Caroline O'Donoghue: 6 pieces of novel writing advice from a published author
November, as you may already know, has become known as National Novel Writing Month.
One of the nicer developments of lockdown is that people are trying to do things they never did before. My friend Tash, in the last six months, has learned rudimentary sign language. My dog has diligently forgotten how to sit.
And lots of people are writing books. Every week, I get messages from people who are writing seriously for the first time in their lives. About a year ago, you see, I guested on a podcast called Nobody Panic on an episode titled ‘How To Write That Novel’. My guess is that this has become a high search result for people looking for podcasts on novel writing, and as a result, I get a lot of updates on how they’re doing.
What’s wonderful is just how happy everyone is. “I never thought I’d ever get this far,” they all write, in astonishment. “But now I’m 40,000 words in!” Often, they have jobs that they believe are vastly incongruous with the act of creative writing – they are dental hygienists, they are management consultants, they are trainee lawyers – and they have never spent this long on a personal project in their lives. “I think I might actually finish this!” they sign off, and I tell them to write to me when they do.
November, as you may already know, has become known as National Novel Writing Month. The idea is that you write between one and two thousand words a day, every day, for the whole month of November. By the end of the month, you have a first draft. A first draft full of holes and spiderwebs, sure, but a draft all the same.
Sound interesting? Here’s my advice for getting into it, and if you’re really tickled by the idea, have a look on nanowrimo.org for more.
The author Holly Bourne gave me a great piece of advice once: “Writing is all about surrendering to making your amazing idea totally shit.” Nothing could be more true. You probably have a book idea that you’ve been sitting on for years. Maybe it’s the kind of thing you tell people about when you’re a bit drunk. Maybe many friends and colleagues have told you that it sounds like an amazing idea, and maybe this is the month you try actually writing it. You write 1,000 words. (Hey, this is good!) You write 2,000 words. (Ok, some problems, but still… good) 3,000 words. Things start to go wobbly. You characters start saying terrible, embarrassing things. They are suddenly speaking in a kind of indistinct old-timey way and sending for the stable boy to fetch the birthin’ jug because m’lady is quickening. You are suddenly repulsed by yourself.
You are realising that your brilliant idea, by virtue of becoming not theoretical but actual, is flawed. Nothing is ever as good as the idea of it is, which is why so many people are still annoyed by the end of The Prestige. You wish to abandon the idea, writing, and your body entirely.
This is the first of many times that you will be tempted to throw the book out the window. I insist you resist. All you need to do is get your discipline up. You probably haven’t written this much made-up crap since the Leaving Cert English Paper, and your writing muscles are wobbly and slack. As any personal trainer will tell you, things have to hurt before they can change. Keep going. Even if you have realised fundamental problems with your plot. Especially if you are realising fundamental problems with your plot. This will work the creative problem-solving part of your brain, even if solving this particular problem is making it clear that “look, in this universe, the American Civil War was won mainly by Bassett Hounds.”
In my opinion, there are three kinds of writers: frustrated musicians, frustrated film directors, and frustrated stand-up comedians. I am a frustrated musician. This means I spend a lot of time wanting to connect with people and not a lot of time describing end tables and armoires. Nick Hornby is a musician. Film directors tend to have the opposite problem: they view their story as a set, and go absolutely wild on fragrances and textiles. Angela Carter was a film director. Stand-up comedians don’t give much of a crap about either, and are chasing the perfect line. David Sedaris is a stand-up comedian. This is a very flawed theory, but one I’m fond of, because it reminds me that not everyone can be everything.
Know your strengths and show them proudly; know your weaknesses and work on them diligently. In my last novel, I laboured for days on a scene set in a forest, and bought a book on Irish flora and fauna to help me understand what exactly was in this forest. Trees and plants do not come naturally to me at all; truthfully I don’t even notice them when I walk past them. To this day, whenever anyone compliments this scene, it makes me glow from the inside out.
When you finish the book, read it through once and then put it in a drawer. Or, because no one writes longhand unless they’re insane, put it in a folder on your computer. Start another book. After a couple of months, take the book out again. You will be disgusted by some of it and find other bits completely revelatory. This, unfortunately, will follow you for the rest of your life. Make some changes to your draft. When you can’t think of anything else to change, send it to an agent who represents the kind of work you respect. Wait to be rejected. Try again. Fiddle with the manuscript. Work on the other, newer book, that still has potential to be good. Welcome to writing.
