When people ask me, ‘What are you doing with yourself at the moment?’ I tell them I’m writing a novel. Some of those that don’t immediately assume I’m a pretentious twat might think ‘He’s certain to get published and will probably be famous.’ The reality is that the proportion of wannabe writers to published authors is so disparate that several decimal places are needed to accurately describe the tiny part of one percent of us who will eventually get published.
Now I’m almost done writing, the time for my ego to meet reality draws nigh. While you’re still writing, the day of reckoning is far away, but it looms large as the end approaches. Everything I’ve read and heard so far makes clear the difficulty of getting a literary agent to even look at your work. You can send submissions to publishers without going through a literary agent, and one might accept your book. Some oysters have pearls too. Same odds. But even literary agents, who live by taking a commission on authors’ earnings from the deals they negotiate, are besieged by unsolicited work. Having your submission read by anyone more senior than a work experience kid is a real challenge.
A positive attitude and confidence in the quality of your work is essential, but you can take that confidence too far. This is a letter written to British literary agent Simon Trewin:
Dear Mr Terwin (sic), I am currently one of the best writers working in the English language and, frankly, you are lucky to be seeing this picaresque novel which my tutor at Oxford has already described as ‘heart-stoppingly wonderful.’ Personally I don’t think I need an agent, but someone mentioned your name as being one of the less bad ones so I am giving you the opportunity to persuade me otherwise. If you would like to visit me in Oxford next Wednesday lunchtime, that would be convenient.
Everyone who’s been to school knows how to teach, everyone who can read harbours a secret knowledge that they can write well too. How often have we heard others confess with varying degrees of smug certainty that they think they’ve got a book or two in them? They might very well think that, but getting the damn thing out is the hard part.
It seems accepted wisdom that you have to spend ten thousand hours working at something before you can call yourself an expert. I want to be expert more quickly please. Maybe I’ve spent two thousand hours trying to write so far, I have learned a great deal, and I’m sure my novel now is much better than its first draft. But should I wait the other eight thousand hours before considering it done? Harper Lee spent forty-three years writing To Kill A Mockingbird, but I don’t have that many years left available.
Honest criticism by industry professionals is invaluable if you can get it, but often confronting. The first step in learning to benefit from criticism is to learn to accept it. The inclination to argue is powerful, but you have to learn to listen. The gap between what you want to convey and your actual words can be surprising. If your critics can’t see your message, the sad truth is that it isn’t there yet. Back to the keyboard, and try again. Criticism from people you’d invite to Christmas dinner is less useful. How often has a friend told a new mother that her baby is really ugly?
I read more critically now, and don’t bother to finish reading books not up to my new standards. Why this rubbish has been published is a mystery, but it is, despite my view. So what am I missing, and is my work better enough to get published too? Occasional first time authors say in acknowledgements ‘it was so easy!’ but Stephen King got his third novel published, not his first or second, and J.K. Rowling was rejected by numerous literary agents and publishers before the first Harry Potter book made it into print. Of course, I have every reason to think my talent is greater and I’ll do better. They may have sold millions and millions of books over decades, but they were probably just consistently lucky.