A Writer’s Dilemma.

 

‘Your work is ingenious. It’s quality work. And there are simply too many notes, that’s all. Just cut a few and it will be perfect.’

‘Which few did you have in mind, Majesty?’

 

Mozart’s alleged rejoinder to the Emperor’s perceived criticism has never been more relevant than when applied to a writer. I refer to the traumatic stress-feast that is editing.

My first novel, written eight years ago while perched on a mountain ridge overlooking the blue Mediterranean was easy to write. My head was full of ideas, the words threw themselves onto the page – what’s all this fuss about writing being difficult?

The finished book dwarfed War and Peace, in length if not in quality. Hundreds of pages, millions of words, or so it seemed. When printed out the resultant stack of paper cast a giant shadow. I’d entered the novel in a competition – best unpublished novel of 2002 or something of that ilk – and, based entirely on the opening three chapters, was acclaimed the winner. Cue excessive rejoicing, amended career plans, Ferrari on order. Well, all except the Ferrari.

The prize was a referral of the complete novel to The Literary Consultancy, a prestigious resource for writers wishing an independent scrutiny of their work.

I waited the several months that is the norm for anything connected with scrutiny of one’s writing, then received three pages of ‘observations.’

If asked to reduce their thoughts to a single word they’d probably have chosen ‘crap.’ To attempt to paraphrase their conclusions I’d choose the remark attributed to the Emperor Joseph 11 – too many notes.

There’s a book in there, possibly a very good book, buried in self-indulgent over-writing and excessive verbosity. That’s not an exact quote, it’s been a while since then, but that was the gist of it.

I hacked away, reducing to 158,000 words, still not even close to what it should be. More butchery, the loss of each word a stab to the heart, until I reached the stage, 128,500 words, of complete satisfaction. That’s intended to be ironic, by the way, when are we ever satisfied with our books?

A year on the Authonomy site, access to ‘proper’ writers, taught me so much. My book still needed major work and I was far too close to it to see its deficiencies. I re-wrote, hacked away another 3,500 words. Then a fellow writer, I’ll call her Poppet although obviously that’s not her name, took me by the throat and shook me until I gasped for air. We’re talking metaphorically here, but only because we’re far apart, geographically speaking.

Poppet’s advice, be true to yourself. It’s your book. I stopped worrying about other opinions; I’d had wise advice and taken most of it. Any more and it would no longer be the book I’d intended it to be.

That book, Burn, Baby, Burn, has gone out into the world – to sink or swim, who knows? I’ve finished two other books, another two on the go, all will need editing. This time, it will be easier. I know what I want to say and I’ll make sure the finished books are still MY books.

Meanwhile, I’m looking at the notes I wrote at 3.00 am. Why? What was I thinking of? What possible use is any of this to any of the writing projects that are rampaging around my head? I type the notes into a file entitled ‘Dross.’ It’s a big file, packed with random jottings. Will I use any of it? Probably not. Will I throw the contents away? Of course not.