everyday’ difficulties head-on and deal with them as, and when, they manifest themselves. FP makes no allowances for woolly or imprecise writing, which it will unmercifully expose.
FP gives your story a wonderful, and seductive, immediacy (‘I came home that rainy September evening to find our new hall carpet puddled with blood…’), making it much easier for the reader to enter quickly into the text and to readily believe what they’re being told. The events comprising the narrative actually happened to (or within the orbit of) the narrator (the ‘I’ of the story), and this fact gives the text a weight and authority – an instant believability - which TP has to strive a little more energetically to achieve. The ghost of the author is not so obviously present at the feast. With TP the author has to work harder to remain invisible and impartial. Partiality is no problem in an FP narrative. It comes, as they say, with the territory. (Think of Humbert Humbert – Lolita, or John Self – Money.)
FP lends itself naturally to an easy, colloquial style of expression which quickly helps build a close, and collusive, relationship between reader and story teller. Because this style simulates direct speech there is, in theory, less danger of the writer slipping into purple prose or pretentiousness. However even the merest whiff of over-writing will smell like an avalanche of pig shit. Beware!
The main restriction imposed by FP is that the reader can only be knowledgeably informed about those matters/circumstances with which the narrator him/herself is personally acquainted. The reader and the narrator share the same position within the story – unless, of course, it is being told using flashback. (‘The day Laura was murdered, I arrived home later than I’d originally planned. Now I’m often forced to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d caught my usual train and…’)
If, for example, the narrator’s girlfriend is having a passionate, and sexually unorthodox, affair with the man next door, the reader cannot be privy to this volatile information until the narrator himself finally learns what’s been regularly occurring under cover of darkness in the neighbour’s prized Dormobile while he (the narrator) has been sequestered in the garden shed lovingly tending his cacti collection. There can be no humourous, and tellingly symbolic, cutting between what’s happening within the rocking, steamy windowed caravanette and the narrator in his lonely, unheated shed pricking himself on a spectacularly erectile and vigorous example of Astrophytum Capricorne.
Use of FP precludes the possibility of entering into the minds of the other characters and accurately describing what they are thinking or feeling; nor can we see what the other characters are getting up to once they leave the narrator’s presence. The best that the narrator can do in terms of the above is to speculate about what might be happening within the minds of the people with whom they’re sharing the story and what they’re engaged in when they are ‘off stage’. Of course, the characters themselves are free to speak their thoughts whilst in the narrator’s company/proximity, but you must ensure that their speech is not laden with information necessary to make sense of the narrative. (‘John since I saw you last I’ve had the abortion, booked an appointment at the rehab clinic and got shot of Sam, had the dog put down and lost nearly two stone…’)
The huge advantage of immediacy mentioned above can often outweigh the restrictions of FP. It’s impossible to imagine certain famous novels being written in anything other than the FP: ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘The End of the Affair’, ‘A Clockwork Orange’, ‘The Catcher in the Rye’, ‘Bonjour Tristesse’, etc. Supply your own examples.
It’s perfectly possible (and permissible) to have more than one FP narrator, switching viewpoints at appropriate moments in the story. You must bear in mind, though, that any change in viewpoint creates a deep fissure in the otherwise seamless flow of your narrative which can be both irritating, and disruptive, for the reader. There is also the likelihood that the reader will identify much more strongly with a particular narrator and will grow bored and frustrated when another character temporarily takes over the telling of the story, causing them to skim through the book until their favourite ‘I’ makes their next appearance. (Also a major problem with TP multiple viewpoint: see below)
You should only switch viewpoints if it’s absolutely necessary to do so, ie, the story demands it. This rule applies no matter what viewpoint you’ve chosen. It’s best to make any viewpoint changes at either chapter or section breaks. Switches in viewpoint should never be made just to ‘spice up’ your work, or because you’ve grown bored with, or are finding it difficult, to stick with (or control) a single narrator. Any such changes borne out of expediency are likely to be picked up by the reader and this will greatly impair their enjoyment of your work. Most readers are extraordinarily sophisticated and not easily duped.
If you’ve spent sufficient time thinking about who would make the most appropriate narrator for your story, the above problems should not arise. You must choose a character from whom you can generate the maximum amount of emotion and with whom you most empathise. (This doesn’t mean that you should pick your narrator on the basis of his/her charm and innate likeability, and because they’re an all round ‘good egg’. Complete bitches and bastards can make excellent FP protagonists.) The character who takes on the role of narrator should, ideally, have a principal part to play within the narrative. They must have some stake in the story as it unfolds. Will their crime of fratricide be discovered? Will they win – or even survive – the gruelling Channel swim? Will the medical profession succeed in finding a cure for their terrible wasting disease before the arrival of the Grim Reaper? (There is nothing to be gained from having our story of Dalliance in a Dormobile told from the point of view of the boy who’s paid a fiver a time to give it its fortnightly wash and wax, and who has no role in influencing the ultimate outcome of the narrative.) Nick Carraway the narrator of The Great Gatsby, might be on the periphery of events but his viewpoint enables us to see deeply into the characters of Gatsby and his cousin Daisy and their lives/circumstances – insights that could not be gained were to the novel to be told from either Daisy or Gatsby’s point-of-view. He is, after all, instrumental in reigniting the romance between them.
Third Person (single & multiple viewpoints):
TP single viewpoint tells the story from one character's perspective but that character is now referred to as either ‘she’ or ‘he’. This approach allows the reader to ‘become’ that character for the duration of the narrative and is ideal if you’re seeking maximum reader involvement – which, of course, you should be. Once the story gets up a full head of steam there are no untimely disruptions to prevent the reader from applying their full concentration to the story and immersing themselves completely in it. TP single viewpoint is well suited to genre fiction: thrillers, romances, etc, where immediate, and lasting, identification with the protagonist is the sine qua non of successful story telling.
TP multiple viewpoint accounts for approximately three quarters of what might be dubbed ‘mainstream’ fiction. This is the viewpoint that comes with all those no-expense-spared sleek and sexy add-ons for maximum reader pleasure. The author, too, gets to have a really good time and is granted the freedom to choose to tell their story through as many different characters’ eyes as they wish: male, female, Foxy the dog – whoever. This approach is superb for unravelling, and analysing, complex character relationships, for teasing out vast, intricate plots - and for injecting tension into a story. We can instantly shift from the plight of the poor imprisoned princess to those faithful subjects risking their own lives as they labour night and day to free her.
TP multiple viewpoint gives the writer plenty of opportunity to really ‘pig out’ on their material – but, like indulging in any over-rich meal, the result can often lead to chronic indigestion on the part of both writer and reader. For example, severe problems with chronology can frequently arise. It’s easy with a large cast of disparate characters each pursing their own particular strand of the storyline (and with their own specific agendas) to loose all track of time - you go from vivacious Jo enjoying a champagne supper with her man of few words, Rory, on a Sunday evening and switch (without problem) to Rory’s paranoid blind sister, Marion, being terrorised by an obscene telephone caller on the same evening – but when we next meet Jo what day are we going to see her on? Tuesday? Wednesday? And when Marion makes another entrée into the text what day is it for her? Sunday? Friday? And what about David, Lois, Rachel, Phoebe, Martin, Luke, Andrea, and Jane? How have they been amusing themselves whilst hairy, and heroic, Rory wrestled with Marion’s mad, infatuated stalker atop the Post Office Tower?
Imbalance is an equally common problem (a crime of which Dickens was frequently guilty, but, being Dickens, no charges were brought). Too much ‘page time’ can, unwittingly, be given to certain ‘addictive’ characters at the expense of others whose roles within the story are, perhaps, more crucial – but because the writer has found himself especially smitten with Maisie, Marion’s pretty and vulnerable teenage sister, we get to spend a great deal of time in her winsome, sexually precocious company watching her experience her first exposure to marijuana and molestation, and sacrificing her virginity to her married, one legged music teacher after the school concert during which her stunning performance of Bach’s Cello Sonata in G Major caused grown men to weep. (See? I’m now doing it myself!)
Omniscient:
Much beloved by those nineteenth century literary behemoths, this viewpoint is not often employed today. Om viewpoint truly puts the writer in the position of God; he is free to indulge in external and internal examinations of his characters, to detail events which are happening simultaneously, to leap from mind to mind as the mood takes him, gathering thoughts, and then to offer up discursive passages of analysis/description. The writer exercises a total control over his material; nothing escapes his pervasive, pantheistic presence. Diluted Om can be extremely handy for the 21st century writer, eg, giving the reader an early, and necessary, overview of the novel’s personae and their respective predicaments - a device very popular with writers of ‘apocalyptic’ fiction where we need to be au fait with the large assemblage of characters in the first reel before the tidal wave/earthquake/comet/volcanic eruption/nuclear holocaust decimates their lives and puts their loved ones in jeopardy.
Whatever viewpoint you finally employ to tell your story, be sure to exploit its virtues rather than fall foul of its vices.
First Person (single & multiple viewpoints):
Graham Greene stated that FP offers the novelist a great technical advantage in that she/he is not open to the temptation of deviating from the main storyline. There is no opportunity to go blithely wandering off down the attractive highways and byways of the narrative merely because they appear interesting, or offer a welcome diversion from the story’s current obstructive, rock strewn path. FP forces the writer to tackle such ‘everyday’ difficulties head-on and deal with them as, and when, they manifest themselves. FP makes no allowances for woolly or imprecise writing, which it will unmercifully expose.
FP gives your story a wonderful, and seductive, immediacy (‘I came home that rainy September evening to find our new hall carpet puddled with blood…’), making it much easier for the reader to enter quickly into the text and to readily believe what they’re being told. The events comprising the narrative actually happened to (or within the orbit of) the narrator (the ‘I’ of the story), and this fact gives the text a weight and authority – an instant believability - which TP has to strive a little more energetically to achieve. The ghost of the author is not so obviously present at the feast. With TP the author has to work harder to remain invisible and impartial. Partiality is no problem in an FP narrative. It comes, as they say, with the territory. (Think of Humbert Humbert – Lolita, or John Self – Money.)
FP lends itself naturally to an easy, colloquial style of expression which quickly helps build a close, and collusive, relationship between reader and story teller. Because this style simulates direct speech there is, in theory, less danger of the writer slipping into purple prose or pretentiousness. However even the merest whiff of over-writing will smell like an avalanche of pig shit. Beware!
The main restriction imposed by FP is that the reader can only be knowledgeably informed about those matters/circumstances with which the narrator him/herself is personally acquainted. The reader and the narrator share the same position within the story – unless, of course, it is being told using flashback. (‘The day Laura was murdered, I arrived home later than I’d originally planned. Now I’m often forced to wonder what would’ve happened if I’d caught my usual train and…’)
If, for example, the narrator’s girlfriend is having a passionate, and sexually unorthodox, affair with the man next door, the reader cannot be privy to this volatile information until the narrator himself finally learns what’s been regularly occurring under cover of darkness in the neighbour’s prized Dormobile while he (the narrator) has been sequestered in the garden shed lovingly tending his cacti collection. There can be no humourous, and tellingly symbolic, cutting between what’s happening within the rocking, steamy windowed caravanette and the narrator in his lonely, unheated shed pricking himself on a spectacularly erectile and vigorous example of Astrophytum Capricorne.
Use of FP precludes the possibility of entering into the minds of the other characters and accurately describing what they are thinking or feeling; nor can we see what the other characters are getting up to once they leave the narrator’s presence. The best that the narrator can do in terms of the above is to speculate about what might be happening within the minds of the people with whom they’re sharing the story and what they’re engaged in when they are ‘off stage’. Of course, the characters themselves are free to speak their thoughts whilst in the narrator’s company/proximity, but you must ensure that their speech is not laden with information necessary to make sense of the narrative. (‘John since I saw you last I’ve had the abortion, booked an appointment at the rehab clinic and got shot of Sam, had the dog put down and lost nearly two stone…’)
The huge advantage of immediacy mentioned above can often outweigh the restrictions of FP. It’s impossible to imagine certain famous novels being written in anything other than the FP: ‘Jane Eyre’, ‘The End of the Affair’, ‘A Clockwork Orange’, ‘The Catcher in the Rye’, ‘Bonjour Tristesse’, etc. Supply your own examples.
It’s perfectly possible (and permissible) to have more than one FP narrator, switching viewpoints at appropriate moments in the story. You must bear in mind, though, that any change in viewpoint creates a deep fissure in the otherwise seamless flow of your narrative which can be both irritating, and disruptive, for the reader. There is also the likelihood that the reader will identify much more strongly with a particular narrator and will grow bored and frustrated when another character temporarily takes over the telling of the story, causing them to skim through the book until their favourite ‘I’ makes their next appearance. (Also a major problem with TP multiple viewpoint: see below)
You should only switch viewpoints if it’s absolutely necessary to do so, ie, the story demands it. This rule applies no matter what viewpoint you’ve chosen. It’s best to make any viewpoint changes at either chapter or section breaks. Switches in viewpoint should never be made just to ‘spice up’ your work, or because you’ve grown bored with, or are finding it difficult, to stick with (or control) a single narrator. Any such changes borne out of expediency are likely to be picked up by the reader and this will greatly impair their enjoyment of your work. Most readers are extraordinarily sophisticated and not easily duped.
If you’ve spent sufficient time thinking about who would make the most appropriate narrator for your story, the above problems should not arise. You must choose a character from whom you can generate the maximum amount of emotion and with whom you most empathise. (This doesn’t mean that you should pick your narrator on the basis of his/her charm and innate likeability, and because they’re an all round ‘good egg’. Complete bitches and bastards can make excellent FP protagonists.) The character who takes on the role of narrator should, ideally, have a principal part to play within the narrative. They must have some stake in the story as it unfolds. Will their crime of fratricide be discovered? Will they win – or even survive – the gruelling Channel swim? Will the medical profession succeed in finding a cure for their terrible wasting disease before the arrival of the Grim Reaper? (There is nothing to be gained from having our story of Dalliance in a Dormobile told from the point of view of the boy who’s paid a fiver a time to give it its fortnightly wash and wax, and who has no role in influencing the ultimate outcome of the narrative.) Nick Carraway the narrator of The Great Gatsby, might be on the periphery of events but his viewpoint enables us to see deeply into the characters of Gatsby and his cousin Daisy and their lives/circumstances – insights that could not be gained were to the novel to be told from either Daisy or Gatsby’s point-of-view. He is, after all, instrumental in reigniting the romance between them.
Third Person (single & multiple viewpoints):
TP single viewpoint tells the story from one character's perspective but that character is now referred to as either ‘she’ or ‘he’. This approach allows the reader to ‘become’ that character for the duration of the narrative and is ideal if you’re seeking maximum reader involvement – which, of course, you should be. Once the story gets up a full head of steam there are no untimely disruptions to prevent the reader from applying their full concentration to the story and immersing themselves completely in it. TP single viewpoint is well suited to genre fiction: thrillers, romances, etc, where immediate, and lasting, identification with the protagonist is the sine qua non of successful story telling.
TP multiple viewpoint accounts for approximately three quarters of what might be dubbed ‘mainstream’ fiction. This is the viewpoint that comes with all those no-expense-spared sleek and sexy add-ons for maximum reader pleasure. The author, too, gets to have a really good time and is granted the freedom to choose to tell their story through as many different characters’ eyes as they wish: male, female, Foxy the dog – whoever. This approach is superb for unravelling, and analysing, complex character relationships, for teasing out vast, intricate plots - and for injecting tension into a story. We can instantly shift from the plight of the poor imprisoned princess to those faithful subjects risking their own lives as they labour night and day to free her.
TP multiple viewpoint gives the writer plenty of opportunity to really ‘pig out’ on their material – but, like indulging in any over-rich meal, the result can often lead to chronic indigestion on the part of both writer and reader. For example, severe problems with chronology can frequently arise. It’s easy with a large cast of disparate characters each pursing their own particular strand of the storyline (and with their own specific agendas) to loose all track of time - you go from vivacious Jo enjoying a champagne supper with her man of few words, Rory, on a Sunday evening and switch (without problem) to Rory’s paranoid blind sister, Marion, being terrorised by an obscene telephone caller on the same evening – but when we next meet Jo what day are we going to see her on? Tuesday? Wednesday? And when Marion makes another entrée into the text what day is it for her? Sunday? Friday? And what about David, Lois, Rachel, Phoebe, Martin, Luke, Andrea, and Jane? How have they been amusing themselves whilst hairy, and heroic, Rory wrestled with Marion’s mad, infatuated stalker atop the Post Office Tower?
Imbalance is an equally common problem (a crime of which Dickens was frequently guilty, but, being Dickens, no charges were brought). Too much ‘page time’ can, unwittingly, be given to certain ‘addictive’ characters at the expense of others whose roles within the story are, perhaps, more crucial – but because the writer has found himself especially smitten with Maisie, Marion’s pretty and vulnerable teenage sister, we get to spend a great deal of time in her winsome, sexually precocious company watching her experience her first exposure to marijuana and molestation, and sacrificing her virginity to her married, one legged music teacher after the school concert during which her stunning performance of Bach’s Cello Sonata in G Major caused grown men to weep. (See? I’m now doing it myself!)
Omniscient:
Much beloved by those nineteenth century literary behemoths, this viewpoint is not often employed today. Om viewpoint truly puts the writer in the position of God; he is free to indulge in external and internal examinations of his characters, to detail events which are happening simultaneously, to leap from mind to mind as the mood takes him, gathering thoughts, and then to offer up discursive passages of analysis/description. The writer exercises a total control over his material; nothing escapes his pervasive, pantheistic presence. Diluted Om can be extremely handy for the 21st century writer, eg, giving the reader an early, and necessary, overview of the novel’s personae and their respective predicaments - a device very popular with writers of ‘apocalyptic’ fiction where we need to be au fait with the large assemblage of characters in the first reel before the tidal wave/earthquake/comet/volcanic eruption/nuclear holocaust decimates their lives and puts their loved ones in jeopardy.
Whatever viewpoint you finally employ to tell your story, be sure to exploit its virtues rather than fall foul of its vices.
Reading List: Modern/Contemporary Fiction
Titles listed are not done so in order of merit.
A Sad Affair – Wolfgang Koeppen
Time Will Darken It – William Maxwell
The Ghost Writer – John Harwood
After You’d Gone – Maggie O’Farrell
Notes On A Scandal – Zoe Heller
About The Author – John Colapinto
Blue Angel – Francine Prose
The Pursuit of Alice Thrift – Elinor Lipman
The Cutting Room – Louise Welsh
Half in Love – Justin Cartwright
Back Trouble - Clare Chambers
The Trail of True Love – William Nicholson
A Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing – Melissa Bank
The End of the Story – Lydia Davis
Eva – Peter Dickinson
Chocky – John Wyndam
Our Spoons Came from Woolworths – Barbara Comyns
The Calligrapher – Edward Docx
The Diary of a Provincial Lady – E.M. Delafield
The Night Listener – Armistead Maupin
The Enderby Trilogy – Anthony Burgess
The Lake of Darkness – Ruth Rendell
The Rachel Papers – Martin Amis
Before She Met me – Julian Barnes
A Book of Matches – Nicholson Baker
The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler
The New York Trilogy – Paul Auster
Elidor - Alan Garner
The Collector – John Fowles
Curtain – Agatha Christie
The Hollow Man – John Dickson Carr
Couples – John Updike
Pale Fire – Vladimir Nabokov
Billy Liar – Keith Waterhouse
Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky – Patrick Hamilton
The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold – Evelyn Waugh
Of Human Bondage – Somerset Maugham
An Equal Music – Vikram Seth
Caught – Henry Green
The Go-Between – L.P. Hartley
Willard and His Bowling Trophies – Richard Brautigan
Albert Angelo – B.S. Johnson
On the Beach – Nevil Shute
The Swimming-Pool Library – Alan Hollinghurst
Felicia’s Journey – William Trevor
What a Carve Up! – Jonathan Coe
A Fan’s Notes – Frederick Exley
Jill – Philip Larkin
The Case of Mr Crump – Ludwig Lewisohn
A Sad Affair – Wolfgang Koeppen
Time Will Darken It – William Maxwell
The Ghost Writer – John Harwood
After You’d Gone – Maggie O’Farrell
Notes On A Scandal – Zoe Heller
About The Author – John Colapinto
Blue Angel – Francine Prose
The Pursuit of Alice Thrift – Elinor Lipman
The Cutting Room – Louise Welsh
Half in Love – Justin Cartwright
Back Trouble - Clare Chambers
The Trail of True Love – William Nicholson
A Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing – Melissa Bank
The End of the Story – Lydia Davis
Eva – Peter Dickinson
Chocky – John Wyndam
Our Spoons Came from Woolworths – Barbara Comyns
The Calligrapher – Edward Docx
The Diary of a Provincial Lady – E.M. Delafield
The Night Listener – Armistead Maupin
The Enderby Trilogy – Anthony Burgess
The Lake of Darkness – Ruth Rendell
The Rachel Papers – Martin Amis
Before She Met me – Julian Barnes
A Book of Matches – Nicholson Baker
The Accidental Tourist - Anne Tyler
The New York Trilogy – Paul Auster
Elidor - Alan Garner
The Collector – John Fowles
Curtain – Agatha Christie
The Hollow Man – John Dickson Carr
Couples – John Updike
Pale Fire – Vladimir Nabokov
Billy Liar – Keith Waterhouse
Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky – Patrick Hamilton
The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold – Evelyn Waugh
Of Human Bondage – Somerset Maugham
An Equal Music – Vikram Seth
Caught – Henry Green
The Go-Between – L.P. Hartley
Willard and His Bowling Trophies – Richard Brautigan
Albert Angelo – B.S. Johnson
On the Beach – Nevil Shute
The Swimming-Pool Library – Alan Hollinghurst
Felicia’s Journey – William Trevor
What a Carve Up! – Jonathan Coe
A Fan’s Notes – Frederick Exley
Jill – Philip Larkin
The Case of Mr Crump – Ludwig Lewisohn
Submitting Your Work
Q. What's the difference between publishers and terrorists?
A. You can negotiate with terrorists.
The notion of approaching a publisher, agent, magazine, production company, editor, etc, with your completed masterpiece is, perhaps, still rooted in fantasy rather than reality, but in preparation for the dawning of that glorious day let’s look at the various ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts’ of the submission process. Much of the advice given below should be glaringly obvious - but it’s truly dispiriting how many otherwise sensible and competent authors make a complete pig’s petit déjeuner of sending out their work.
Make absolutely certain that your MS is well presented. Never under-estimate the value and importance of high quality presentation. You won’t be there to excuse the clapped-out printer ribbon (why aren’t you using an inkjet or laser?) or toilet tissue style paper – not that it would do you much good if you were. Agents/publishers/editors and their ilk are, believe it or not, human and when selecting their next MS for appraisal they are very likely to choose the neat, clean script over the one which is grubby, dog-eared and printed in too florid and faint a font on cheap semi-transparent paper which shows the ghost of the page beneath. Cast an honest and critical eye over your MS before consigning it to its Jiffy Bag - and if you can see any room for improvement, improve it.
Try and avoid sending submissions to agents or publishers at the busiest times of the year. The fortnight pre and post Christmas is bad timing. September is usually a busy period too. The week after a bank holiday or other seasonal break, eg, Easter is simillarly a peak time for submissions. Wait a few weeks and avoid the crowd.
It goes without saying - or should - that no one’s going to consider a hand-written MS (although these still get sent in); even work produced on a typewriter is often frowned upon in the age of the ubiquitous (and increasingly cheap) personal computer. So, make sure that your novel/short story/play is word processed, immaculately printed on one side of the paper - A4 - only, and free of all blemishes in terms of corrections, spelling errors and other grammatical atrocities. Don’t rely on the spell check to catch, and correct, your mistakes; they are notoriously unreliable - and idiosyncratic. To jog swiftly through the basics:
Include a title page at both the front and back of your MS.
Include all your personal details – name, address, email address etc. Repeat this information at the back. Front pages have a habit of becoming detached.
Number all pages sequentially. Don’t begin again with ‘1’ at the start of each new chapter/section/scene. (It happens.)
Use double spacing and leave generous margins – this includes the top and bottom of each page.
Justify text on the left hand side only and don’t use line spaces between paragraphs. Indent the first line of each new paragraph.
Be consistent in your spelling and layout, ie, chapter/scene headings, etc.
Enclose sufficient return postage together with an envelope big enough (and strong enough) to hold your MS if, and when, it’s returned.
Don’t bind your pages in such a way that it makes your work difficult, or impossible, to read. It’s perfectly permissible to send it as loose sheets providing they are adequately boxed. In the case of a novel, many readers prefer to deal with a chapter or a section at a time rather than lugging around the entire 500 page beastie.
Always keep several copies of your novel, screenplay, etc, even if they’re only ‘electronic’ ones. Given the huge numbers of manuscripts which get submitted to agents, publishers and others on a daily basis losses/calamities are not unknown. I once had an MS of mine accidentally pulped. (Or maybe it was a particularly brutal form of criticism.) You should keep at least one copy ‘off-site’ – at work or with a friend - on CD-ROM, Zip Disk, flash drive (memory stick) or similar in case burglars pay you a visit, a mugger makes off with your laptop, or your humble abode spontaneously combusts reducing its treasured contents to ash. Hard drives can fail, vapourising your precious files; don’t make the mistake of keeping the only copy (or copies) of your work stored on your Mac/PC. Of course you wouldn’t be so stupid, but then neither would those friends, and others, whose tears I’ve had to mop up.
If you’re submitting a film, TV, radio script or stage play do ensure that it’s correctly formatted. It’s extremely easy to come unstuck here and end up looking – well – a bit of an arse. There are numerous textbooks and my own handouts (see above) which can help you with this and so ignorance is no excuse. Devote as much time as necessary to learning the ‘grammar’ of your chosen medium until formatting your work becomes second nature. The BBC very thoughtfully provide guidelines on writing for TV, film and radio. These can be downloaded at: http://www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/
You’ll find the above site very useful for accessing many other writing-related features/issues: interviews, competitions, etc. A message-board facility allows you to communicate with, and seek advice from, other writers. Visit the writersroom regularly to keep abreast of what’s happening for writers in the wacky world of the Beeb, and in the larger, saner world too.
The internet is a great place to explore if you’re looking for filmscripts to study, both from a technical and a ‘literary’ point of view. Try www.script-o-rama.com which has been around for over ten years and boasts that it has the largest collection of free screenplays on the net. Screenplay 451 (www.pumpkinsoft.de/screenplay451/) offers fewer scripts than Drew’s Script-o-Rama but their screenplays have the advantage of being properly formatted, zipped and ready to download as Word documents. These are just two of many sites you can visit (Google ‘free screenplays’). Make sure, though, that your browsing doesn’t become a substitute for writing your own script! (see above)
It’s possible to purchase (expensive) software which takes the drudgery out of formatting your script, leaving you to concentrate on the creative aspects of screenwriting. Final Draft (available for both Mac and PC) is the package favoured by the majority of screenwriters. Movie Magic Screenwriter is another popular package (again available for both Mac and PC). It’s possible to download demos of both to ascertain whether you can’t live without one or the other. Final Draft is lovely(ish), but for the less wealthy an ordinary word processing program can be easily ‘tweaked’ to provide you with a professional looking layout. Mac users should definitely take a look at Montage which is designed to be a Final Draft killer – certainly the GUI is much prettier and more 21st century than FD’s, which is why I’ve recently moved over to it. I’ve discovered there’s a free screenwriting program available called, rather puzzlingly and uninspiringly, Celtx. You can download it at www.celtx.com The software is available for Mac OS9 and OSX, and Windows (yuk!) I’ve installed it onto my iBook and, despite being unable to import work into either Word or Final Draft, Celtx seems well behaved. Give it a go. It’s a worthy Montage/Final Draft substitute for the financially challenged.
Whilst on the subject of writing software, it might be worth my taking a sentence or three to draw your attention to a few programs designed with the ‘creative’ writer in mind. Strange though it may seem your everyday word processing program may not be ideal for creating an extended piece of work, a novel say, where you’ll not only need to process words but ideas and notes/research related to your book. I’m a great believer in making life as easy as possible for myself and have recently been road-testing several programs aimed at the novelist. I’ve no idea whether there are Windows (double yuk!!) versions available, but those eminently sensible folk running a Mac might like to try CopyWrite, Jer’s Novel Writer, Avenir, Mellel, Scrivener, or Ulysses. My personal favourites are Avenir and Mellel. Before you accuse me of anti-Windows bias let me say a few words regarding a PC only package called New Novelist (www.newnovelist.com). If you’re an inveterate plotter ‘n’ planner and want every single episode/event which comprises your novel mapped out in advance in coma-inducing detail, New Novelist is likely to result in love at first byte. Fire it up, go and make a cup of coffee, come back and find your book written. It’ll even drop off the manuscript at the publishers on its way home. (I jest, just in case you were wondering.) I’ve only heard third-hand reports of its effectiveness, so can’t comment further. It’s available to purchase from the site, and can also be obtained in our local Waterstones (at around £30), so check it out next time you pop in. Whilst I’d personally avoid such software like a rabid Rottweiler on a licorice leash, you might well find NN a gift from the literary gods. Remember, though, however helpful the above software may prove, the hard, painful slog element still remains.
The rules governing pristine presentation apply unilaterally. Your screenplay, stage play, radio drama, short story, sonnet sequence, etc, must conform to the above if they are to have the greatest chance of success.
With a novel, whether you opt for the agent or publisher route is pretty much down to personal choice. The bulk of the advice given below applies equally to your dealings with publishers. If you’re writing within a specific genre, ie, science fiction, crime or erotica, it’s a fairly easy and painless business to identify which publishers are seeking such manuscripts and you might choose to approach them direct. This could save you time – and the agent’s commission! If your MS falls into the category of literary or commercial fiction which is handled by dozens of different publishers, it’s probably wise to try and secure an agent who will be in a much stronger position that your good self when it comes to determining what’s currently happening in the literary marketplace - and to persuading publishers to part with their cash. Few publishers are prepared to read an unsolicited MS in any case, particularly one from a first time novelist which is likely to require a fair amount of editorial work before it’s in a fit condition to pass onto the next stage of the publishing process. Agents view the editing of your MS as part of their remit. It’s one of the reasons they take a percentage of monies earned. The fact that many modern novels read as though they’ve bypassed any form of editorial input is another matter entirely.
If the idea of actually going out and selling your work is wholly repugnant and you would much rather concentrate your energies on your writing, an agent can be a godsend in that they will act as a ‘cushion’ between you, with your delicate artistic sensibilities, and the hard-nosed commercial word of publishing which wants to pump you full of the steroids of fame and wealth and treat you like a piece of literary ‘rough trade’. (Oh yes, please!)
You should do at least some basic research before sending out your work. ‘Basic’ does not mean sticking a pin in a list of likely agents, publishers, theatre companies, etc and contacting the one which falls under the point. Ring, or email, a few possibles and describe - briefly - the kind of novel/play/whatever you’ve written. The person on the other end should be able to tell you whether there’s anyone there who might be interested in looking at your work. Once you’ve been given the ‘green light, you need to consider how best to initiate contact with the person concerned. The ‘ideal’ novelists package, according to Carole Blake would consist of the following elements:
a brief blurb (no more than a couple of paragraphs)
biographies of your main characters (a paragraph or two on each)
a synopsis of the entire novel (ten pages max)
the opening two/three chapters
an author biography (one page)
It is possible to deviate from the above, although the author biography and sample chapters are essential. Remember, there’s more than one way of separating a feline from its epidermis. I would also argue that it’s equally essential to have your entire novel written (if only in first draft form) before you seek out a publisher/agent. Although there are (usually apocryphal) stories circulating of authors receiving a million pound advance on the strength of their opening sentence, the majority of agents/publishers will expect you to have finished your novel when you make contact, and it’s probably not a good idea to ask them to wait for a further nine months while you write chapters 3–33. It’s equally bad for your writing too. The bottom line is that you don’t know if you’re capable of writing a novel until you’ve actually written one. The world is full of aborted novels.
A word of warning which applies to every type of submission, each of which will need some accompanying documentation. Don’t include irrelevant (or irreverent) information in your biography. The fact that you won an essay prize at junior school (‘My Pet Bunny, Sniffy’), had a poem (‘Spring Tints’) published in the Carnforth Echo in 1973, or wrote a one act farce (‘Vicar, Where Are Your Trousers?’) which was performed by your immediate family is of no interest whatsoever – and may count against you. The person concerned wants to know anything that’s relevant to your work which will help them make a decision as to whether to take you on - and which will make the selling of your book, screenplay, etc easier. (If, for example, your novel or film script’s central theme deals with sexual harassment is it based upon your own personal experiences or those of someone close to you?) Think long, and hard, about what to include - and exclude - from your ‘CV’.
The submission letter which will neatly, and beautifully, ‘wrap’ the above goodies can prove extremely difficult to compose. It’s very easy to ‘blow’ the whole deal on a letter which strikes the wrong note. Remember, you’ll be communicating with someone who has very little free time at their disposal, and who has heard all those embarrassing self-panegyrics a thousand times before. Resist the temptation to lapse into the comic or facetious as a means of standing out from the crowd. Don’t be overly obsequious either – and take great care not to come across as either bombastic or barking mad. BE PROFESSIONAL. (Have these two words tattooed on the inside of your eyelids.) Anything less will mark you out as a slightly dodgy and unworldly amateur, a figure unlikely to appeal to anyone in the business – they are never that desperate; it’s always a buyer’s market.
People working in the profession who’s job it is to assess your work are very aware that writing, by it’s very personal and intimate nature, is frequently taken up by those who, to put it politely, are a chapter short of a novel (or a scene short of a screenplay). Sad, certainly, but all too true. Don’t come across as one of these poor souls in your first contact with an agent, publisher or producer who has expressed a tentative interest in you and your work.
Back, briefly, to the novel. This seems like a good point to tackle the vexatious question of multiple submissions. Should you, or shouldn’t you? Just how promiscuous can you be? In the past such a practice was seen as being on par with breaking wind at the dinner table, and, despite its being common in the States (no, not breaking wind at the dinner table), there are still a number of agents/publishers over here who won’t read material if it’s currently being offered elsewhere. Try and see the situation from their point of view and it’s not too difficult to understand, or at least empathise with, their feelings on the subject. No one wants to spend time in speculative reading whilst being in enforced competition with another agent or agents. Multiple submissions will not force an agent to reach a decision on your MS any sooner, nor will the idea that your novel is also being read by X,Y and Z make a publisher more likely to snap you up rather than risk loosing you to a rival. Although the idea of multiple submissions is increasingly being seen as a fact of life, it’s still best to check the firm in question’s policy on this during your initial approach - or, if you’ve already gone ahead and done it (tch tch!), it’s both desirable, and courteous, to mention this fact as soon as possible. If you are lucky enough to receive a favourable reply from an agent/publisher requesting either the completed MS or a meeting to discuss your work, you must let the other interested parties know what’s happening. Again, always strive to be professional.
Agents and publishers are looking for genuine writers, authors who are capable of establishing a long-term career from their craft. You may not become profitable until the publication of your third or fourth book. They want to ‘sign up’ individuals who write with enthusiasm and conviction and abstain from cheap ‘look at me!’ gimmicks. They need to feel immediately involved with both your characters and your story, and gain from your MS the firm assurance that you handle your material deftly and can sustain the story for the duration of a novel. A great many promising first-time novels – and screen and stage plays - collapse in an undignified heap at around the half-way mark when the initial euphoria of composition has waned and realisation dawns that the task is much more difficult and demanding than first envisaged and the material begins to escape the author’s control.
If you find your work rejected by those whom you’ve approached, don’t give up. Rejection is an inevitable consequence of attempting to sell your work; it happens to everybody. Don’t take it personally. You’ve put your heart and soul into your novel, etc (or damned well should have), but to the reader it’s just another submission. When that nasty rejection letter arrives have another copy of your screenplay, whatever ready to go out again immediately. The professional writer is the amateur who didn’t give up. Dealing positively with rejection is just one of a number of things which separate the real writer from the dilettante, ie, the person who wants to write but doesn’t want it enough to face the sheer bloody hard work and trauma that’s necessary to see a project through to completion and ultimately succeed in the business – a species more common than headlice!
The writer who achieves instant success is rarer than a Tory politician with a sense of humour. Instant success can be a double edged sword as writers like Ian McEwan (and Norman Mailer) have attested. The pressure to repeat the ‘trick’ is enormous and often damaging to future work. In the same way that it’s perfectly possible to hit the bull’s eye the first time you pick up a bow and arrow, the chances of your doing so again with your next shot are not high. Practice, however, will greatly increase the number of golds you achieve. Enough of the toxophilite metaphors!
Give serious thought to any criticism you’ve received. Do the same comments recur, pointing to issues which need addressing: poor characterisation, unconvincing dialogue, weak structure, etc? Those in the business will often give encouragement and offer advice if they feel your work merits more than the usual brief, though polite, refusal. However, badgering an agent, producer, etc for an in-depth analysis of your novel/script and their reasons for declining it is not a good idea – in fact it’s a very bad idea. Accept the rejection, learn from it and move on.
Due to the ceaseless flood of manuscripts which deluge agents, publishers and the like, a substantial portion of material will be rejected without its being read in its entirety, or poured over so that each and every subtle nuance is identified and savoured. This is an immutable fact of publishing/media life. You, the author, are powerless to change, or influence, this situation. Writing, like life, is a perpetual shit storm where the umbrella hasn’t yet been invented. Any writer worthy of the title will be more than happy to venture out doors and take everything the elements throw at her/him without complaint. Good, even brilliant, work is, unfortunately, not always recognised as such - and a great deal of seriously shite writing somehow finds its way into print/performance. As a reviewer I see ample evidence of this on an almost daily basis. I’ll give Carole Blake the final word on this painful subject: ‘There will always be many more people writing than can be published.’
[A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell. She decided to check out each place first. As she descended into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a vast steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes. ‘Oh my,’ said the writer. ‘Let me see heaven now.’ A few moments later, as she ascended into heaven, she saw rows of writers, chained to their desks in a vast steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were whipped with thorny lashes. ‘Wait a minute,’ said the writer. ‘This is just as bad as hell!’ ‘Oh no, it's not,’ replied an unseen voice. ‘Here, your work gets published.’]
A. You can negotiate with terrorists.
The notion of approaching a publisher, agent, magazine, production company, editor, etc, with your completed masterpiece is, perhaps, still rooted in fantasy rather than reality, but in preparation for the dawning of that glorious day let’s look at the various ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts’ of the submission process. Much of the advice given below should be glaringly obvious - but it’s truly dispiriting how many otherwise sensible and competent authors make a complete pig’s petit déjeuner of sending out their work.
Make absolutely certain that your MS is well presented. Never under-estimate the value and importance of high quality presentation. You won’t be there to excuse the clapped-out printer ribbon (why aren’t you using an inkjet or laser?) or toilet tissue style paper – not that it would do you much good if you were. Agents/publishers/editors and their ilk are, believe it or not, human and when selecting their next MS for appraisal they are very likely to choose the neat, clean script over the one which is grubby, dog-eared and printed in too florid and faint a font on cheap semi-transparent paper which shows the ghost of the page beneath. Cast an honest and critical eye over your MS before consigning it to its Jiffy Bag - and if you can see any room for improvement, improve it.
Try and avoid sending submissions to agents or publishers at the busiest times of the year. The fortnight pre and post Christmas is bad timing. September is usually a busy period too. The week after a bank holiday or other seasonal break, eg, Easter is simillarly a peak time for submissions. Wait a few weeks and avoid the crowd.
It goes without saying - or should - that no one’s going to consider a hand-written MS (although these still get sent in); even work produced on a typewriter is often frowned upon in the age of the ubiquitous (and increasingly cheap) personal computer. So, make sure that your novel/short story/play is word processed, immaculately printed on one side of the paper - A4 - only, and free of all blemishes in terms of corrections, spelling errors and other grammatical atrocities. Don’t rely on the spell check to catch, and correct, your mistakes; they are notoriously unreliable - and idiosyncratic. To jog swiftly through the basics:
Include a title page at both the front and back of your MS.
Include all your personal details – name, address, email address etc. Repeat this information at the back. Front pages have a habit of becoming detached.
Number all pages sequentially. Don’t begin again with ‘1’ at the start of each new chapter/section/scene. (It happens.)
Use double spacing and leave generous margins – this includes the top and bottom of each page.
Justify text on the left hand side only and don’t use line spaces between paragraphs. Indent the first line of each new paragraph.
Be consistent in your spelling and layout, ie, chapter/scene headings, etc.
Enclose sufficient return postage together with an envelope big enough (and strong enough) to hold your MS if, and when, it’s returned.
Don’t bind your pages in such a way that it makes your work difficult, or impossible, to read. It’s perfectly permissible to send it as loose sheets providing they are adequately boxed. In the case of a novel, many readers prefer to deal with a chapter or a section at a time rather than lugging around the entire 500 page beastie.
Always keep several copies of your novel, screenplay, etc, even if they’re only ‘electronic’ ones. Given the huge numbers of manuscripts which get submitted to agents, publishers and others on a daily basis losses/calamities are not unknown. I once had an MS of mine accidentally pulped. (Or maybe it was a particularly brutal form of criticism.) You should keep at least one copy ‘off-site’ – at work or with a friend - on CD-ROM, Zip Disk, flash drive (memory stick) or similar in case burglars pay you a visit, a mugger makes off with your laptop, or your humble abode spontaneously combusts reducing its treasured contents to ash. Hard drives can fail, vapourising your precious files; don’t make the mistake of keeping the only copy (or copies) of your work stored on your Mac/PC. Of course you wouldn’t be so stupid, but then neither would those friends, and others, whose tears I’ve had to mop up.
If you’re submitting a film, TV, radio script or stage play do ensure that it’s correctly formatted. It’s extremely easy to come unstuck here and end up looking – well – a bit of an arse. There are numerous textbooks and my own handouts (see above) which can help you with this and so ignorance is no excuse. Devote as much time as necessary to learning the ‘grammar’ of your chosen medium until formatting your work becomes second nature. The BBC very thoughtfully provide guidelines on writing for TV, film and radio. These can be downloaded at: http://www.bbc.co.uk/writersroom/
You’ll find the above site very useful for accessing many other writing-related features/issues: interviews, competitions, etc. A message-board facility allows you to communicate with, and seek advice from, other writers. Visit the writersroom regularly to keep abreast of what’s happening for writers in the wacky world of the Beeb, and in the larger, saner world too.
The internet is a great place to explore if you’re looking for filmscripts to study, both from a technical and a ‘literary’ point of view. Try www.script-o-rama.com which has been around for over ten years and boasts that it has the largest collection of free screenplays on the net. Screenplay 451 (www.pumpkinsoft.de/screenplay451/) offers fewer scripts than Drew’s Script-o-Rama but their screenplays have the advantage of being properly formatted, zipped and ready to download as Word documents. These are just two of many sites you can visit (Google ‘free screenplays’). Make sure, though, that your browsing doesn’t become a substitute for writing your own script! (see above)
It’s possible to purchase (expensive) software which takes the drudgery out of formatting your script, leaving you to concentrate on the creative aspects of screenwriting. Final Draft (available for both Mac and PC) is the package favoured by the majority of screenwriters. Movie Magic Screenwriter is another popular package (again available for both Mac and PC). It’s possible to download demos of both to ascertain whether you can’t live without one or the other. Final Draft is lovely(ish), but for the less wealthy an ordinary word processing program can be easily ‘tweaked’ to provide you with a professional looking layout. Mac users should definitely take a look at Montage which is designed to be a Final Draft killer – certainly the GUI is much prettier and more 21st century than FD’s, which is why I’ve recently moved over to it. I’ve discovered there’s a free screenwriting program available called, rather puzzlingly and uninspiringly, Celtx. You can download it at www.celtx.com The software is available for Mac OS9 and OSX, and Windows (yuk!) I’ve installed it onto my iBook and, despite being unable to import work into either Word or Final Draft, Celtx seems well behaved. Give it a go. It’s a worthy Montage/Final Draft substitute for the financially challenged.
Whilst on the subject of writing software, it might be worth my taking a sentence or three to draw your attention to a few programs designed with the ‘creative’ writer in mind. Strange though it may seem your everyday word processing program may not be ideal for creating an extended piece of work, a novel say, where you’ll not only need to process words but ideas and notes/research related to your book. I’m a great believer in making life as easy as possible for myself and have recently been road-testing several programs aimed at the novelist. I’ve no idea whether there are Windows (double yuk!!) versions available, but those eminently sensible folk running a Mac might like to try CopyWrite, Jer’s Novel Writer, Avenir, Mellel, Scrivener, or Ulysses. My personal favourites are Avenir and Mellel. Before you accuse me of anti-Windows bias let me say a few words regarding a PC only package called New Novelist (www.newnovelist.com). If you’re an inveterate plotter ‘n’ planner and want every single episode/event which comprises your novel mapped out in advance in coma-inducing detail, New Novelist is likely to result in love at first byte. Fire it up, go and make a cup of coffee, come back and find your book written. It’ll even drop off the manuscript at the publishers on its way home. (I jest, just in case you were wondering.) I’ve only heard third-hand reports of its effectiveness, so can’t comment further. It’s available to purchase from the site, and can also be obtained in our local Waterstones (at around £30), so check it out next time you pop in. Whilst I’d personally avoid such software like a rabid Rottweiler on a licorice leash, you might well find NN a gift from the literary gods. Remember, though, however helpful the above software may prove, the hard, painful slog element still remains.
The rules governing pristine presentation apply unilaterally. Your screenplay, stage play, radio drama, short story, sonnet sequence, etc, must conform to the above if they are to have the greatest chance of success.
With a novel, whether you opt for the agent or publisher route is pretty much down to personal choice. The bulk of the advice given below applies equally to your dealings with publishers. If you’re writing within a specific genre, ie, science fiction, crime or erotica, it’s a fairly easy and painless business to identify which publishers are seeking such manuscripts and you might choose to approach them direct. This could save you time – and the agent’s commission! If your MS falls into the category of literary or commercial fiction which is handled by dozens of different publishers, it’s probably wise to try and secure an agent who will be in a much stronger position that your good self when it comes to determining what’s currently happening in the literary marketplace - and to persuading publishers to part with their cash. Few publishers are prepared to read an unsolicited MS in any case, particularly one from a first time novelist which is likely to require a fair amount of editorial work before it’s in a fit condition to pass onto the next stage of the publishing process. Agents view the editing of your MS as part of their remit. It’s one of the reasons they take a percentage of monies earned. The fact that many modern novels read as though they’ve bypassed any form of editorial input is another matter entirely.
If the idea of actually going out and selling your work is wholly repugnant and you would much rather concentrate your energies on your writing, an agent can be a godsend in that they will act as a ‘cushion’ between you, with your delicate artistic sensibilities, and the hard-nosed commercial word of publishing which wants to pump you full of the steroids of fame and wealth and treat you like a piece of literary ‘rough trade’. (Oh yes, please!)
You should do at least some basic research before sending out your work. ‘Basic’ does not mean sticking a pin in a list of likely agents, publishers, theatre companies, etc and contacting the one which falls under the point. Ring, or email, a few possibles and describe - briefly - the kind of novel/play/whatever you’ve written. The person on the other end should be able to tell you whether there’s anyone there who might be interested in looking at your work. Once you’ve been given the ‘green light, you need to consider how best to initiate contact with the person concerned. The ‘ideal’ novelists package, according to Carole Blake would consist of the following elements:
a brief blurb (no more than a couple of paragraphs)
biographies of your main characters (a paragraph or two on each)
a synopsis of the entire novel (ten pages max)
the opening two/three chapters
an author biography (one page)
It is possible to deviate from the above, although the author biography and sample chapters are essential. Remember, there’s more than one way of separating a feline from its epidermis. I would also argue that it’s equally essential to have your entire novel written (if only in first draft form) before you seek out a publisher/agent. Although there are (usually apocryphal) stories circulating of authors receiving a million pound advance on the strength of their opening sentence, the majority of agents/publishers will expect you to have finished your novel when you make contact, and it’s probably not a good idea to ask them to wait for a further nine months while you write chapters 3–33. It’s equally bad for your writing too. The bottom line is that you don’t know if you’re capable of writing a novel until you’ve actually written one. The world is full of aborted novels.
A word of warning which applies to every type of submission, each of which will need some accompanying documentation. Don’t include irrelevant (or irreverent) information in your biography. The fact that you won an essay prize at junior school (‘My Pet Bunny, Sniffy’), had a poem (‘Spring Tints’) published in the Carnforth Echo in 1973, or wrote a one act farce (‘Vicar, Where Are Your Trousers?’) which was performed by your immediate family is of no interest whatsoever – and may count against you. The person concerned wants to know anything that’s relevant to your work which will help them make a decision as to whether to take you on - and which will make the selling of your book, screenplay, etc easier. (If, for example, your novel or film script’s central theme deals with sexual harassment is it based upon your own personal experiences or those of someone close to you?) Think long, and hard, about what to include - and exclude - from your ‘CV’.
The submission letter which will neatly, and beautifully, ‘wrap’ the above goodies can prove extremely difficult to compose. It’s very easy to ‘blow’ the whole deal on a letter which strikes the wrong note. Remember, you’ll be communicating with someone who has very little free time at their disposal, and who has heard all those embarrassing self-panegyrics a thousand times before. Resist the temptation to lapse into the comic or facetious as a means of standing out from the crowd. Don’t be overly obsequious either – and take great care not to come across as either bombastic or barking mad. BE PROFESSIONAL. (Have these two words tattooed on the inside of your eyelids.) Anything less will mark you out as a slightly dodgy and unworldly amateur, a figure unlikely to appeal to anyone in the business – they are never that desperate; it’s always a buyer’s market.
People working in the profession who’s job it is to assess your work are very aware that writing, by it’s very personal and intimate nature, is frequently taken up by those who, to put it politely, are a chapter short of a novel (or a scene short of a screenplay). Sad, certainly, but all too true. Don’t come across as one of these poor souls in your first contact with an agent, publisher or producer who has expressed a tentative interest in you and your work.
Back, briefly, to the novel. This seems like a good point to tackle the vexatious question of multiple submissions. Should you, or shouldn’t you? Just how promiscuous can you be? In the past such a practice was seen as being on par with breaking wind at the dinner table, and, despite its being common in the States (no, not breaking wind at the dinner table), there are still a number of agents/publishers over here who won’t read material if it’s currently being offered elsewhere. Try and see the situation from their point of view and it’s not too difficult to understand, or at least empathise with, their feelings on the subject. No one wants to spend time in speculative reading whilst being in enforced competition with another agent or agents. Multiple submissions will not force an agent to reach a decision on your MS any sooner, nor will the idea that your novel is also being read by X,Y and Z make a publisher more likely to snap you up rather than risk loosing you to a rival. Although the idea of multiple submissions is increasingly being seen as a fact of life, it’s still best to check the firm in question’s policy on this during your initial approach - or, if you’ve already gone ahead and done it (tch tch!), it’s both desirable, and courteous, to mention this fact as soon as possible. If you are lucky enough to receive a favourable reply from an agent/publisher requesting either the completed MS or a meeting to discuss your work, you must let the other interested parties know what’s happening. Again, always strive to be professional.
Agents and publishers are looking for genuine writers, authors who are capable of establishing a long-term career from their craft. You may not become profitable until the publication of your third or fourth book. They want to ‘sign up’ individuals who write with enthusiasm and conviction and abstain from cheap ‘look at me!’ gimmicks. They need to feel immediately involved with both your characters and your story, and gain from your MS the firm assurance that you handle your material deftly and can sustain the story for the duration of a novel. A great many promising first-time novels – and screen and stage plays - collapse in an undignified heap at around the half-way mark when the initial euphoria of composition has waned and realisation dawns that the task is much more difficult and demanding than first envisaged and the material begins to escape the author’s control.
If you find your work rejected by those whom you’ve approached, don’t give up. Rejection is an inevitable consequence of attempting to sell your work; it happens to everybody. Don’t take it personally. You’ve put your heart and soul into your novel, etc (or damned well should have), but to the reader it’s just another submission. When that nasty rejection letter arrives have another copy of your screenplay, whatever ready to go out again immediately. The professional writer is the amateur who didn’t give up. Dealing positively with rejection is just one of a number of things which separate the real writer from the dilettante, ie, the person who wants to write but doesn’t want it enough to face the sheer bloody hard work and trauma that’s necessary to see a project through to completion and ultimately succeed in the business – a species more common than headlice!
The writer who achieves instant success is rarer than a Tory politician with a sense of humour. Instant success can be a double edged sword as writers like Ian McEwan (and Norman Mailer) have attested. The pressure to repeat the ‘trick’ is enormous and often damaging to future work. In the same way that it’s perfectly possible to hit the bull’s eye the first time you pick up a bow and arrow, the chances of your doing so again with your next shot are not high. Practice, however, will greatly increase the number of golds you achieve. Enough of the toxophilite metaphors!
Give serious thought to any criticism you’ve received. Do the same comments recur, pointing to issues which need addressing: poor characterisation, unconvincing dialogue, weak structure, etc? Those in the business will often give encouragement and offer advice if they feel your work merits more than the usual brief, though polite, refusal. However, badgering an agent, producer, etc for an in-depth analysis of your novel/script and their reasons for declining it is not a good idea – in fact it’s a very bad idea. Accept the rejection, learn from it and move on.
Due to the ceaseless flood of manuscripts which deluge agents, publishers and the like, a substantial portion of material will be rejected without its being read in its entirety, or poured over so that each and every subtle nuance is identified and savoured. This is an immutable fact of publishing/media life. You, the author, are powerless to change, or influence, this situation. Writing, like life, is a perpetual shit storm where the umbrella hasn’t yet been invented. Any writer worthy of the title will be more than happy to venture out doors and take everything the elements throw at her/him without complaint. Good, even brilliant, work is, unfortunately, not always recognised as such - and a great deal of seriously shite writing somehow finds its way into print/performance. As a reviewer I see ample evidence of this on an almost daily basis. I’ll give Carole Blake the final word on this painful subject: ‘There will always be many more people writing than can be published.’
[A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell. She decided to check out each place first. As she descended into the fiery pits, she saw row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a vast steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes. ‘Oh my,’ said the writer. ‘Let me see heaven now.’ A few moments later, as she ascended into heaven, she saw rows of writers, chained to their desks in a vast steaming sweatshop. As they worked, they were whipped with thorny lashes. ‘Wait a minute,’ said the writer. ‘This is just as bad as hell!’ ‘Oh no, it's not,’ replied an unseen voice. ‘Here, your work gets published.’]
Reading Lists
Below are details of a dozen modern (ie, all published last century) novels which constitute some kind of ‘recommended reading’ list for those keen to write their own novel or discover how great fiction works. I’m aware that any such list will inevitably be extremely selective - and subjective - and will, no doubt, provoke anguished cries of, ‘What, no —’ (Supply the name/title of your own favourite author/book). What the texts listed below attempt to do is broaden the scope of the novel, either in theme or subject matter, or through the mechanics of the writing itself. All are superb examples of the novelist’s art, with three - the Greene, Murdoch and Nabokov - being bona fide masterpieces. Each of these books will repay in-depth analysis as to how they achieve their effects, and offer considerable insights into the way in which novels are written. You will learn infinitely more about the craft of novel writing (and, indeed, writing in general) through a diligent reading of just one of these books than you will from studying any number of ‘How to...’ volumes.
A Handful of Dust - Evelyn Waugh
Falling - Colin Thubron
Fullalove - Gordon Burn
Hangover Square - Patrick Hamilton
Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov*
Money - Martin Amis
The Black Prince - Iris Murdoch
The Devil’s Own Work - Alan Judd
The End of the Affair - Graham Greene
The Mezzanine - Nicholson Baker
Christie Malry’s Own Double-Entry – B.S. Johnson‡
Flaubert’s Parrot – Julian Barnes
* It’s well worth acquiring the annotated version of Lolita. The extra expense is easily justified. (Penguin).
Most of the above are currently in print, or should be readily available through the public library system. The fact that only one female author is listed above should not be taken as evidence of rampant phallocentricity on the part of your humble tutor.
‡ Should you find yourself addicted to Johnson after reading ‘Christie Malry’ be sure to read Jonathan Coe’s superb biography of the writer, Like A Fiery Elephant, which deservedly won the Samuel Johnson prize for non-fiction. It’s available from Picador (£9.99), as are several of Johnson’s novels. Grab them whilst they’re still in print – which may not be for long.
A student from a past course asked if I might supply a list of ‘classic’ texts which should be read/explored. I came up with ten novels off the top of my head. With a little time to ponder, though, I’ve amended and added to my original list; it now looks like this:
Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy
Silas Marner – George Eliot
Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
New Grub Street – George Gissing
Villette – Charlotte Bronte
Germinal – Emile Zola
Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy
Tristram Shandy – Laurence Sterne
Don Quixote – Miguel de Cervantes
Billy Budd – Herman Melville
Lady Audley’s Secret – Mary Elizabeth Braddon
As with the modern novels above each one of my chosen classics is, first and foremost, a damned good read as well as clearly demonstrating what fiction is capable of, particularly when dealing with that infinitely tricky subject ‘the human condition’. If you only tackle one of the above, though, make it ‘Jude’, a stunning achievement and easily Hardy’s greatest novel. Those with a taste for B.S. Johnson should definitely have a go at Tristram Shandy. The influence which Sterne has over Johnson’s writing should be evident from the first few pages of his exuberant metafictional masterpiece.
I have also been asked to expand upon my original reading list and have come up with a list of fifty modern/contemporary novels which you might care to work your way through. The list is attached. Happy reading.
Over the past few years the number of ‘How to…’ books which claim to teach the reader everything from raising chinchilla to building a fast-breeder nuclear reactor on your kitchen table using everyday household objects have multiplied faster than rabbits on Viagra. Those texts dealing with the lucrative subject of creative writing never fail to promise novice authors that the secrets of writing successful ‘straight’ and genre fiction will be revealed to them; consequently they sell in healthy numbers. Most of the larger bookshops and libraries will carry a representative selection of these seductive works. These manuals should, however, be approached with a degree of both caution and scepticism. Hemingway averred that no one can be taught how to write, they can only refine and develop the skills they already possess. Many of these guides do indeed adhere to their rigorous self-help philosophy; they help their authors to increase their respective bank balances. Caveat emptor!
Reading these cosy ‘How to…’ books is, despite their winning and winsome blurb, no guarantee of ultimate success, and is, emphatically, not a valid substitute for the raw ‘talent’, discipline and sheer hard work which is vital to the creation of any work of art. In some cases they may be a dangerous and addictive substitute for the writing process itself - an immensely enjoyable, self-delusory displacement activity for the real thing. Despite a recent survey which would appear to indicate that 1.5+ million individuals are either engaged in writing - or have written - a novel, the world (or that small portion of it with which I’m acquainted) is full of people prepared to talk at great length about the books, plays, poems they are going to write. These people are not embarrassed to call themselves writers, and yet when challenged they will confess that they haven’t written a word yet. They are waiting for the right opportunity to present itself; there’s that ‘essential’ creative writing course to get through, and that new authoritative guide to novel/poetry/short story/screenplay writing to purchase and peruse. Guard against becoming one of these sad, sterile souls!
For those who do feel the need for some kind of guidance (a reassuring hand other than my own to hold as you wade ever deeper into the often icy waters of creativity), a small selection of the more recommendable, ie, less banal, ‘How to’ books are listed below. These texts are much less cynical and egocentric than many of their type, and were not written with just the profit motive in mind. Several have stood the test of time and survived various literary fads and fashions. At best, writing ‘crammers’ can offer useful pointers to the kind of inherent technical problems which may be encountered (particularly in genre fiction, which usually conforms to a set of strict - if not draconian - rules, romantic/erotic/horror fiction being, perhaps, the best examples). At worse, writing manuals can easily delude the literary neophyte into believing that if she/he slavishly emulates the working methodology of, say, Barbara Taylor Bradford or Jeffrey Archer (!) wealth, fame and frequent appearances on celebrity-fat chat shows will be the inevitable outcome of their endeavours.
For short story writers:
For those whose primary interest lies with the short story I would unhesitatingly recommend that you seek out those gems written by William Trevor, Graham Greene, Raymond Carver, Richard Yates, John Cheever, Elizabeth Bowen, M.R. James, Truman Capote, A.E. Coppard, V.S. Pritchett, Nabokov, Saki, Ian McEwan, Katherine Mansfield, Flannery O’Connor and Chekhov, to name but sixteen. In case you’re wondering, I’ve not listed them in any order of merit. I’ve yet to come across a short story writing primer which deserves the reading, hence the lack of recommendations. If you’ve been fortunate enough to discover a half decent one, don’t keep it to yourself.
For writers of drama (including film/TV):
If you fancy yourself as a dramatist you should – obviously – strive to see as many productions as possible as well as reading/studying plays written by - again in no particular order of worth - David Mamet, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Chekov, Ibsen, Coward, Wilde, Ionesco, John Osborne, Pinter, J.B. Priestley, Terrence Rattigan, Alan Bennett, Simon Gray and Dennis Potter, to name, in this instance, another sixteen. As with the novel and short story reading list, my inventory of dramatists could easily be extended, but there’s enough here to get you started. No doubt other names will crop up as the course progresses. Apologies if your own favourite playwright has failed to make an appearance. Shakespeare, I would argue – but, please, don’t get me started – is optional. Try and read, if you’ve not already done so, the following texts:
Peter Brook, The Empty Space (First published back in 1968, Brook gives the reader the distillation of his vast knowledge and experience of the theatre. There is much to ponder upon, and perhaps vehemently disagree with, in this short classic work which has lost little of its impact in the 40 years since it first appeared.) ✰✰✰
Stuart Spencer, The Playwright’s Guidebook: an insightful primer on the art of dramatic writing (This is one of the best, most comprehensive books on its subject that I’ve seen. Spencer, himself a playwright, wrote the book after failing to find an effective, no-nonsense text for his students. All the elements of writing for the stage are meticulously covered: structure, the creative process, problem solving, etc. There are a number of to-the-point exercises to demonstrate when you’ve mastered each of the aspects involved in writing a producible play. Appendices list ‘required’ and ‘recommended’ reading and offer further extended exercises and ‘image’ prompts to cure the creatively constipated. Does exactly what it says on the cover.) ✰✰✰✰
Alan Ayckbourn, The Crafty Art of Playmaking (Ayckbourn’s jocular gloss on writing for the theatre may be short on pages but it’s long on the kind of pithy advice/insights that only a consummate playwright and director can provide. It also has the considerable virtue of being laugh-out-loud funny. A sweet, gooey dessert which is an ideal accompaniment to Spencer’s meat ‘n’ two veg first course.) ✰✰✰✰ - it almost deserves that extra fifth ✰ for the jokes alone.
[I handed in a script last year and the studio didn't change one word. The word they didn't change was on page 87.
Steve Martin]
I’ve still to read a screenwriting manual which I can unreservedly recommend. Try and take a look at those by Syd Field (Screenplay and The Screenwriter’s Workbook) which I’ve heard others swear by (or at). Field’s latest book is The Definitive Guide to Screenwriting. I’ve only had a quick flick through it and so can’t advise as to whether it’s worth shelling out the fifteen quid asking price. It seems broadly similar in approach to the McKee book below, ie, a tad too ‘architectural’ for my taste. Definitely worth a look though.
Robert McKee, Story: substance, structure, style and the principles of screenwriting (The title’s a book in itself. McKee’s muscular volume, powered by his ‘story is a metaphor for life’ philosophy, is likely to enrage and enthral in equal measure, but is worth checking out just to see what all the fuss is about. Be sure and have some aspirin handy though. If complex graphs and flow charts do it for you, this is a multiple orgasm between hard - or soft - covers. Folk are divided into those who think McKee walks on water and those who think he’s an asshole who deserves to drown. I confess I’m a mite suspicious of a guy who presents the reader with a set of ingredients for the perfect film script together with strict cooking instructions. Is it a soufflé or a screenplay we’re after? Far too Nigella for my particular taste – though I’ve absolutely nothing against the luscious Ms Lawson. Read and reject, or read and accept. The choice is yours.) ✰✰✰
Alistair Owen (ed), Story and Character: interviews with British screenwriters (A cautionary, though probably essential, read. The book offers a unique behind-the-scenes look at the movie business from the writer’s perspective, a world which – to lazily quote from my own review – is driven by equal amounts of vanity, craziness, incompetence and bullshit.) ✰✰✰
Kevin Conroy Scott (ed), Screenwriters’ Masterclass: screenwriters talk about their greatest movies (A useful addition to the ‘wannabe’ screenwriter’s library. A juicy warts ‘n’ all glimpse into filmmaking from the guys and gals who put the words into the actor’s mouths.) ✰✰✰
William Smethurst, Writing for Television (Smethurst’s book has been around for a few years – it came out in 2000 – but only recently have I actually picked up the updated edition and read it. Much to my surprise it’s a wonderfully succinct account of the scriptwriting process and is packed with tips for getting your work on screen and contains lists of useful contacts whom you can approach with your ultra-violent six part series, ‘Skin and Blister’, featuring a hardbitten East End tea leaf trying to go straight to please his dear devoted sis who’s a part-time Lionel living in real Turkish with her little basin who’s West Ham’s are all shot cos she’s just been told she’s got the big C.) ✰✰✰✰
It’s worth noting that most serious practitioners of the screenwriter’s craft tend to eschew manuals, regarding them as useful reference material for the mechanics of script layout rather than infallible blueprints for the production of a brilliant, get-Spielberg-on-the-phone-NOW! screenplay.
NB: If you’re interested in writing radio drama (and why wouldn’t you be?), please let me know and I’ll happily provide you with the handouts I prepared for my series of Writing Radio Drama courses. I have also written a detailed handout which deals with the correct formatting of the screenplay. If you’d like a copy, just ask.
For novelists:
John Braine, Writing a Novel (First published in 1974, this is a pugnacious, dogmatic and occasionally downright eccentric work driven along by Braine’s angular axioms on the novelist’s art. A very useful - and salutary - read for demythologizing the craft of fiction writing, An obligatory purchase for anyone burning to write the sequel to Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, and who is deeply ashamed of not having been born into a state of impoverished illegitimacy in a draughty outside privy somewhere north of Potters Bar.) ✰✰✰
Diane Doubtfire, The Craft of Novel Writing (Auntie Di’s easy, and so quick-to-bake recipe for literary stardom. Not jaw-droppingly brilliant, but by no means a waste of time/space. Sturdy, if not evangelical, in its approach. It might prove too schematic - and therefore not ‘organic’ enough - for some. I’m sure you know what I mean.) ✰✰✰
Christopher Derrick, Reader’s Report: on the writing of novels (Unfortunately now long out of print - it was originally published in 1969 - but it might still available through the public library system, discovered in a secondhand bookshop, or acquired via one of the many book-search services. Last time I checked Amazon’s UK site it was still possible to secure a copy. This is one of the most sensible, clear-headed and wonderfully entertaining books on the joys, and agonies, involved in the creation of a novel written from the invaluable perspective of a publisher’s reader. Essential reading if you’re convinced that the spirit of Flaubert moves within you, and you wish to rewrite, and transpose, Madame Bovary from Rouen to Redditch. Docked one ✰ for its lamentable absence from the shelves of Waterstones, Borders et al.) ✰✰✰✰
Margaret Geraghty, The Novelist’s Guide (A generally effective alternative to Reader’s Report. While Gereghty’s book suffers from a superfluity of pseudo-psychological waffle supposedly designed to get the creative juices gushing and make you think like a writer (an endemic failing with such works; if you don’t habitually think like a writer, you’re not a writer), much of the ‘hard’ advice given is sound and eminently practical. The readily accessible format is a definite plus earning the book three ✰✰✰ out of a possible five ✰.)
Carole Blake, From Pitch to Publication: everything you need to know to get your novel published (Carole Blake is one of this country’s premier literary agents - Blake Friedmann Literary Agency. Her book is an exemplary, in-depth guide to successfully presenting yourself to both agent or publisher. It takes the reader through every stage from first submission to final publication and beyond. The book’s bias is firmly towards commercial fiction (in which Ms Blake specialises), but those striving to write their own version of the English literary novel will also have a great deal to gain from her wisdom, insights, and sound commonsense. The (rather optimistic) statistic quoted on page three stating that ‘less than half of one percent of all unsolicited manuscripts sent to publishers are accepted’ should act like a gauntlet thrown down, rather than suggesting that macramé can, in its own way, be just as rewarding as novel writing with none of the attendant angst, frustration, or lack of recognition.) ✰✰✰✰
David Armstrong, How [Not] to Write a Novel (Crime writer Armstrong lifts the sticky lid on the publishing game from the point of view of the non best-selling author, ie, 98% of writers, and wittily examines such issues as low advances, poorly attended readings, humiliating signing sessions and bitchy writers’ conventions. Armstrong tells it like it really is for the majority of semi-anonymous writers struggling to make ends meet and see their work achieve publication. Part of his remit is to persuade the innocent would-be novelist not to do it and spare themselves the considerable misery/frustration involved. Feel better now?) ✰✰✰✰
E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel (Forster’s slim volume, first published in 1927, and originating from a series of Clark Lectures at Cambridge, is an essential purchase for the would-be novelist, indeed any writer. I shall say no more other than urging you to read it at the earliest opportunity.) ✰✰✰✰
John Mullan, How Novels Work (Drawing on his weekly Guardian column, Mullan sets out to open the reader’s eyes to the craft of writing, helping us enjoy and appreciate novels more fully. Although not a writing manual per se, you’ll pick up a great many insights into why some novels succeed whilst other utterly fail to spark. Light-weight lit-crit for the reading-group generation maybe, but none the worst for that. ✰✰✰
Let’s move on to more general texts.
Dorothea Brande, On Becoming a Writer (Curl up all nice and comfy with a giant, frighteningly calorific tub of that infamous Dutch ice cream while Auntie Dot explains in soothing tones the best way to achieve literary success. This book, originally published in 1934, takes a refreshingly direct approach to writing, largely avoiding the kind of bland abstractions that make many other instructional guides so unsatisfactory, The book has been recently reprinted with a puff by the late Malcolm Bradbury, famous for helping to launch the Creative Writing MA at UEA along with the – equally - late Angus Wilson, and for unleashing the monstrous Howard ‘History Man’ Kirk upon the world.) ✰✰✰
Betsy Lerner, The Forest for the Trees: an editor’s advice to writers (Ms Lerner, a much admired American book editor, shares her considerable editorial acumen with the reader and offers an extremely useful, and pleasurable, peek inside the arcane world of publishing. She also delves fearlessly into the writer’s psyche without provoking either guffaws or groans (no mean feat) and examines the way in which writers fall into distinct personality types. She explores the myriad anxieties and concerns of writers at all stages of their careers and reveals what a strange, dysfunctional bunch we are. This is a wonderfully readable textbook, rich in succulent literary anecdotes, which encourages but, crucially, never patronises.) ✰✰✰✰
Julia Bell & Paul Magrs (ed), The Creative Writing Coursebook (Attempts to condense the University of East Anglia’s undergrad writing programme into a single volume. The result is workman and/or woman like without being desperately inspiring - despite the long list of illustrious contributors. All the bases are covered, but there’s something a tad precious about it – or maybe it’s just me. A solid - or should that be stolid? - companion to the Lerner above.) ✰✰✰
Stephen King, On Writing (Comprising three parts: a skeletal, though engrossing, memoir covering King’s early life before fame an’ fortune came a callin’. The middle – longest - section is King’s take on the creative process. Here he discusses the writer’s craft dealing with plot, dialogue, sentence construction, the use of language, etc. The final part covers the accident which almost killed him and put an end to a phenomenal career. I personally find King’s novels unreadable; consequently I was astonished to discover myself concurring with the bulk of his thesis - although it proved impossible to reconcile King’s perceptive writer’s manifesto with his own novels which continue to display scant evidence that he’s paid sufficient attention to his rules.) ✰✰✰
Norman Mailer, The Spooky Art (Mailer has always occupied the tough kids end of the literary playground, his writing often exhibiting more testosterone than technique, thus I resisted reading ‘The Spooky Art’ - which appeared in March 2003 - until 2005 having, perhaps, learned my lesson with Stephen King! The book comprises a collection of Mailer’s essays on the subject of writing – it’s occasional joys, frequent perils, its inherent loneliness and its rare celebrity. Every ‘wannbe’ novelist should read Mailer’s thoughts on the pitfalls of early success/fame. The nuts and bolts of the craft are given a thorough examination, and the psychology of the writer is placed under the Mailer microscope. Such was my reaction to this book that I went off in search of my large, though neglected, Mailer collection and looked at his work through new eyes. If you’re a fan of Mr Mailer you’ve probably already read this; if, like me, you’ve found all that overt machismo a little too scary for comfort, pack away your prejudices and give The Spooky Art a place on your bookshelf. So impressed am I that I’m awarding it ✰✰✰✰✰.)
Francine Prose, Reading Like a Writer: a guide for people who love books and for those who want to write them (Novelist and critic Prose invites you on a tour around the masters - and mistresses - of great literature in order to discover why their writing has endured. Her obsession with Chekhov might perhaps be regarded as a tad unhealthy but you’ll gain much wisdom through reading her thoughts/analysis on literature and the art of writing. Yes, another 5✰ winner!)
Robert Graham, How to Write Fiction – and think about it (Any book which cautions new writers against over-planning their writing and allowing the imagination/unconscious to do their work is bound to win my heart. Sensible. Readable. Indispensable. ✰✰✰✰)
For poets:
Q: What did the poet say to Luke Skywalker?
A: Metaphors be with you.
(Thanks to Tom, aged 10)
I confess that I’m on slightly thin ice here having abandoned my brief poetry career upon graduation from university a quarter of a century ago, and having lost contact with those poets with whom I used to hang out. My research paints a fairly gloomy picture for poets hoping to launch their careers in 2008. After a period of substantial growth, sales of poetry are now falling - that is slender single author volumes. The mainstream publishers have ruthlessly pruned their poetry lists in this area. However the ‘Sonnets for Swingin’ Lovers’ type anthology is doing surprisingly well. Traditional forms of verse are also currently enjoying a renaissance; something to bear in mind perhaps. Poetry is thriving on the internet and you’d be foolish not to explore this option if you’re keen to have your work read and disseminated. The internet is something of a poet’s paradise and offers innumerable options for launching your verse into cyberspace. Creating your own website as a repository for your poems is now within the scope of anyone who is even mildly computer literate. There’s an abundance of (cheap) software and textbooks available to help you. If you hanker to see your poetry in print there are still a healthy number of small presses and magazines whom you can approach. Details of these together with the large commercial publishers (Faber&Faber, etc) can be found in The Writer’s Handbook (see below) which also contains a wealth of poetry-related material. You should also keep an eye open for details of competitions and awards, two areas where poets are relatively well served. Submission for poetry follows the rules given below for novels, etc. Between six and ten poems is the best number to submit together with a short covering letter to introduce yourself. Never send the same poem(s) to different publishers/magazines. It’s not the done thing apparently, is seen as terribly bad form, and is guaranteed to make you persona non grata within the poetry fraternity.
Whatever form of writing you undertake, if you’re interested in selling your work you’ll need to own an up-to-date copy of 'The Writer’s Handbook' or 'The Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook' - or the brand new 'Writer’s Market UK'. Take a good look at each and see which you prefer. For those keen to break into the children’s market, I can thoroughly recommend 'The Children’s Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook' which, quite simply, tells you everything you need to know. A new annual publication, 'The Screenwriter’s Handbook' has just hit the shelves. Containing a handful of brief articles, the book’s true value lies in its lists of UK and US Production Companies, Writing Courses, Societies and Organisations, Agents, Film Festivals, Awards and Prizes. Is it worth the £16.99 asking price? If you’re convinced you have the necessary stamina and talent to succeed in the business, yes.
[A screenwriter comes home to a burned down house. His sobbing, singed wife is standing outside. “What happened, honey?” the man asks. ‘Oh, John, it was terrible,’ she weeps. ‘I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is — ’ ‘Wait, wait. Back up a minute,’ The man says. ‘My agent called?’]
Remember, the creation of a publishable/performable piece of writing is not like assembling a flat-pack wardrobe - an activity which usually results in a semi-durable structure resembling the picture on the front of the box if the instructions are followed carefully enough (despite your invariably being left with several ominously large screws and a collection of strangely shaped bits of plastic). The advice and guidance contained in the above texts (however profound) will count for nothing if it’s not allied to your own unique artistic vision, and the will to realise that vision.
If you’re desperately seeking publication or if you just want to discover the kind of writer you might be, talent and a desire to create will only take you so far – and not nearly as far as you might think. Self-discipline is an essential requirement irrespective of how inherently brilliant you are. Achieving success (financial or otherwise) is about building writing into your normal, everyday life (which is the main reason why we will NOT be writing in class); it’s about making the necessary mental and emotional space to write, setting aside the time to do your work justice, and then ensuring that you continue to write day after day – whatever else may be happening - until the task is completed. And then beginning the whole process over again. Pause for a moment and then go back and re-read this paragraph. There are no sly short cuts, no magic pill or secret incantation which will relieve you of the heavy burden that writing brings will it.
A Handful of Dust - Evelyn Waugh
Falling - Colin Thubron
Fullalove - Gordon Burn
Hangover Square - Patrick Hamilton
Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov*
Money - Martin Amis
The Black Prince - Iris Murdoch
The Devil’s Own Work - Alan Judd
The End of the Affair - Graham Greene
The Mezzanine - Nicholson Baker
Christie Malry’s Own Double-Entry – B.S. Johnson‡
Flaubert’s Parrot – Julian Barnes
* It’s well worth acquiring the annotated version of Lolita. The extra expense is easily justified. (Penguin).
Most of the above are currently in print, or should be readily available through the public library system. The fact that only one female author is listed above should not be taken as evidence of rampant phallocentricity on the part of your humble tutor.
‡ Should you find yourself addicted to Johnson after reading ‘Christie Malry’ be sure to read Jonathan Coe’s superb biography of the writer, Like A Fiery Elephant, which deservedly won the Samuel Johnson prize for non-fiction. It’s available from Picador (£9.99), as are several of Johnson’s novels. Grab them whilst they’re still in print – which may not be for long.
A student from a past course asked if I might supply a list of ‘classic’ texts which should be read/explored. I came up with ten novels off the top of my head. With a little time to ponder, though, I’ve amended and added to my original list; it now looks like this:
Jude the Obscure – Thomas Hardy
Silas Marner – George Eliot
Great Expectations – Charles Dickens
New Grub Street – George Gissing
Villette – Charlotte Bronte
Germinal – Emile Zola
Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert
Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy
Tristram Shandy – Laurence Sterne
Don Quixote – Miguel de Cervantes
Billy Budd – Herman Melville
Lady Audley’s Secret – Mary Elizabeth Braddon
As with the modern novels above each one of my chosen classics is, first and foremost, a damned good read as well as clearly demonstrating what fiction is capable of, particularly when dealing with that infinitely tricky subject ‘the human condition’. If you only tackle one of the above, though, make it ‘Jude’, a stunning achievement and easily Hardy’s greatest novel. Those with a taste for B.S. Johnson should definitely have a go at Tristram Shandy. The influence which Sterne has over Johnson’s writing should be evident from the first few pages of his exuberant metafictional masterpiece.
I have also been asked to expand upon my original reading list and have come up with a list of fifty modern/contemporary novels which you might care to work your way through. The list is attached. Happy reading.
Over the past few years the number of ‘How to…’ books which claim to teach the reader everything from raising chinchilla to building a fast-breeder nuclear reactor on your kitchen table using everyday household objects have multiplied faster than rabbits on Viagra. Those texts dealing with the lucrative subject of creative writing never fail to promise novice authors that the secrets of writing successful ‘straight’ and genre fiction will be revealed to them; consequently they sell in healthy numbers. Most of the larger bookshops and libraries will carry a representative selection of these seductive works. These manuals should, however, be approached with a degree of both caution and scepticism. Hemingway averred that no one can be taught how to write, they can only refine and develop the skills they already possess. Many of these guides do indeed adhere to their rigorous self-help philosophy; they help their authors to increase their respective bank balances. Caveat emptor!
Reading these cosy ‘How to…’ books is, despite their winning and winsome blurb, no guarantee of ultimate success, and is, emphatically, not a valid substitute for the raw ‘talent’, discipline and sheer hard work which is vital to the creation of any work of art. In some cases they may be a dangerous and addictive substitute for the writing process itself - an immensely enjoyable, self-delusory displacement activity for the real thing. Despite a recent survey which would appear to indicate that 1.5+ million individuals are either engaged in writing - or have written - a novel, the world (or that small portion of it with which I’m acquainted) is full of people prepared to talk at great length about the books, plays, poems they are going to write. These people are not embarrassed to call themselves writers, and yet when challenged they will confess that they haven’t written a word yet. They are waiting for the right opportunity to present itself; there’s that ‘essential’ creative writing course to get through, and that new authoritative guide to novel/poetry/short story/screenplay writing to purchase and peruse. Guard against becoming one of these sad, sterile souls!
For those who do feel the need for some kind of guidance (a reassuring hand other than my own to hold as you wade ever deeper into the often icy waters of creativity), a small selection of the more recommendable, ie, less banal, ‘How to’ books are listed below. These texts are much less cynical and egocentric than many of their type, and were not written with just the profit motive in mind. Several have stood the test of time and survived various literary fads and fashions. At best, writing ‘crammers’ can offer useful pointers to the kind of inherent technical problems which may be encountered (particularly in genre fiction, which usually conforms to a set of strict - if not draconian - rules, romantic/erotic/horror fiction being, perhaps, the best examples). At worse, writing manuals can easily delude the literary neophyte into believing that if she/he slavishly emulates the working methodology of, say, Barbara Taylor Bradford or Jeffrey Archer (!) wealth, fame and frequent appearances on celebrity-fat chat shows will be the inevitable outcome of their endeavours.
For short story writers:
For those whose primary interest lies with the short story I would unhesitatingly recommend that you seek out those gems written by William Trevor, Graham Greene, Raymond Carver, Richard Yates, John Cheever, Elizabeth Bowen, M.R. James, Truman Capote, A.E. Coppard, V.S. Pritchett, Nabokov, Saki, Ian McEwan, Katherine Mansfield, Flannery O’Connor and Chekhov, to name but sixteen. In case you’re wondering, I’ve not listed them in any order of merit. I’ve yet to come across a short story writing primer which deserves the reading, hence the lack of recommendations. If you’ve been fortunate enough to discover a half decent one, don’t keep it to yourself.
For writers of drama (including film/TV):
If you fancy yourself as a dramatist you should – obviously – strive to see as many productions as possible as well as reading/studying plays written by - again in no particular order of worth - David Mamet, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, Chekov, Ibsen, Coward, Wilde, Ionesco, John Osborne, Pinter, J.B. Priestley, Terrence Rattigan, Alan Bennett, Simon Gray and Dennis Potter, to name, in this instance, another sixteen. As with the novel and short story reading list, my inventory of dramatists could easily be extended, but there’s enough here to get you started. No doubt other names will crop up as the course progresses. Apologies if your own favourite playwright has failed to make an appearance. Shakespeare, I would argue – but, please, don’t get me started – is optional. Try and read, if you’ve not already done so, the following texts:
Peter Brook, The Empty Space (First published back in 1968, Brook gives the reader the distillation of his vast knowledge and experience of the theatre. There is much to ponder upon, and perhaps vehemently disagree with, in this short classic work which has lost little of its impact in the 40 years since it first appeared.) ✰✰✰
Stuart Spencer, The Playwright’s Guidebook: an insightful primer on the art of dramatic writing (This is one of the best, most comprehensive books on its subject that I’ve seen. Spencer, himself a playwright, wrote the book after failing to find an effective, no-nonsense text for his students. All the elements of writing for the stage are meticulously covered: structure, the creative process, problem solving, etc. There are a number of to-the-point exercises to demonstrate when you’ve mastered each of the aspects involved in writing a producible play. Appendices list ‘required’ and ‘recommended’ reading and offer further extended exercises and ‘image’ prompts to cure the creatively constipated. Does exactly what it says on the cover.) ✰✰✰✰
Alan Ayckbourn, The Crafty Art of Playmaking (Ayckbourn’s jocular gloss on writing for the theatre may be short on pages but it’s long on the kind of pithy advice/insights that only a consummate playwright and director can provide. It also has the considerable virtue of being laugh-out-loud funny. A sweet, gooey dessert which is an ideal accompaniment to Spencer’s meat ‘n’ two veg first course.) ✰✰✰✰ - it almost deserves that extra fifth ✰ for the jokes alone.
[I handed in a script last year and the studio didn't change one word. The word they didn't change was on page 87.
Steve Martin]
I’ve still to read a screenwriting manual which I can unreservedly recommend. Try and take a look at those by Syd Field (Screenplay and The Screenwriter’s Workbook) which I’ve heard others swear by (or at). Field’s latest book is The Definitive Guide to Screenwriting. I’ve only had a quick flick through it and so can’t advise as to whether it’s worth shelling out the fifteen quid asking price. It seems broadly similar in approach to the McKee book below, ie, a tad too ‘architectural’ for my taste. Definitely worth a look though.
Robert McKee, Story: substance, structure, style and the principles of screenwriting (The title’s a book in itself. McKee’s muscular volume, powered by his ‘story is a metaphor for life’ philosophy, is likely to enrage and enthral in equal measure, but is worth checking out just to see what all the fuss is about. Be sure and have some aspirin handy though. If complex graphs and flow charts do it for you, this is a multiple orgasm between hard - or soft - covers. Folk are divided into those who think McKee walks on water and those who think he’s an asshole who deserves to drown. I confess I’m a mite suspicious of a guy who presents the reader with a set of ingredients for the perfect film script together with strict cooking instructions. Is it a soufflé or a screenplay we’re after? Far too Nigella for my particular taste – though I’ve absolutely nothing against the luscious Ms Lawson. Read and reject, or read and accept. The choice is yours.) ✰✰✰
Alistair Owen (ed), Story and Character: interviews with British screenwriters (A cautionary, though probably essential, read. The book offers a unique behind-the-scenes look at the movie business from the writer’s perspective, a world which – to lazily quote from my own review – is driven by equal amounts of vanity, craziness, incompetence and bullshit.) ✰✰✰
Kevin Conroy Scott (ed), Screenwriters’ Masterclass: screenwriters talk about their greatest movies (A useful addition to the ‘wannabe’ screenwriter’s library. A juicy warts ‘n’ all glimpse into filmmaking from the guys and gals who put the words into the actor’s mouths.) ✰✰✰
William Smethurst, Writing for Television (Smethurst’s book has been around for a few years – it came out in 2000 – but only recently have I actually picked up the updated edition and read it. Much to my surprise it’s a wonderfully succinct account of the scriptwriting process and is packed with tips for getting your work on screen and contains lists of useful contacts whom you can approach with your ultra-violent six part series, ‘Skin and Blister’, featuring a hardbitten East End tea leaf trying to go straight to please his dear devoted sis who’s a part-time Lionel living in real Turkish with her little basin who’s West Ham’s are all shot cos she’s just been told she’s got the big C.) ✰✰✰✰
It’s worth noting that most serious practitioners of the screenwriter’s craft tend to eschew manuals, regarding them as useful reference material for the mechanics of script layout rather than infallible blueprints for the production of a brilliant, get-Spielberg-on-the-phone-NOW! screenplay.
NB: If you’re interested in writing radio drama (and why wouldn’t you be?), please let me know and I’ll happily provide you with the handouts I prepared for my series of Writing Radio Drama courses. I have also written a detailed handout which deals with the correct formatting of the screenplay. If you’d like a copy, just ask.
For novelists:
John Braine, Writing a Novel (First published in 1974, this is a pugnacious, dogmatic and occasionally downright eccentric work driven along by Braine’s angular axioms on the novelist’s art. A very useful - and salutary - read for demythologizing the craft of fiction writing, An obligatory purchase for anyone burning to write the sequel to Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, and who is deeply ashamed of not having been born into a state of impoverished illegitimacy in a draughty outside privy somewhere north of Potters Bar.) ✰✰✰
Diane Doubtfire, The Craft of Novel Writing (Auntie Di’s easy, and so quick-to-bake recipe for literary stardom. Not jaw-droppingly brilliant, but by no means a waste of time/space. Sturdy, if not evangelical, in its approach. It might prove too schematic - and therefore not ‘organic’ enough - for some. I’m sure you know what I mean.) ✰✰✰
Christopher Derrick, Reader’s Report: on the writing of novels (Unfortunately now long out of print - it was originally published in 1969 - but it might still available through the public library system, discovered in a secondhand bookshop, or acquired via one of the many book-search services. Last time I checked Amazon’s UK site it was still possible to secure a copy. This is one of the most sensible, clear-headed and wonderfully entertaining books on the joys, and agonies, involved in the creation of a novel written from the invaluable perspective of a publisher’s reader. Essential reading if you’re convinced that the spirit of Flaubert moves within you, and you wish to rewrite, and transpose, Madame Bovary from Rouen to Redditch. Docked one ✰ for its lamentable absence from the shelves of Waterstones, Borders et al.) ✰✰✰✰
Margaret Geraghty, The Novelist’s Guide (A generally effective alternative to Reader’s Report. While Gereghty’s book suffers from a superfluity of pseudo-psychological waffle supposedly designed to get the creative juices gushing and make you think like a writer (an endemic failing with such works; if you don’t habitually think like a writer, you’re not a writer), much of the ‘hard’ advice given is sound and eminently practical. The readily accessible format is a definite plus earning the book three ✰✰✰ out of a possible five ✰.)
Carole Blake, From Pitch to Publication: everything you need to know to get your novel published (Carole Blake is one of this country’s premier literary agents - Blake Friedmann Literary Agency. Her book is an exemplary, in-depth guide to successfully presenting yourself to both agent or publisher. It takes the reader through every stage from first submission to final publication and beyond. The book’s bias is firmly towards commercial fiction (in which Ms Blake specialises), but those striving to write their own version of the English literary novel will also have a great deal to gain from her wisdom, insights, and sound commonsense. The (rather optimistic) statistic quoted on page three stating that ‘less than half of one percent of all unsolicited manuscripts sent to publishers are accepted’ should act like a gauntlet thrown down, rather than suggesting that macramé can, in its own way, be just as rewarding as novel writing with none of the attendant angst, frustration, or lack of recognition.) ✰✰✰✰
David Armstrong, How [Not] to Write a Novel (Crime writer Armstrong lifts the sticky lid on the publishing game from the point of view of the non best-selling author, ie, 98% of writers, and wittily examines such issues as low advances, poorly attended readings, humiliating signing sessions and bitchy writers’ conventions. Armstrong tells it like it really is for the majority of semi-anonymous writers struggling to make ends meet and see their work achieve publication. Part of his remit is to persuade the innocent would-be novelist not to do it and spare themselves the considerable misery/frustration involved. Feel better now?) ✰✰✰✰
E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel (Forster’s slim volume, first published in 1927, and originating from a series of Clark Lectures at Cambridge, is an essential purchase for the would-be novelist, indeed any writer. I shall say no more other than urging you to read it at the earliest opportunity.) ✰✰✰✰
John Mullan, How Novels Work (Drawing on his weekly Guardian column, Mullan sets out to open the reader’s eyes to the craft of writing, helping us enjoy and appreciate novels more fully. Although not a writing manual per se, you’ll pick up a great many insights into why some novels succeed whilst other utterly fail to spark. Light-weight lit-crit for the reading-group generation maybe, but none the worst for that. ✰✰✰
Let’s move on to more general texts.
Dorothea Brande, On Becoming a Writer (Curl up all nice and comfy with a giant, frighteningly calorific tub of that infamous Dutch ice cream while Auntie Dot explains in soothing tones the best way to achieve literary success. This book, originally published in 1934, takes a refreshingly direct approach to writing, largely avoiding the kind of bland abstractions that make many other instructional guides so unsatisfactory, The book has been recently reprinted with a puff by the late Malcolm Bradbury, famous for helping to launch the Creative Writing MA at UEA along with the – equally - late Angus Wilson, and for unleashing the monstrous Howard ‘History Man’ Kirk upon the world.) ✰✰✰
Betsy Lerner, The Forest for the Trees: an editor’s advice to writers (Ms Lerner, a much admired American book editor, shares her considerable editorial acumen with the reader and offers an extremely useful, and pleasurable, peek inside the arcane world of publishing. She also delves fearlessly into the writer’s psyche without provoking either guffaws or groans (no mean feat) and examines the way in which writers fall into distinct personality types. She explores the myriad anxieties and concerns of writers at all stages of their careers and reveals what a strange, dysfunctional bunch we are. This is a wonderfully readable textbook, rich in succulent literary anecdotes, which encourages but, crucially, never patronises.) ✰✰✰✰
Julia Bell & Paul Magrs (ed), The Creative Writing Coursebook (Attempts to condense the University of East Anglia’s undergrad writing programme into a single volume. The result is workman and/or woman like without being desperately inspiring - despite the long list of illustrious contributors. All the bases are covered, but there’s something a tad precious about it – or maybe it’s just me. A solid - or should that be stolid? - companion to the Lerner above.) ✰✰✰
Stephen King, On Writing (Comprising three parts: a skeletal, though engrossing, memoir covering King’s early life before fame an’ fortune came a callin’. The middle – longest - section is King’s take on the creative process. Here he discusses the writer’s craft dealing with plot, dialogue, sentence construction, the use of language, etc. The final part covers the accident which almost killed him and put an end to a phenomenal career. I personally find King’s novels unreadable; consequently I was astonished to discover myself concurring with the bulk of his thesis - although it proved impossible to reconcile King’s perceptive writer’s manifesto with his own novels which continue to display scant evidence that he’s paid sufficient attention to his rules.) ✰✰✰
Norman Mailer, The Spooky Art (Mailer has always occupied the tough kids end of the literary playground, his writing often exhibiting more testosterone than technique, thus I resisted reading ‘The Spooky Art’ - which appeared in March 2003 - until 2005 having, perhaps, learned my lesson with Stephen King! The book comprises a collection of Mailer’s essays on the subject of writing – it’s occasional joys, frequent perils, its inherent loneliness and its rare celebrity. Every ‘wannbe’ novelist should read Mailer’s thoughts on the pitfalls of early success/fame. The nuts and bolts of the craft are given a thorough examination, and the psychology of the writer is placed under the Mailer microscope. Such was my reaction to this book that I went off in search of my large, though neglected, Mailer collection and looked at his work through new eyes. If you’re a fan of Mr Mailer you’ve probably already read this; if, like me, you’ve found all that overt machismo a little too scary for comfort, pack away your prejudices and give The Spooky Art a place on your bookshelf. So impressed am I that I’m awarding it ✰✰✰✰✰.)
Francine Prose, Reading Like a Writer: a guide for people who love books and for those who want to write them (Novelist and critic Prose invites you on a tour around the masters - and mistresses - of great literature in order to discover why their writing has endured. Her obsession with Chekhov might perhaps be regarded as a tad unhealthy but you’ll gain much wisdom through reading her thoughts/analysis on literature and the art of writing. Yes, another 5✰ winner!)
Robert Graham, How to Write Fiction – and think about it (Any book which cautions new writers against over-planning their writing and allowing the imagination/unconscious to do their work is bound to win my heart. Sensible. Readable. Indispensable. ✰✰✰✰)
For poets:
Q: What did the poet say to Luke Skywalker?
A: Metaphors be with you.
(Thanks to Tom, aged 10)
I confess that I’m on slightly thin ice here having abandoned my brief poetry career upon graduation from university a quarter of a century ago, and having lost contact with those poets with whom I used to hang out. My research paints a fairly gloomy picture for poets hoping to launch their careers in 2008. After a period of substantial growth, sales of poetry are now falling - that is slender single author volumes. The mainstream publishers have ruthlessly pruned their poetry lists in this area. However the ‘Sonnets for Swingin’ Lovers’ type anthology is doing surprisingly well. Traditional forms of verse are also currently enjoying a renaissance; something to bear in mind perhaps. Poetry is thriving on the internet and you’d be foolish not to explore this option if you’re keen to have your work read and disseminated. The internet is something of a poet’s paradise and offers innumerable options for launching your verse into cyberspace. Creating your own website as a repository for your poems is now within the scope of anyone who is even mildly computer literate. There’s an abundance of (cheap) software and textbooks available to help you. If you hanker to see your poetry in print there are still a healthy number of small presses and magazines whom you can approach. Details of these together with the large commercial publishers (Faber&Faber, etc) can be found in The Writer’s Handbook (see below) which also contains a wealth of poetry-related material. You should also keep an eye open for details of competitions and awards, two areas where poets are relatively well served. Submission for poetry follows the rules given below for novels, etc. Between six and ten poems is the best number to submit together with a short covering letter to introduce yourself. Never send the same poem(s) to different publishers/magazines. It’s not the done thing apparently, is seen as terribly bad form, and is guaranteed to make you persona non grata within the poetry fraternity.
Whatever form of writing you undertake, if you’re interested in selling your work you’ll need to own an up-to-date copy of 'The Writer’s Handbook' or 'The Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook' - or the brand new 'Writer’s Market UK'. Take a good look at each and see which you prefer. For those keen to break into the children’s market, I can thoroughly recommend 'The Children’s Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook' which, quite simply, tells you everything you need to know. A new annual publication, 'The Screenwriter’s Handbook' has just hit the shelves. Containing a handful of brief articles, the book’s true value lies in its lists of UK and US Production Companies, Writing Courses, Societies and Organisations, Agents, Film Festivals, Awards and Prizes. Is it worth the £16.99 asking price? If you’re convinced you have the necessary stamina and talent to succeed in the business, yes.
[A screenwriter comes home to a burned down house. His sobbing, singed wife is standing outside. “What happened, honey?” the man asks. ‘Oh, John, it was terrible,’ she weeps. ‘I was cooking, the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove was on fire. It went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is — ’ ‘Wait, wait. Back up a minute,’ The man says. ‘My agent called?’]
Remember, the creation of a publishable/performable piece of writing is not like assembling a flat-pack wardrobe - an activity which usually results in a semi-durable structure resembling the picture on the front of the box if the instructions are followed carefully enough (despite your invariably being left with several ominously large screws and a collection of strangely shaped bits of plastic). The advice and guidance contained in the above texts (however profound) will count for nothing if it’s not allied to your own unique artistic vision, and the will to realise that vision.
If you’re desperately seeking publication or if you just want to discover the kind of writer you might be, talent and a desire to create will only take you so far – and not nearly as far as you might think. Self-discipline is an essential requirement irrespective of how inherently brilliant you are. Achieving success (financial or otherwise) is about building writing into your normal, everyday life (which is the main reason why we will NOT be writing in class); it’s about making the necessary mental and emotional space to write, setting aside the time to do your work justice, and then ensuring that you continue to write day after day – whatever else may be happening - until the task is completed. And then beginning the whole process over again. Pause for a moment and then go back and re-read this paragraph. There are no sly short cuts, no magic pill or secret incantation which will relieve you of the heavy burden that writing brings will it.
Introduction
[It took me fifteen years to discover that I had no talent for writing, but I couldn't give it up because by that time I was too famous.
Robert Benchley]
Can writing be taught, or does it lie beyond the grasp of the teaching process? This question is frequently discussed in literary and academic circles and opinions are invariably polarized. The proliferation of creative writing courses at both undergraduate and postgraduate level, together with the huge number of writing classes/courses run outside the solipsistic world of academe would appear to answer the above question with a resounding ‘yes’.
A few months back the Independent featured a piece on the rapid rise of creative writing courses offered by universities. In 1992 just 12 courses were available; there are now 85+ and the number is likely to increase, particularly as such courses are regarded by many academic institutions as ‘cash cows’. There are some 11,000 short-term and evening courses given over to the subject, and in 2003 an estimated 110,000 people enrolled on some kind of creative writing course. I suspect this number will have risen sharply by the time the data for 2007 is published.
There are those who adhere to the notion that writers are ‘blessed’ with a gift denied to ordinary mortals and, equally, there are those who avowedly preach the opposite: everyone can write if they are exposed to the necessary tuition and guidance. This natural genius versus untutored everyman paradigm presents an intractable dilemma peculiar to writing, and is the cause of much chaos, confusion and cant. Few people have a problem in stating that a particular sports man, or woman, is in possession of a special talent which sets them apart. However attempting to apply this idea to writing can land you in all kinds of trouble; you’re likely to be deafened by the cries of ‘Elitism!’. The other arts seem to suffer much less in this regard. Writing, unlike painting, sculpting or composing, is something most of us indulge in in one form or another on a daily basis, a fact which has, perhaps not surprisingly, given rise to the pernicious idea that dashing off a thank you letter to your Aunt Dorothy for those six pairs of hand-knitted argyle socks is but a short step away from completing a publishable, indeed bestselling, novel.
I’m personally convinced that the egalitarian ‘anyone can do it if shown how’ approach defrauds the ‘wannabe’ writer, however comforting it might be to subscribe to it. Instinct and experience have taught me that if the facility for deploying and handling words is present in an individual then a well run, supportive creative writing class can prove extremely beneficial for a writer at the beginning of their career - but if that in-built, finely tuned ‘shit detector’ (Hemingway: see below) is not part of a novice writer’s armoury then I doubt that a third party can purchase, install and maintain it on their behalf. I note that in the Independent article referred to above the bestselling novelist William Boyd supports this view, strongly suspecting that writers are born and not made.
This might be an appropriate moment to quote from Malcolm Bradbury (Liar’s Landscape: Collected Writing from a Storyteller’s Life – Picador, 2006). Although he’s discussing the novel his comments apply equally to all forms of writing: What is a good, a great novel? It can be simple, or it can be difficult. But, first and foremost, it is not an imitation. We feel there is an originality of talent, a personal passion to the writing. It is a work that has been considered, studied, examined, not written according to a handy prototype. It is a book that has its own inner voice – a voice we want to listen to because it is a clue to knowing more about life and the world… I sometimes guiltily wonder whether ‘creative writing’ has become responsible for the illusion that anyone can write… The truth is that we can teach many of the skills of writing: how to structure, how to pace… how to begin and how to end. What we can never teach is the originality that is at the heart of good writing. It comes from a love of language, a depth of experience, perhaps above all a crucial and lifetime theme which we can feel the writer developing. (From ‘Do We Have Great Novels Anymore?’)
No writing course, however brilliant and dedicated the tutor (and here you are fortunate, indeed), can teach instant and unqualified success, nor can the potential problems of narrow perspective, proscriptive personality and inability to accept, and learn, from constructive criticism be entirely overcome. None of us is perfect; we all have our Achilles heels and blind spots. The course on which you’re about to embark will provide you with the tools required to begin, and complete, a satisfactory piece of written work. The rest, of course, is up to you.
These spontaneously generated – and burgeoning - notes should in no way be regarded as definitive (I’m saving the composition of my own creative writing manual for another occasion), but rather as a bare-bones series of reading lists augmented with some sound, if basic, advice on how to market yourself and your work, and on the writing process itself - advice which is intended to be ‘fleshed out’ in class.
Q: How many writers does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Is it absolutely necessary to change it?
Robert Benchley]
Can writing be taught, or does it lie beyond the grasp of the teaching process? This question is frequently discussed in literary and academic circles and opinions are invariably polarized. The proliferation of creative writing courses at both undergraduate and postgraduate level, together with the huge number of writing classes/courses run outside the solipsistic world of academe would appear to answer the above question with a resounding ‘yes’.
A few months back the Independent featured a piece on the rapid rise of creative writing courses offered by universities. In 1992 just 12 courses were available; there are now 85+ and the number is likely to increase, particularly as such courses are regarded by many academic institutions as ‘cash cows’. There are some 11,000 short-term and evening courses given over to the subject, and in 2003 an estimated 110,000 people enrolled on some kind of creative writing course. I suspect this number will have risen sharply by the time the data for 2007 is published.
There are those who adhere to the notion that writers are ‘blessed’ with a gift denied to ordinary mortals and, equally, there are those who avowedly preach the opposite: everyone can write if they are exposed to the necessary tuition and guidance. This natural genius versus untutored everyman paradigm presents an intractable dilemma peculiar to writing, and is the cause of much chaos, confusion and cant. Few people have a problem in stating that a particular sports man, or woman, is in possession of a special talent which sets them apart. However attempting to apply this idea to writing can land you in all kinds of trouble; you’re likely to be deafened by the cries of ‘Elitism!’. The other arts seem to suffer much less in this regard. Writing, unlike painting, sculpting or composing, is something most of us indulge in in one form or another on a daily basis, a fact which has, perhaps not surprisingly, given rise to the pernicious idea that dashing off a thank you letter to your Aunt Dorothy for those six pairs of hand-knitted argyle socks is but a short step away from completing a publishable, indeed bestselling, novel.
I’m personally convinced that the egalitarian ‘anyone can do it if shown how’ approach defrauds the ‘wannabe’ writer, however comforting it might be to subscribe to it. Instinct and experience have taught me that if the facility for deploying and handling words is present in an individual then a well run, supportive creative writing class can prove extremely beneficial for a writer at the beginning of their career - but if that in-built, finely tuned ‘shit detector’ (Hemingway: see below) is not part of a novice writer’s armoury then I doubt that a third party can purchase, install and maintain it on their behalf. I note that in the Independent article referred to above the bestselling novelist William Boyd supports this view, strongly suspecting that writers are born and not made.
This might be an appropriate moment to quote from Malcolm Bradbury (Liar’s Landscape: Collected Writing from a Storyteller’s Life – Picador, 2006). Although he’s discussing the novel his comments apply equally to all forms of writing: What is a good, a great novel? It can be simple, or it can be difficult. But, first and foremost, it is not an imitation. We feel there is an originality of talent, a personal passion to the writing. It is a work that has been considered, studied, examined, not written according to a handy prototype. It is a book that has its own inner voice – a voice we want to listen to because it is a clue to knowing more about life and the world… I sometimes guiltily wonder whether ‘creative writing’ has become responsible for the illusion that anyone can write… The truth is that we can teach many of the skills of writing: how to structure, how to pace… how to begin and how to end. What we can never teach is the originality that is at the heart of good writing. It comes from a love of language, a depth of experience, perhaps above all a crucial and lifetime theme which we can feel the writer developing. (From ‘Do We Have Great Novels Anymore?’)
No writing course, however brilliant and dedicated the tutor (and here you are fortunate, indeed), can teach instant and unqualified success, nor can the potential problems of narrow perspective, proscriptive personality and inability to accept, and learn, from constructive criticism be entirely overcome. None of us is perfect; we all have our Achilles heels and blind spots. The course on which you’re about to embark will provide you with the tools required to begin, and complete, a satisfactory piece of written work. The rest, of course, is up to you.
These spontaneously generated – and burgeoning - notes should in no way be regarded as definitive (I’m saving the composition of my own creative writing manual for another occasion), but rather as a bare-bones series of reading lists augmented with some sound, if basic, advice on how to market yourself and your work, and on the writing process itself - advice which is intended to be ‘fleshed out’ in class.
Q: How many writers does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Is it absolutely necessary to change it?
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