Writing the Novel

by Lawrence Block; Block

This was a wonderful apprenticeship for me. I was by nature a fast writer, gifted with the ability to write smooth copy in a first draft; thus I could produce these books rapidly enough to make a satisfactory living. (They did not pay much, nor were there royalties to be had or subsidiary income to anticipate; it was indeed like working for the pulp magazines, with all sales outright.)

  I learned a tremendous amount about how to write fiction, learning by the irreproachable method of trial and error. I could fool around with multiple viewpoint, with various sorts of plot structure, could in fact try whatever I wanted as long as I continued to write the books in English and keep the action coming. I got any number of auctorial bad habits out of my system. And, as I’ve said, I earned while I learned.

  I’m acquainted with quite a few writers who started out by cultivating this particular secret garden. There were a number who never went on to anything else; they earned some easy money at sex novels until the novelty wore off but lacked the particular combination of talent and drive which it evidently takes to establish a writing career. The rest of us moved on, sooner or later, to other things. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t regard the experience as valuable.

  In my own case, I suspect I found the sex-novel groove too comfortable and stayed with it too long, past the point where it was able to teach me much. I probably should have tried stretching my literary muscles a little sooner. On the other hand, I was painfully young then in virtually every possible way. The sex books put bread on the table and gave me the satisfaction of regular production and regular publication at a stage when I was incapable of writing anything much more ambitious. I can hardly regret the time I devoted to them.

  Is the sex novel field a good starting place for a beginner today? I’m afraid not. Their equivalent in today’s market is the mechanical, plotless, hard-core porn novel, written with neither imagination nor craft and composed of one overblown sex scene after another. The books I wrote were quite devoid of merit—let there be no mistake about that—but by some sort of Gresham’s Law of Obscenity they’ve been driven off the market by a product that is indisputably worse. Any dolt with a typewriter and a properly dirty mind could write them; accordingly, the payment is too low to make the task worth performing. Finally, the books are published by the sort of men who own massage parlors and peep shows. You meet a better class of people on the subway.

  There’s no need, though, to be nostalgic for the old days, be they the old days of pulp magazines or the old days of soft-core sex novels. There always seems to be an area in which to serve out a writer’s apprenticeship. We’ll see how to choose your own particular area in the next chapter; meanwhile, let it be said that for the foreseeable future it’s almost certain to be a novel of some sort.

  The suggestion that a beginner ought to begin as a novelist is a radical one. The natural response is to offer some immediate objections. Let’s consider some of the most obvious ones.

  Isn’t it harder to write a novel than a short story?

  No. Novels aren’t harder. What they are is longer.

  That may be a very obvious answer, but that doesn’t make it any less true. It’s the sheer length of a novel that the beginning writer is apt to find intimidating.

  As a matter of fact, you don’t have to be a beginner to be intimidated in this fashion. My suspense novels generally stop at two hundred pages or thereabouts. On the several occasions when I’ve begun books I knew would run two or three times that length, I had a lot of trouble getting started. The very vastness of the projects put me off.

  What’s required, I think, is a change in attitude. To write a novel you have to resign yourself to the fact that you simply can’t prime yourself and knock it all out in a single extended session at the typewriter. The process of writing the book is going to occupy you for weeks or months—perhaps for years.

  But each day’s stint at the typewriter is simply that—one day’s work. And that’s every bit as true whether you’re writing short stories or an epic trilogy. If you’re writing three or six or ten pages a day, you’ll get a certain amount of work accomplished in a certain span of time—whatever it is you’re working on.

  I remember the first really long book I wrote. When I sat down to begin it I knew I was starting something that had to run at least five hundred pages in manuscript. I got a good day’s work down and wound up knocking out fourteen pages. I got up from the typewriter and said, “Well, just 486 pages to go”—and went directly into nervous prostration at the thought.

  The thing to remember is that a novel’s not going to take forever. All the old clichés actually apply—a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and slow and steady honestly does win the race.

  Consider this: If you write one page a day, you will produce a substantial novel in a year’s time. The writer who turns out one book a year, year in and year out, is generally acknowledged to be quite prolific. And don’t you figure you could produce one measly little page, even on a bad day? Even on a rotten day?

  When I write a short story I can hold the whole thing in my head when I sit down at my desk. I know exactly where I’m going and it’s just a matter of writing it down. I don’t have that kind of grasp on a novel.

  Of course you don’t. Nobody does.

  The chapter on outlining will offer some suggestions in this regard. Meanwhile, there are two things to keep in mind.

  First of all, recognize that the total control you have over short stories may be largely illusory. What you really have is confidence—because you think you know everything about the story by the time you set out to write it.

  But, if you’re like me, you keep surprising yourself at the typewriter. Characters take on a life of their own and insist upon supplying their own dialogue. Scenes that looked necessary at the outset turn out to be superfluous, while other scenes take a form other than that you’d originally intended for them. As often as not, midway through the story you’ll think of a way to improve elements of the plot itself.

  This happens to a much greater extent in novels. And it should. A work of fiction ought to be an organic entity. It’s alive, and it grows as it goes. Even the most elaborately outlined novel, even the product of those authors who write outlines half the length of the final book, must have this life to it if it is going to live for the reader. The writing of fiction is never purely mechanical, never just a matter of filling in the blanks and tapping the typewriter keys.

  A second thing to realize is that you do not have to grasp the whole book at once because you are not going to be writing the whole book at once. Novels are written—as life is lived—One Day At A Time. I’ve found that all I really have to know about a book in order to put in a day’s work on it is what I want to have happen during that day’s writing.

  I get in trouble when I find myself starting to project. As soon as I step back and try to envision the novel as a whole, I’m likely to be paralyzed with terror. I become convinced that the whole thing is impossible, that there are structural flaws which doom the entire project, that the book can’t conceivably resolve itself successfully. But as long as I can get up each morning and concentrate exclusively on what’s going to happen during that particular day’s stint at the typewriter, I seem to do all right—and the book takes shape, page by page and chapter by chapter.

  Many of the books I write are mystery novels of one sort or another. Books of this type have two storylines which unfold simultaneously. First, there’s what happens before the reader’s eyes from the first page to the last, the record of action as perceived by the viewpoint character or characters. Underlying this plot is the mystery storyline itself, that which is happening (or has happened previously) and is withheld from the reader until the book’s climax.

  Years ago, I took it for granted that a writer had to have both of these storylines fully worked out in his head before putting a word on paper. I’ve since learned that it’s occasionally possible to write an elaborately complicated mystery novel without know
ing the identity of the villain until the story is almost at an end. In Burglars Can’t Be Choosers, I was within two or three chapters of the finish before a friend’s chance remark enabled me to figure out whodunnit; I had to do some rewriting to tie off all the loose ends, but the book worked out fine.

  Suppose I spend a year writing a novel and it proves to be unsalable. I can’t risk wasting that much time, so wouldn’t it be safer to stick to short stories?

  Would it? Let’s assume that you could write twelve or twenty short stories in the time it would take you to write a novel. What makes you think you’d have a better chance of selling them? The nature of the market is such that you’d probably have a better chance placing one novel for publication than one out of twenty short stories. And, assuming you wouldn’t sell either the novel or the short stories, why would a batch of unsalable short stories feel less like a waste of time than an equally unsalable novel?

  Nevertheless, the fear of wasting one’s time keeps a lot of people from writing novels. But I don’t think the fear is justified even when it proves true.

  So what if a first novel’s unsalable? For heaven’s sake, most of them are, and why on earth should they be otherwise?

  Any of several things may happen to the person who produces an unsalable first novel. He may discover, in the course of writing the book, that he was not cut out to be a novelist, that he doesn’t like the work or doesn’t possess the talent.

  I don’t know that it’s a waste of time to make this sort of discovery.

  On the other hand, the author of an unpublishable first novel may learn that writing is his métier, that he has a burning desire to continue with it, and that the weaknesses and flaws which characterized his first book need not appear in the ones to follow. You might be surprised to know how many successful writers produced hopelessly incompetent first books. They were not wasting their time. They were learning their trade.

  Consider Justin Scott, whose first novel I read in manuscript several years ago. It was embarrassingly bad in almost every respect, and hopelessly unpublishable. But it did him some good to write it, and his second novel—also unsalable, as it happened—was a vast improvement over the first.

  He remained undiscouraged. His third novel, a mystery, was published. Several more mysteries followed. Then he spent over a year writing The Shipkiller, a nautical adventure story on a grand scale which brought a six-figure paperback advance, sold to the movies for a handsome sum, and did well enough in the stores to land on several of the bestseller lists.

  Do you suppose Justin regrets the time he “wasted” on that first novel?

  Maybe I haven’t started a novel because I’m afraid I wouldn’t finish it.

  Maybe so. And maybe you wouldn’t finish it. There’s no law that says you have to.

  Please understand that I’m not advocating abandoning a novel halfway through. I’ve done this far too often myself and it’s something I’ve never managed to feel good about. But you do have every right in the world to give up on a book if it’s just not working, or if you simply discover that writing novels is not for you.

  As much as we’d all prefer to pretend our calling is a noble one, it’s salutary to bear in mind that the last thing this poor old planet needs is another book. The only reason to write anything more extensive than a shopping list is because it’s something you want to do. If that ceases to be the case you’re entirely free to do something else instead.

  I’m inclined to hope you will complete your first novel, whatever its merits and defects, whatever your ultimate potential as a novelist. I think the writing of a novel is a very valuable life experience for those who carry it through. It’s a great teacher, and I’m talking now about its ability to teach you not about writing but about yourself. The novel, I submit, is an unparalleled vehicle for self-discovery.

  But whether you finish it or not remains your choice. And failing to begin a task for fear of failing to complete it doesn’t make abundant sense, does it?

  Okay, I’m convinced. I’m going to sit down and write a novel. After all, short stuff isn’t significant, is it?

  It isn’t, huh? Who says?

  I’ll grant that commercial significance singles out the novel, and that long novels are automatically considered to be of more importance than short ones. I’ll admit that, with a handful of exceptions, short story writers don’t get much attention from literary critics. And I won’t deny that your neighbors will take you more seriously as a writer if you tell them you’ve written a novel. (Of course if that’s the main concern, just go ahead and tell them. You don’t have to write anything. Lie a little. Don’t worry—they won’t beg to read the manuscript.)

  But as far as intrinsic merit is concerned, length is hardly a factor. You’ve probably heard of the writer who apologized for having written a long letter, explaining that he didn’t have the time to make it shorter. And you may be familiar with Faulkner’s comment that every short-story writer is a failed poet, and every novelist a failed short-story writer.

  I’m not sure the desire to be significant is a particularly useful motive for writing anything. But length is no guarantee of significance and brevity no hallmark of the trivial. Sonnet, short story, thousand-page novel—write whatever it is you want to write, and that’s the long and short of it.

  All right. Significant or otherwise, what I want to write is a novel. But what novel should I write? All I’ve got is a desk and a typewriter and a ream of paper and an empty head. What do I do now, coach?

  Well, for openers, why don’t you turn the page?

  Chapter 2

  Deciding Which Novel to Write

  You may not need this chapter. A certain proportion of novelists start off knowing pretty much what book they want to write, and you may very well be one of them. Although the precise shape of the plot and the structure of the book may be vague in your mind, it’s possible that you know certain things about the book. You know that it is a novel, for example, and you know what it’s about.

  Perhaps the book you have decided to write is based upon your own life experience. Maybe you’ve endured something that strikes you as the raw material for a novel—a hitch in the military, a stretch in the slammer, or four years in a coed dormitory, say. Colorful or bland, anyone’s life can be turned into arresting fiction if it is incisively perceived and dramatically portrayed.

  Similarly, you may be caught up in the notion of a novel that has nothing whatever to do with your visible life experience. Something from your reading or fantasy may have stimulated your creative imagination in such a way that you have a book to write firmly in mind. Perhaps your lead is a member of the Children’s Crusade, or an intergalactic explorer, or a contemporary private detective with a taste for Armagnac and a collector’s passion for oriental snuffboxes. Or your central character might as easily be a realistic contemporary figure with whom you identify on some inner plane—an abused child, an ex-athlete recovering from a failed marriage, a nun breathless with adoration. The possibilities are quite literally infinite; the only requisite is that there’s a character or conflict or fundamental situation somewhere along the line that makes you want to write a novel about it.

  If this is the case, you have a slight advantage; you at least know what you want to write about, and the knowledge puts you one important step closer to the act. Skip ahead to the next chapter, if you’re so inclined.

  During the first of my several vexingly undistinguished years as a college student, a cartoon hung for months on the English Department bulletin board. I returned to that campus twenty years after my precipitous departure from it, a prodigal son come home to teach a writing seminar, and as I walked across the greensward that cartoon came vividly back to me.

  It showed a sullen eight-year-old boy staring down an earnest school principal. “It’s not enough to be a genius, Arnold,” the man was saying. “You have to be a genius at something.”

  I recall identifying very strongly with Arnold. I had known se
veral years before college that I wanted to be a writer. But it seemed it wasn’t enough merely to be a writer.

  You had to be a writer of something.

  Some people get the whole package as a gift. Not only are they endowed with writing talent but they seem to have been born knowing what to write about. Equipped at the onset with stories to tell, they have only to get on to the business of telling them.

  Some people, in short, have it easy.

  But some of us don’t. We know that we want to write without knowing what we want to write.

  It’s encouraging to note that we’re in the majority, that most writers have been obsessed with the idea of becoming writers before the nature of what they might write about revealed itself to them. It’s easy to accept this premise about the nuts-and-bolts commercial writer, but the same initial uncertainty is every bit as likely to characterize the early years of writers with impeccable critical reputations. The identification of self as writer comes for most of us before we know what sort of writer we’ll be or what we’ll write about, and that seems to be just as true whether our ultimate literary product is Moby Dick or Trailer Trollop.

  (This might be a good place to suggest, incidentally, that fiction writers of every stripe have a great deal more in common that the disparity of our work might suggest. The fact that we write unites us far more than the nature of what we write separates us.)

  Let’s suppose, then, that all you know at this point is that you want to write a novel. Why you have this curious urge is not terribly important. It’s enough that you have it in good measure. Whether you’ll prove to have other elements essential to novelistic success—talent, perseverance, resourcefulness—is not something you have to know at this stage. Indeed, it’s not something you’re in a position to know. You’ll find out in due course.

  How do you decide what novel to write?

  It seems to me that this question can best be answered by asking a few others. First of all, what kind of novel do you like to read? I would not go so far as to say that we can only produce the sort of fiction that we most enjoy reading ourselves.