Recipe for a Novel

How does a university professor of bilingualism, with no creative writing credentials, write a novel? Well, here is my recipe, because as every writer, author, teacher, editor, professor of creative writing, blogger, and most significantly my grandmother would tell you, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. (Eww, who came up with that proverb?! It conjures awful images, and has anyone ever bothered with skinning cats? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.)

Ingredients and method (yes, there is a method to this utter madness):

1 cup niggling desire to write

Have you ever felt the urge to start writing a story just after you have read a novel about a boy who never grows up; or a short story about a girl with mesmerizing eyes that combine all the colours of the rainbow, but she turns out to be blind; or a poem about the ethereal visions of a dying child while his father gallops in the dusk to take him to a doctor, but the father is too late? 

Have you ever encountered a stranger on the steps outside of a soccer stadium, who smiled at you, and the air around you shimmered? And you ran home and began writing about what you imagined might have happened if you had smiled back? 

Have you ever felt frustrated with the restrictive format of a persuasive essay you had to write for a class and wished that you can spice it up with a metaphor, or brighten it with a whimsical thought, or add an imaginary character that could make the point so much more vivid than any references or quotes could do?

I have experienced all of the above. I’ve had the urge to write creatively for a very long time. I’ve been reminded of it at regular intervals. But I always thought I was too busy to indulge myself in writing fiction and resisted the urge. So, a sole desire to write is not a sufficient ingredient on its own.

1/2 cup annoying frustration

Of course, we get frustrated almost daily with small things, such as the bus being late in the morning, a child not replying to a parent’s urgent text, being put on hold for hours with the travel agency that won’t return our money for a cancelled flight. But those are not the frustrations I have in mind. Although they could lead to perfectly good novels, especially of the mystery/suspense type.  

The specific frustration that motivated me to write my first novel has been bugging me for a while now, even when I was in my twenties. Society’s obsession with ageism annoys me. How it affects women, especially when we compare their ages to those of men. In particular, it seems completely natural when older men date much younger women. But the other way around is still newsworthy, even for a reputable newspaper as The Guardian! 

A couple of years ago I happened to read an article there, which was an opinion piece about the actor Keanu Reeves and his girlfriend at the time (she may still be his girlfriend; I don’t know).  The focus was on the fact that he was hailed as a feminist because he was dating an older woman. And how unusual it was for powerful men to date older women. Never mind that Keanu Reeves’ girlfriend was still nine years younger than him. But because she had natural grey hair, she looked older for Hollywood standards.

So, I began to imagine a story about a successful man who is actually younger than the woman, and what it would take for them to fall in love. And to those of you who are rolling your eyes right about now thinking that this cannot possibly be the biggest injustice in the world to write about, I say, Yes, you’re right! There are many more significant issues that trouble me too, such as climate change, inequality, poverty, the senseless poaching of elephants, and the heartbreaking reality that children are still dying of hunger every day. But they haven’t inspired me to write creatively, . . . not yet. And I have discovered that I have no control over what inspires me. It comes from somewhere deep inside my chest, not from inside my head — the usual brewing pot for all of my nonfiction ideas.

1 T well-timed inspiration from a bosom friend or a complete stranger 

In my case it was the latter. About the same time I read the article about Keanu Reeves, I happened upon another editorial piece, again in The Guardian. The article described ten tips for women who want to write. Tip #1 was find a room of your own — check. The rest of the content was inspirational, e.g., give up on wanting to be liked —check, but this one took a while for me. And ended with tip #10: love what you do; writing can help you understand something about yourself. I seized my laptop and started writing. I really did not stop until I finished the whole first draft two months later.

At least one enthusiastic relative who is a trusted and tireless reader 

As cloves of garlic, this was a huge ingredient for me. It may not be as necessary for other writers. But if it was not for my dear aunt, I would not have gone very far with my novel. By that I mean, no one else would have read it but me. It was pure serendipity that I gathered the courage to tell her about it. Later my aunt told me that she also wondered why I chose to tell her first. She was glad I did, but she did not think that she was the most obvious person; after all, the last time I had seen her was probably more than 10 years earlier. But telling her about my novel turned out to be the best thing I had done in a long time.  

My aunt read the first, rough and unpolished, draft, and she was wildly enthusiastic about it. It surprised me because she is otherwise a quiet, gentle, and even-tempered person. Even though she is my aunt, I knew that if she really thought it junk, she would not have encouraged me—anything else would have been too cruel. She did not only cheer me on, but she also gave me a detailed editorial feedback on every single chapter, which was incredibly helpful. 

Her words gave me wings and I soared high in the air. But I also crashed several times all the way to the ground, and I may still crash a few more. In the process of creating art, I realized why most, if not all, artists are vulnerable, sensitive, restless, and windswept. It is because they live on a roller-coaster that is constantly undulating between dizzying heights and crushing depths. And here I thought I was an emotionally balanced and rational person. Well, at least I learned something new about myself, and that on its own was quite rewarding. 

A pinch of time

I had to make time for my creative pursuits, because in my day job creativity is not to be tolerated. Scientist, whether social or natural, describe or discover various aspects of reality, they do not create it. But the irony of it is that the concept of making time is an oxymoron. Even scientists cannot stretch time, only fiction writers do that in their novels. Let’s just say that I spent many sleepless nights and almost all weekends at the desk, or at my dining room table, or in my bed with my laptop on my . . . well, lap.

Optional garnish: a sprig of pandemic

It just so happened that I did the bulk of the work on my novel during the pandemic. It is definitely an optional ingredient, because I would have written it with or without the garnish. But while I lived in a time of general dysphoria, my book was a life-preserving refuge from a reality shrouded in oblivion.

Mix all the ingredients and place the manuscript in a tightly closed container. Let it rest for a month, maybe two or three, then work it again with both hands. Let it rest for another month or two or three. Repeat as many times as necessary until ready, but know that you will never feel that it is finished. When finally satisfied or fed up, throw it in the hot oven of public opinion and hope for the best. The novel will either burn into feathery ash, or crystalize into a piece of art. Either way, it is out of your control, so set it and forget it! It’s time to move onto the next novel, or . . . something completely different.