A Writer in the Village

Creative writing is a solitary process. But it’s a beautiful state of being. You’re all by yourself, with your own thoughts, in your fictional realm, accompanied by your imaginary characters who talk in your head. They make you laugh, they make you cry, they make you see the world in a new way.

Once you are finished with the first draft or two, however, the process of improving your writing could, and I would argue that it should be a collaborative effort. Fiction, as other forms of art, is subjective. No matter how universal the writer’s themes are, they are sieved through her own knowledge and experience. The feedback from developmental editors, readers, and writing teachers provides the necessary objective perspective on her writing too. 

Just like with raising a child, it takes a village to nurture a novel. Although, there’s a proverb in Bulgarian “a hundred grannies, weak child.” The English equivalent is “too many cooks spoil the broth.” In other words, there is such a thing as too much advice. The writer needs to decide when enough is enough.

Why does a writer write?

I’m certain that there are many reasons why writers write, or more generally artists create: 

• Some write because they are driven by an insatiable curiosity, or a fascination with an idea, if you will. There’s something inside them that is trying to push its way out, and the writer has to set it free. 
• Others write because they want to understand something about themselves or about their experiences, or about a person they love or admire, fear or loathe.
• Some create because they want to raise an awareness of an important issue and hope as a result to make the world a brighter place. 
• Others create because they want to highlight the beauty that is sometimes hard to see in the course of an ordinary day.
• And some create because they seek a validation that their way of being is not an anomaly but shared by few or many. 

And while any reward, either in the form of accolades or financial resources, is never unwelcome, money and glory cannot possibly be the only reasons why a true artist creates.

When I wrote the first draft of my novel, I had no idea why I did it. I never thought about it, I just wrote. But while I wrote, I had a very clear goal in my head. I wanted to make the reader not only feel but think as well. And when she turns the last page, I wanted her to sigh in content. Only later, during the process of editing the novel, I came to a more crystalized version of my motivation. I wrote the story because I wanted to understand something about myself and some of the flaws in my existence. None of it, of course, was unique to me. In other words, I hoped that readers would discover interesting insights about their own lives too. Yes, my novel does not only entertain, as its general premise (discussed in my previous post) may suggest.

Why does a writer want to publish?

Now, this is an interesting question, especially when considered in light of the reasons for writing I listed above. At least some of these reasons are quite personal, subjective, almost selfish. So, why would any writer want to share his work with others? I can’t speak for other writers, but I will tell you the answer I eventually came to. And no, it’s not 42! (Fans of Douglas Adams might like to know that an MIT math professor confirmed the significance of 42 but for less existential reasons.)

On a hot and muggy day in July, I was on the streets of Montmartre. I was thirteen at the time, an impressionable age. I was ambling on the heels of my parents when a big drop of rain landed on my forehead. Only then I noticed that my parents were on the other side of the street. I ran across the road to catch up with them. As soon as I placed my foot on the sidewalk, I halted while I flailed my arms to maintain my balance. I did not want to step on the chalk painting that replaced everything else in my view. It was a landscape, speckled with flowers, birds, and the spires and rooftops of buildings in the background. I was struck by its detail and vivid colours, and I was absorbed by its sunny take on life.

I shivered. The fat raindrops were falling steadily now. As each one splattered on the sidewalk, it pushed the chalk dust into a jagged circle. In the summer downpour the beautiful picture was turning into a colourful swirl soon to disappear into oblivion. 

I looked at the artist who was sitting on the ground nearby. His eyes were fixed on the picture, sad and bewildered. He must have spent hours working on it. His agony of losing it within minutes in the fickle storm was palpable. My mother called my name, but I did not move. I was drenched, but I didn’t want to go under a cover. I wanted to be on the sidewalk, with the artist, with the memory of his painting.

He did have a tin can nearby with a few coins in it. But from his pained expression it was clear that he was losing a lot more than the few extra francs he might have gotten if the storm hadn’t played its awful trick. The tourists in Montmartre pass by dozens, if not hundreds of artists. A tourist is not likely to put coins in all boxes or hats. But she might do it, if she was moved or amused by a picture, or if she found a new meaning in it.

Writing is a solitary and subjective activity, but the writer is still propelled to reveal the product to others in the hope of finding a shared experience. While I wrote, I had no notions about what would happen with my novel once I was done. I was fully expecting that it would remain safely tucked in the bowels of my computer.

Once I finished it, however, I felt the surprising urge to share it with someone else. Perhaps, because I wanted to hear their opinion of it. Or because I spent all that time to write it, I felt that someone else should also read it. Or because I experienced such joy while writing it, I hoped that others would experience similar joy reading it. Little did I know at the time that what I found joyful could be quite boring to others. That was both a revelation and a predictable confirmation that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And this is the reason why requesting input from a variety of readers helped me stay grounded.

The village dwellers

Once I typed “the end,” I rested my chin on my hand and thought, “Now what?” As I wrote in my previous post, I gathered the courage to tell my aunt first, and her enthusiastic encouragement was even more significant than I realized at the time. Because the next people I told about my novel were my kids, and they both gave me a variation of the dispassionate teenage shrug. One of them even wisely warned me, “Many people write, you know.” Okay, I’m very glad that I didn’t tell them first!

After I worked through the first round of my aunt’s edits, I sent the manuscript to my cousin in Bulgaria. I did not send it to her just because she is my cousin, which did not guarantee me unconditional approbation. I sent it to her because she is an avid reader who also translates novels from English to Bulgarian in her day job. She has read works from Dostoyevsky and Byron to modern romances, which she often translates. Her thoughtful, honest, and competent feedback kept my creative furnace burning. 

But now it was time to venture outside of the family and the unconditional love that it provides, even when their feedback is rational and unenthusiastic (yes, my kids). I met over coffee with Robin Harding. From her lofty perch as an international bestselling author, she convinced me that the sky is the limit. Every new and timid writer needs someone like that to set them well on their path.

Thus pumped, I asked a close friend to read my novel next. She told me that she enjoyed it but wondered whether I had considered taking writing classes. Yup, I deflated with a spluttering hiss, but that’s what good friends are for; without discouraging you, they force you to face a truth that you’ve been trying to ignore. To my defence, I hadn’t taken any formal creative writing classes but neither had many of the classic authors whom we all admire. But then, I can’t expect to be one of them, of course.

Eventually, I got in touch with a fellow-writer, Len Joy, who is an award-winning novelist. In addition to being a talented story-teller, he is also a kind and generous human being. He encouraged me to do two things as my next steps on my journey: to hire a developmental editor and to take writing classes. Both were extremely important and I am very glad that I followed his advice. I was also fortunate in the people that I ended up hiring. 

My developmental editor, Ronit Wagman, was excellent. Most significantly, she understood my goals with the novel and the motivation of my main protagonist. As a result, all of her comments were extremely useful, and I was willing to incorporate them. I took classes with the multi-talented writer and musician Sands Hall. I learned from her about story arcs, the components of a scene, what makes for good characters and engaging dialogue. But the most significant insight I learned from her was that writing classes can only teach us the craft of writing, i. e, all the features and practical skills that make one’s writing stark or embellished. But no one can teach us how to write a good story, in other words, how to be a good story-teller. That ability comes only from within.

By this point, I had spent a significant amount of time working on my manuscript, and not an insignificant amount of money. I felt hugely enriched as a result of everything I had learned. I had to make the novel available for others to read; the bowels of my computer seemed a total waste. It was time to send it to a handful of new and diverse readers to test how they would react to it. Naturally, the responses were quite varied: from “Marta (the main protagonist) thinks too much” and “the descriptions are numerous and very detailed,” which I interpreted to mean that they found the novel slow and boring, to “I loved it” and “I couldn’t put it down” (and mind you, it’s not a thriller). 

I’m particularly grateful for the feedback from one of my friends, who is an avid and erudite reader. First, she told me frankly that my book was not the type of books she usually reads. But she read it anyway and even gave me some useful feedback. She ended her comments with a quote from Nicholson Baker: “The question any novel is really trying to answer is, Is life worth living?” And she answered the question with the heart-warming statement that Marta confirms that life is indeed worth living!

After all of that, I made the obvious conclusion that my book will be liked by some and not by others. Fair enough, I know that this is the subjective nature of art. The next step was to publish it in one form or another. I won’t trouble you with a recount of my thorny path or volunteer any advice. There are numerous published books on the topic and much better sources of advice on the internet. Among them is the hugely popular and generously informative blog by Jane Friedman. 

I will only add that I consulted a couple of former literary agents, Nathan Bransford and Mary Kole, who give editorial support to aspiring writers, including on query letters and first chapters, the materials most commonly requested by editors and agents. Nathan also runs a fun and snappy blog, which is full of essential advice on how to improve your writing and how to succeed with agents. They both gave me additional insightful tips, especially on my first chapter, which against all advice, is still the weakest part in my book. I’m too stubborn to make it more “grabby” or compelling.

These are all the colourful inhabitants in my creative writing village. Every one of them contributed to my novel’s growth. I am yet to experience the true test from readers who are outsiders to the village. Oh, the places I’ll go!