Falla September

FIRST DRAFT

I will soon complete a raw first draft of a new novel; the next stage is to think about sending it out to one or two trusted readers. This is an awkward moment for any writer. One wants an email in return that same evening declaring, "This is a work of genius!" Something of the sort happened to Dostoevsky. He delivered the manuscript of Crime & Punishment to his publisher, and that same night was woken by pebbles tossed at his window, and the publisher in the street crying, "It's a work of genius!" (prior to ripping him off in the contract). Last time round, my loyal father did ring two days later, and pronounced my piece a work of genius, but then admitted he'd only read 59 pages.

One cannot necessarily control the point when a first draft must be declared 'done'. It may simply be a matter of exhaustion, or a feeling that a fragile structure has been edged together which, if we don't inspect it now, might fall apart. For everyone's sake I want my readers to look at something that is as good as possible, but there always comes a moment when I cannot touch another word without having some other's reaction.

The choice of readers is delicate. They must be willing: why should anyone want to read 300 pages when we all know from the outset that it could be better? They must be competent, for the novel's future may depend on what they say. They must be sympathetic but not too kindly, for one needs help, not flattery. Ideally they know something of publishing, to tell you if the work is saleable or a waste of time. But one must be very careful not to try their patience, for one may need them again, and how often can you ask someone to re-read a long novel?

Trust and a little professional distance are required. As a young poet I enthusiastically swapped verses with a close friend and we responded in every over-the-top way, sometimes heaping extravagant praise, sometimes ripping to shreds. We were in the process of working out our own artistic values. Some while later, I asked this friend to read the typescript of my book on rebels in Burma. The comments that came back were precise and invaluable but too rude, sometimes mocking; I lashed out in ungrateful anger and, for a brief while our friendship suffered.

And then what? Write it again. My first novel, Blue Poppies, went through five drafts. Even now, after several editions, I all too readily spot sentences that are ugly, clumsy or just plain wrong, and I curse, asking myself what on earth I was doing on each revision.

The answer, usually, is that I was cutting. Writers know that one must be prepared to "kill one's babies". The favourite sentence, the prize paragraph that makes one purr with pride on re-reading: that is the one that is almost certainly redundant, or over-wrought, or calls too much attention to its own 'style'. A favourite author of mine is the Anglo-Argentine writer W.H. Hudson, who wrote about Patagonia circa 1900. John Galsworthy thought that Hudson wrote “as though an angel is whispering in his ear”, and remarked, "Goodness knows how this fellow gets his effects." That’s what I want.

In Norman MacLean’s novella A River Runs Through It (filmed by Robert Redford) a father teaches his sons to write. When they submit work for his approval, he remarks encouragingly, "That's very good. Now do it again half as long". When they come back next day, he approves the shortened version – then says again: “Much better – but bring it back tomorrow half as long.” There is no more important lesson for a writer. In revision drafts I do my best to strip away words that are showy individualists, and leave instead a tight, interdependent whole. I’m usually only too happy when a friendly editor points out the blunders. My boarding school, which was founded in the 1890s with strong links to the Arts & Crafts movement, had a sonorous motto of which William Morris would certainly have approved: Work of each for weal of all. Not a bad rule for books, either.

So, with a first draft of the new book done but three or four revisions still to come, you'll understand my nervousness as I consider who to ask to read it.