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The 100 ways to write a book series is always the first section I turn to in Mslexia. As a writer myself, as well as a mentor and tutor, I’m naturally interested in how others do it, and open to suggestions for refreshing my own writing process. So I happily agreed to review the methods described in 100 issues of the magazine.
Looking primarily at novelists, I was surprised by how divergent, idiosyncratic and inspiring their creative processes were. Here’s a snapshot of what emerged – plus a few comments from me, based on my own work, and my long experience helping others plan, write and revise their novels.
INSPIRATION P D James told us that her ideas usually emerged from the feel of a particular setting. Beryl Bainbridge chatted to people, read biographies and scanned newspapers for ideas. Sarah Hall gets fired up by small ideas and says many of her students mistakenly assume they need a ‘big idea’ for a novel. Meg Rosoff takes the opposite view, and always begins with a big question she wants to answer. For Cathy Kelly, it all starts as a syllogism: A meets B in the context of C and the consequence is D. Sarah Perry goes deeper by suggesting that ideally your story will involve one of your own biggest fears. I’m with Sarah Hall on this. As you start to develop your novel, even the smallest idea takes on heft.
RESEARCH Rose Tremain is very keen on research. ‘If you base your writing on your life, you’re going to run out,’ she warns. She keeps her research loose and chaotic, to allow for unexpected discoveries. Sarah Waters is also a research fanatic. Her first novel emerged from her PhD, so she makes meticulous notes, recording every source, its author, date and page number. Jenny Colgan takes the opposite approach, choosing topics that don’t need much research and keeping her books short: ‘That way you can write a book in eight months and fart about for the rest of the year’. For Joanna Trollope, research is something that takes place automatically, over the course of a whole life: ‘You know more than you think you do; you’ve remembered more than you think you have; you’ve noticed more than you think you’ve observed. The physical process of writing seems to unlock these perceptions.’
CHARACTER I wondered whether writers tended to start with character or plot. Patricia Ferguson says it’s better to ‘trust your characters rather than your ideas’. Sita Brahmachari gives her characters even greater power, and delays choosing a protagonist: ‘Take your characters for a walk and decide which one you’re most drawn to’. For others, the plot comes first and characters develop in response to it. Ayòbámi Adébáyò’s creative process takes off ‘when an idea meets a character’ and Helen Simpson says her fiction is all about ‘people reacting to situations’.
I’d advise prioritising character over plot every time. As a rule of thumb, I’d urge you to complicate your characters and simplify your plot. In fact, I believe that a protagonist’s emotional journey is plot development.
PLANNING Do writers plan their novels or dive straight in and write it ‘by the seat of their pants’? ‘Plan, plan, plan,’ says rom-com author Sophie Kinsella. Scarlett Thomas agrees. Based on her experience of writing 14 novels for adults and children, as well as teaching creative writing, she says that ‘plotting should be like planning the perfect bank robbery’. Crime writer Sophie Hannah adds, ‘You can plot with an exhaustive scene-by-scene blueprint or a sketchy one-page synopsis – but if it’s the latter, you will rue the day.’
The planning can take many different forms. A L Kennedy structures a book by dividing it into seven manageable segments, then plans each segment using a visual map. Daisy Johnson plans using spider diagrams on A3 paper.
Others take a more freeform approach. Yiyun Li advocates leaving out the planning stage entirely ‘and figuring out where the story goes as you write’. Meg Rosoff says ‘all you need is a killer first line and a vague story about how the characters develop’. Joanna Briscoe has a skeleton in her head but ‘allows the flesh plenty of flexibility’. And Hilary Mantel used to cultivate a kind of vagueness about the novel to allow her unconscious to set up connections (with the aid of a giant pinboard).
Personally, I am a firm believer in the value of planning – and staying loose at the same time. Working with a very short synopsis is a highly effective way of doing this. Limiting yourself to just 300 words allows you to see the shape of the whole. But I advise my students to treat this synopsis as a working document rather than a prescription. As you write, you can compare your text to the synopsis – and change one, or the other, as you go, rather than ploughing on without a plan and having to rethink your entire draft when you discover it’s not working
TIMETABLING Barbara Trapido sets her alarm for before dawn. A L Kennedy starts even earlier (or later, depending on your perspective), writing at two in the morning. Louise Young says that working in the morning gives her an illusion of clarity – but that’s good enough for her. And Daisy Johnson treats her writing as a nine-to-five job.
Val McDermid and Sarah Crossan structure their writing time into ‘pomodoros’, writing intensely for 20 minutes then taking a break. Sarah says, ‘I probably only work solidly for two hours a day, but it’s a very, very focused two hours.’ Several authors dedicate a set period to their books. Pat Barker writes for ‘five hours a day, five days a week, for 12 weeks’. Meera Syal used to schedule a 16-week break from all other commitments, writing 3,000 words every day.
Speaking of word targets, Ayòbámi Adébáyòaims to write a minimum of 1,000 words a day; Stella Duffy goes for 2,000; but Meena Kandasamy is lucky if she manages 100. Naomi Alderman thinks 800 words is a good target to aim for: ‘More than 1,000, and you lose quality.’ And Kamila Shamsie doesn’t ‘fuss about daily word counts, because it evens out in the end’.
My own feeling is that a daily time target is more useful than word target; sticking with the work is more important than the number of words on the page.
CREATURE COMFORTS Deborah Moggach starts her writing day with a cappuccino and a roll-up, and chews gum while she writes. Alice Oseman needs a cold drink, plus crisps or cheese. Isabel Allende gets fully dressed before she goes to her desk, including jewellery and make up. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie has no special sartorial regime, but advocates eating chocolate.
Katherine Rundell writes to music by Miles Davis but Maggie O’Farrell insists ‘no music allowed, especially not jazz’. Sarah Crossan used to be very precious about peace and quiet until she realised ‘that insisting on ideal conditions is just another form of procrastination’.
Mary Hoffman has to have Radio 4 on while she writes – also black coffee, cats and a talisman that represents the book being written. Ruth Hogan embraces the talisman vibe too, recreating the world of the book by gathering objects that relate to her subject matter.
DRAFTS AND CRAFT There were quite a few proponents of the speedy first draft: Daisy Johnson and Pat Barker ‘plough forwards’. ‘Get as much onto the page as you can and worry about it later,’ advises Joanna Briscoe; ‘Don’t edit, don’t stop,’ says Stella Duffy.
Others progress in a more measured way. Kate Clanchy applies the same attention to her prose as she does to a poem. Beryl Bainbridge’s method is especially painstaking: ‘Don’t start the second sentence until the first sentence is perfect. When you finish a page, pace the room reading aloud, correcting as you go. Do this 12 times before proceeding to the next page.’
In terms of editing, Monica Ali acclimatises herself to her imaginative world by spending two hours each day editing yesterday’s work before pressing on, a practice many authors share. A L Kennedy writes three chapters at a time, stops to rewrite them, then pushes forward for another three. Bernadine Evaristo progresses in fits and starts, tweaking all the time. Sophie Hannah also polishes as she goes. For me, polishing means spending a lot of time revising the first few chapters, finding the right viewpoint and voice; then I’m able to proceed at a more confident pace.
But however raw or polished a manuscript is in first draft, I think novels come alive in second draft. This is when new ideas, directions and layers appear, when the novel gets wider and deeper. For example, Anne Michaels layers in one or more motifs that will run through the novel, such as geology or music, which operate ‘as metaphorical tools that will give the novel depth’.
I see the process of drafting as a pulse: elaborate, contract; elaborate, contract. In the first draft of a chapter I might put a lot in; in the next draft, I’ll delete all but the best bits. And so on, adding and deleting, until I’m happy with it. Am I right to go about it this way? With so many words written, then discarded? All I can say is, it works for me. But it’s not the only way. There really are 100 ways to write a book. It’s up to you now.
