Construction Time

Someone – Google could tell me who – said “you never learn how to write a novel, just the one you’re writing now”.

I’ve tried a few ways. My first (adult) attempt at a novel can be discounted, as it was a make-it-up-as-you-go-along story of magical realism set among the homeless of Dundee. I really hope no copy of it still exists, but I fear my Mum has one somewhere.

My second try skirted the issue of writing an entire novel by comprising a book of interlinked short stories. This was much easier to deal with than a single overarching narrative. Several of the stories were taken up by magazines, and the collection was shortlisted for a national prize, which should have given me the confidence to try another “real” novel. But it didn’t, and I (almost) wrote only short stories for the next ten years.

But even short stories have to be constructed. I don’t mean the form of the narrative or the warp and weave of the strands of story. I mean the actual construction: not what the architect draws, but how the builders build.

The rarest of things, for any writer, is the work that seems to come from nowhere, is written in one go, and whose final draft is, but for some finessing and planing of rough edges, almost indistinguishable from the first. Like a band whose demos are good enough to release as a final product, this doesn’t happen often. But it does happen. It makes you suspicious: easy writing makes hard reading, and vice-versa, but sometimes the words come just as they should.

Sometimes, other techniques are called for. You can splice: the “A Day in the Life” technique. I wrote a story – long lost – featuring a man who grew a tail, and for some reason this necessitated grafting part of another story onto it. The result was a malformed beast, indeed. What worked for George Martin & The Beatles did so for a reason.

You can leave it in a drawer to mature. I began a story on a train to Lille in 2006 and abandoned it, knowing it had promise but that now wasn’t the time. Only the chance memory (while out for a bike ride in Midlothian) of the logos on the wall of an office in Dundee, last-seen a decade before, gave me the key to finish the rest of the story a year or so later. The final product, Little Angels, was published by New Writing Dundee.

There is, more brutally, the delete key. I began a story in 2003 about a teacher and her delicate relationship with an introverted beekeeper. After 10,000 words I realised it was going nowhere, and stripped it back to the extent that the teacher no longer existed. Thus pruned, I abandoned it entirely, and instead wrote a synopsis of it from the point of view of one of the minor characters. Recognising that this was a story in itself, it was submitted to and published by New Writing Scotland (2005). I took another look at the remainder of the longer work, re-focussed it, and turned it into a different version of the same story. This was published by Pulp.net. Bingo! Two short stories from one flailing novella.

The next novel I wrote – as-yet-unpublished – was a re-telling of the Robin Hood legend. Lacking the practice of writing a full-length work, I took some of the individual tales associated with Robin Hood and turned them into sequential events, stringing them together into a tale of rebirth and death, of the changing seasons and austerity politics. Anyone wanting to publish it can get in touch.

The book I’ve just finished writing is a choose-your-own-adventure type story, set in the milieu of professional cycling. The numbered paragraphs formed bite-sized chapters which were easy to write, with the action taking place on roads in Belgium on which I’ve both ridden and seen countless times on televised bike races. In hindsight some more careful mapping was needed to plan the structure of the various branches, but it was fun, which isn’t always the case.

The other novel I’m working on has taken a back seat while I finished the gamebook, but it’s almost time to dust it off again. This one started from a few images and concepts, and has only ever been planned a few scenes ahead. This is mostly because my writing time is limited, so I need to ensure I know exactly what’s going onto the piece of paper when I sit down. The advantage of this is that I never face writer’s block (famous last words); the disadvantage is that writing only a page or so at a time means it has taken two and a half years to get to two hundred pages, and scenes I envisaged on the day I started writing can take months until I get to the point of writing them. I agree with Clive Barker, who writes his books in order, and doesn’t skip ahead to the good bits. It may make for digressions and call for later editing, but I think it gives the story a more natural flow.

When I finally finish this one (this year?) then I can worry about how to write the next.

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