Noted

Inner Life

Photo by charlesdeluvio on Unsplash

Three things happened. I received notes from an editor who didn’t want my novel, the notes were their reason.  I gave notes to a friend on a fifth draft of their work and wondered if the time before I’d been conscious enough. I read an article by George Saunders, he was helping a novelist who’d become buried under multiple drafts of multiple structures; his final advice to the writer was this:

“I wonder if it might be useful to just go back to what you initially sent – to what initially sold, to what the editor initially found compelling enough to buy. And then just try to read through it as if you’ve never seen it before – forget all the rearrangements and insights and cuts you’ve made since, forget the editor’s initial round of advice (easier said than done, I know) – and just see what you think about it.”

In other words, forget the notes.  And it made me think.  

Many years ago I wrote my first novel and I had a different agent to the one I have now. I would write a draft over three or four months according to their notes and send it off to them.  Three or four months later I’d get an email back which always began with, I can see you’ve worked very hard followed by a whole load more notes which, over the next month’s I’d dutifully apply, and around we’d go.  Seven years went by. I wrote a thriller to learn plot and short stories to learn pacing, all good advice at the time.  I rewrote the novel from scratch four times in an attempt to nail down what they said was missing, and sent them many, many drafts of each version, trying with all my might to get it over the line for submission.  In the seventh year they said I don’t think I really get your writing and dropped me. My novel had become a Frankenstein, and not in a good way. As my favourite writing podcasters Meg and Lorien from The Screenwriting Life would say, I hadn’t picked a pony. This debut novel of mine was twenty half-started attempts at getting to the heart of what’s it about, a floundering, 80,000-words that was far from what I’d initially dreamt of or sent to that agent when they’d signed me. Also, I now had no agent. So I cried on the street, and raged to a friend on the phone, and then I did what George Saunders advises: I tore everything up and went back to the beginning, to the idea, the feeling, the book I’d envisaged all those years ago, and wrote it again from page one.  But this time, being seven years the better writer, it worked. I found another agent and hey presto, it sold. (It wasn’t that fast or that magic, we developed it over another year, the last publisher on our list said yes, but for the sake of this telling, let’s say my brilliant new agent waved her magic wand, sprinkled fairy dust from the pot on the bookshelf, clapped three times and my literary rags turned to riches.  It’s more fun.) What’s important here, the point I’m trying to make, is that the version of the book that was published, was near enough the same in tone and feel as the book I’d set out to write, but it took seven years of teeth gnashing, of being told I was wrong, of listening to that note, to get there.

As I type, I’ve a new novel doing the agonising rounds of submission. It’s this one that got a note from an editor who didn’t want it, and said why, and it was this note, or rather my response to it, that struck me. Not enough plot. Now, let’s all take a breath here and unpack this, or shall I just tell you my reaction? You can probably guess. You’re wrong, shouted at the window, the cat, the kettle. No fucking way as I marched my fury across the fields. And this is the important bit: not that they were in fact either right or wrong (they’re definitely wrong) but that well over a decade into this profession, I’ve gained the confidence to know which notes to take. Ten years ago I’d have scurried back to the drawing board and reworked the material based on that opinion. I’d have let doubt creep in, I wouldn’t have known that an editor trying to clear their inbox will say any old thing to move on to the next email. So the point here, is who. Who to take notes from.  And circling back to my first agent, I can see now that the Who rule could have been applied there, three years in, had I the confidence to know it.  What I’m talking about here is the thin line between knowing your work and knowing your shortcomings. It’s a tough one. But I can say this, and the friend to whom I gave notes recently backed it up: never take notes from an editor who isn’t offering you a deal.

Let’s say you’re clear that you only take notes from a trusted source who has your best commercial interests at heart and is aligned with your artistic voice.  Hang on a minute, read that last sentence again.  Because that, my friends, is quite the golden ticket and, being lucky enough to have that with my agent now, I can tell you that it’s still far from plain sailing because commercial interests and artistic voice are frequently not in the same lane. Let’s say I’ve written a novel that she and I both love, that’s aligned with everything I want it to be, that we’ve worked up through five drafts to submission level, and off it goes and the note comes back not enough plot and we know that’s just an editor trying to clear their inbox but also, we really want it to sell, and my agent knows what’s selling. What then? This is a crossroads that many a novelist before me has idled at, the engine running, talking rapidly in the front seat with their agent, what do we do. It’s when many a literary fiction writer has turned right towards Commercial City, when many a subtle, quiet novel has gained a new plot line and a character that speaks in tongues, anything to liven it up a bit, gain a bit of traction, get a deal.  Is this right? Only if it’s right for you, but let me be plain, for every emerging writer who swears they’ll stand by their artistic integrity, there’s a million more who’ve realised a foot in the door is a foot in the door, and that book of theirs you pick off the shelf is only the gateway drug to what they really want to write, or how well they really can write. Knowing when to take a note is as much about confidence as it is about vision, and where you’re at; is it now that I take the right-hand turn, the one that I think will get me a deal, or do I flex my hands on the wheel, snap the sun visor back in place and drive straight on to the unknown city, sign posted, this is who I am. When does integrity become hoisted by stubbornness? When does stubborn become foolish? It depends on what you want, and how stubborn-foolish you are. (read, Very.)

But let’s scroll back to when you’ve still got a word document open on your laptop, the book isn’t finished yet, you’re still dreaming of it being published. Let’s imagine you don’t have an agent, or you do but you want another opinion. The friend who sent me their manuscript to read trusts me.  They’ve sent me work before. The Screenwriting Life is our favourite podcast and Meg and Lorien have a saying about notes, what they do to the nervous system, how to cope with them.  The saying goes according to the successive responses, like the stages of grief, except there are three: Fuck you. Fuck me. What’s next. Whoever you get notes from, the first response is always, fuck you. Even though I’ve actively sought out your opinion, how dare you.  This is rightly funny and rightly true.  Getting notes is hard. The second is when the fear turns in on itself, fuck me. I’m fucked, it’s a disaster, I knew I couldn’t write, kill me now. The third, what’s next speaks for itself. You’ve stopped hating, you’ve picked yourself up, and now you’re getting on with it. But this is why who you gets notes from is so vital because the experience of critical feedback burns the soul, tests the nerve to breaking point, breaks hearts, and if you’re giving notes, be careful. Of my friend, I thought this as we opened our zoom call, and they, being seasoned and knowing what they’re doing, knew also when a note was technical as opposed to one of taste.  They’ve honed the piece of work, they know its tone and pace, and this is the crucial bit to avoiding a Frankenstein, to staying true to the integrity of the work while making it the best experience it can be, to knowing which hills to die on.

Which hills to die on, oh boy, if anything tests the knowledge of the work and yourself, it’s this. Let’s circle back to my novel that’s out there being tested. Or the novelist who wrote to George Saunders with a 1200-page tome of a book so messed about by different opinions that the poor writer didn’t know, anymore, which way was up. Which hills to die on? Which plot points, characters, turn of phrase are so crucial to your beating heart, and the beating heart of your work that you’ll say to that editor, that agent, no, I won’t do that. Which will you fight for?  Before I go further I will say this as a universal truth (and there aren’t many, so make space). If you’ve received the same note three times, it’s probably a note worth listening to. And if you can’t see it, then, as Meg and Lorian would say, look for the note beneath the note. In other words, if your editor/beta reader/agent have told you three times that the scene when Jonny falls off his bike isn’t working, try going back to the scene when Jonny is given his bike.  The problem is probably there. My first agent who patiently for seven years tried again and again to point me in the right direction was essentially saying the same thing.  Pick a pony. It was only fury and despair that eventually focused my mind into a fuck you I’ll write the book I want to write. It being the actual note beneath her note, it got me there.

 It’s a funny thing when I look back at those original drafts and see how closely they resemble what was eventually published, yet missing one crucial thing, the roundabout of experience that made those decisions justifiable, the confidence that they didn’t just instinctively feel right but were right. Back then I was flying by the seat of my pants, writing blind. The note was accurate, I hadn’t picked a pony, but I didn’t have the experience to understand it; after a decade of tearing up and tearing up, I did. There’s no short cut to this. You have to earn it. So when, over a decade later not enough plot lands at my door, I know what the note is beneath the note, and I can answer confidently, No way. I can risk dying on that hill with impunity. I can watch the note bleed out, knowing it would kill my book. It’s me or you, baby, and it’s not going to be me.

What an image, I can see my Boadicea tendencies have got the better of me again. Yet knowing when to fight and when to lay down swords, turn them neither outward nor inward, get on to what’s next, this is the foundation stone of making notes useful. Knowing who, what and when is an armour critically won. Knowing yourself is knowing your work. Do you get the impression that this artistic world is a fight for me? That I’m carrying the flag for literary integrity to its end? That I’ve taken this imagery to its wind-blown snorting limit? Noted.