Writing process

People often assume that if you’ve even attempted to write a novel, you’re either supremely self-confident—code for [insert anti-social personality disorder type here]—or blessed with a God-given talent that makes words flow like nectar from your fingers onto the screen.

Neither assumption is true—in my case anyway. For me, writing (or, better still, the urge to write) comes to me in the same way as the urge to sneeze. I don’t think about it. It’s just a reflex. A twitch. Something that’s better off out of me than in.

Whether I believe in my abilities (or whether I have any abilities in the first place) is neither here nor there.

I’ve never considered myself a champion defecator, but I use the bathroom everyday nonetheless. I do it because nature compels me to.

The same applies to writing. I’m not in the business of showing off or seeking attention, fame or money (though glowing reviews and royalty payments both do wonders for the self-esteem and the bank balance).

No.

I write novels because I feel like it. If I can earn a living from it, too, then that’s just an added bonus. 

The poet W.H. Auden wrote: “The interests of a writer and the interests of his readers are never the same and if, on occasion, they happen to coincide, this is a lucky accident.” 

Hmm. Well, yes and no.

I wouldn’t be trying to flog you a three-book novel series if I didn’t care about your reading pleasure. I’d be no better than one of those YouTube lifestyle gurus promising to shear off all your mental health problems as easily as a marine’s barber gives a crew cut. I promise you’ll see meaning and purpose in your every breathing moment. Just hand over all your credit card details first.

Okay, perhaps not that bad. I’m only charging the price of Caffe Latte from Starbucks, but you get the picture.

What I mean is—it helps if I’m writing something that satisfies us both. I can’t think of anything worse than forcing myself to write something I hate just because it might make money. 

Well, actually, I can think of a few things worse than that, but I’d still rather not waste a year or two of my life on something I’m not in the least committed to. I tried that once and the outcome wasn’t dissimilar to my best friend’s first marriage, add in the same degree of self-loathing and existential crisis. What the hell was it all for?

So, if you don’t like what I’m offering, then feel free to leave me a one star Amazon rating and a scathing review (JOKE! Please don’t do that).

In the end, I guess it’s like any relationship—so long as both parties are happy together, we can carry on until one of us gets sick of the other and then hopefully we can amicably part ways.

Until then, let’s just curl up and enjoy each other’s company with a glass of wine, a beer, a coffee, a tub of Ben and Jerry’s or whatever else gets you through the night.

Hopefully, you’ll stick with me right up until the end of book three and, unlike my friend and his ex-wife, resist the urge to get lawyers involved in an ugly, drawn out saga of public humiliation and vicious slanging. 

Unless that becomes a ‘thing’ at some point—suing writers for inducing trauma after a shitty reading experience. In which case, the lawyers will have a picnic.