WRITING FICTION

A WRITER'S VIEW

SECRETS OF A NOVELIST

Nia Williams comes clean and confesses to being a writer, and gives you her insights into a successful writing regime

I'm a writer. No coy shrugs or selfdeprecating snorts: after 20 years or so, I'm finally out of the literary closet. What kept me in there all that time? Well, for starters, it took me so long to knuckle down and finish anything — let alone get it published — that even ‘aspiring writer’ seemed overblown. And when I did get into print, there was no question of dropping the day job. I'm certainly not in it for the money — it's much more important than that! So far, my earnings from fiction just about cover my printer's ink.

Still, the more I write the clearer it is to me that this is what makes me tick. So without blush or apology, here's my account of Becoming a Writer.

LIGHTBULB MOMENT (1)

I was crossing a footbridge over the A3010. I was in my 30s, and for 15 years or so I'd wanted to be a writer. If only I had the time and the security. If only I could pay off the mortgage, finish that project at work, retire … Halfway across the footbridge, I realised I had a choice. I could carry on with an OK job and shelve the writing fantasy along with the Olympic gold and a dance with Fred Astaire. Or I could get cracking.

Once that was settled, I had to write something. This was precisely what I'd failed to do during all those pre-footbridge years. Diaries, yes, and jottings, and teen-angst verse, and a few rainforests' worth of abandoned novels and half-baked plots. Nothing remotely fit for publication. Everything I produced was lame, pompous or dull, and petered out after a couple of paragraphs. I didn't know how a proper writer should write.

LIGHTBULB MOMENT (2)

It's the weekly life-drawing class. I'm at my easel trying to do justice to Ken, our 70-something life model, who's striking poses by his electric heater. The teacher assesses my efforts: ‘Hmmm… Never mind. Keep what you've got and make it work’. Ping!

While I was waiting for the muse to descend, I'd forgotten the golden rule: practice makes it better.

Actually, I'm no great fan of golden rules (see tips box). But this one holds true. Writing is a craft like any other: you have to work at it. If the text is feeble, fix it. Those binned sheets of purple prose aren't signs of failure — they're a resource. Having grasped the uncomfortable fact that Becoming a Writer would involve hard graft, I was ready to start producing something with a beginning, a middle and — hallelujah! — an end.

WHAT SHALL I WRITE ABOUT?

Six words to chill a writer's blood: ‘Where do you get your ideas’? The most honest reply might be ‘I'll tell you when I get some’, but a more useful and practical one is ‘everywhere’

As soon as I started attending to the nuts and bolts of writing, the subject matter took care of itself. It didn't have to be new or clever or earth-shattering — it just had to catch my interest.

NOTHING CATCHING YOUR INTEREST? TRY THIS EXERCISE.

• Find a café, buy yourself a coffee and take a seat by the window.

• Count the first 10 passers-by.

• When you get to number 10, take a mental snapshot of your subject and his or her surroundings.

• Get out your notebook and describe your snapshot in every detail. Clothes, gait, facial expression, hair. People in the background. Street, traffic, weather, sounds, smells.

• Give your passer-by a name. Let's say Florence.

• Ask yourself where Florence was going, where she'd been, who she was thinking about.

• You get the idea. By now you're probably halfway into a story of your own.

FEEDBACK

I haven't got statistics to prove it, but I'd guess this is the fence where most budding writers come to grief. Writing is a very private business. Even if your work is pure invention, it's come from the deepest recesses of your warped imagination. You don't necessarily want that waved about. Unfortunately, there's no way round this one. Going public is scary, but it has to be done.

One way to ease yourself in is to join a creative writing group. You might recoil in horror from the prospect of reading your work to an audience — I did. But everyone I know who's been brave enough to try has found it stimulating and helpful. My own way of breaking the feedback barrier was to give my first drafts to a few trusted friends.

Taking criticism seriously while knowing your own mind is a difficult balance to maintain.

My method is to throw a minor tantrum, then let the suggestions percolate. If any of them are still niggling a week later, they're probably right. In any case, it's as well to elicit some opinions before hitting the publishers and agents, if only for the sake of your self-esteem.

Professionals approach your manuscript not as counsellors or teachers but as readers, so it's worth considering their comments — even if, ultimately, you disagree. Remember, though, that feedback of any kind from publishers is relatively rare. You're more likely to get, at most, a standard letter — and even that could take months. If you're after impartial views of your work you might want to consider paying for the reading services offered by some agencies and websites.

WHERE SHALL I SEND IT?

A little preliminary research saves a lot of time, money and disappointment. Most agents and publishers are very clear about what they will and won't consider. A quick look at their websites or listings will ensure that you don't send your futuristic psychodrama to a cookery-book imprint.

Some firms require a letter in the first instance, setting out brief details of your experience and the work you're offering. Others might want a synopsis — usually a page — of the plot, and a couple of sample chapters. A few will take full manuscripts. Most insist on hard copies, rather than electronic files.

If you're starting, as I did, with short stories, I'd recommend reading a selection of the huge range of small-press magazines catering for story-writers and poets, because:

• They're are always bulging with news about competitions, grants, festivals and other outlets — all good incentives to keep writing

• Reading other people's work is a great way of sparking off your own ideas

• Many small-press magazines focus on particular genres or geographical areas, which might limit their readership but also increases your chances of inclusion.

• Just being in print gives you confidence and opens that closet door a little wider.

SMALL PRESSES

They're underfunded and overworked and not great for name-dropping at parties. But here are a few reasons to celebrate the small-fry companies who keep the literary world alive:

• By and large, they're staffed by people who care more about books than about market trends. So they're more likely to read your manuscript, even if it's not the next Harry Potter.

• Published work is easier to promote than unpublished work, whoever produces it. Despite minimal print-runs, my novels led to interviews, literary festivals and tours, commissions and reviews, which — judiciously edited — provide handy blurbs for future submissions.

• Distribution may be trickier for smaller companies, but the internet has changed everything. For all the legitimate worries of independent booksellers, online sales are an undeniable boon to small-scale writers, making their books available everywhere, at the click of a mouse.

FINALY

This is one small cog's account of the machine, and your experience may be entirely different. I think it's safe to say, though, that it will entail a certain degree of frustration, insecurity and grumpiness.

If you already know all that, and are still writing, stop procrastinating — I know your little game. Get back to that desk. You're a writer!