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We'd sell out, if only we knew how.
—Jerry Garcia
As you may know, I've been trying to write a thriller, which is specific kind of genre novel with its own forms and rules. Thrillers are much more popular, and sell better, than so-called "literary" novels (or, as they used to be called back when they were novel, "novels"). I've got to be honest: things aren't going well.
I heard a story about Michael Crichton, the late book author who wrote a string of bestsellers including The Andromeda Strain, The Great Train Robbery and Jurassic Park. Supposedly he read a bestseller when he was a young doctor and thought, "that's not so hard. I could do that." So he bought a stack of bestsellers and read them all, absorbing the styles and plots and forms and tropes and modes. Then he started writing his own.
I'm apparently not able to do that. I've tried to study thrillers, and I've read a bunch of them, and I have a good mentor whose advice I've tried to take to heart, but when I try to write my own I'm like a Boy Scout far from home trying to start a campfire in the woods in the rain: it just won't catch*.
I always had this idle thought hanging around in the back of my head that I'd be good at novels. I like telling stories, of the James Herriot variety—part joke and part anecdote, cut to fit, like you'd share at a bar over a pint of ale. (I always suspected Herriot's tales started out as pub stories.) I don't mind "storifying" the truth. And I like yarns. A great example of the yarn form is the movie Little Big Man by director Arthur Penn, little brother of photographer Irving Penn, from the novel by Thomas Berger. To "get" that movie, as Roger Ebert did but many other critics didn't, you have to keep in mind the structure as you watch it: it's an old man spinning a yarn.
But here's the rub: I kinda can't stand false data. I really only like stories if they make some truth more clear or vivid. But with novels, you're supposed to make stuff up. It's not supposed to have to be true.
My mentor is pretty clear on the idea that you have to be deeply familiar with thriller novels to write them. Not only do I not read thrillers, I hardly read novels. Just to keep in touch with fiction I try to read one classic novel every year. One. Last year I finished Heart of Darkness on December 31st...in the evening.
I read nonfiction.
You can't say you're a reader of anything if you read only one (or two, or three) a year. It's not that I'm bigoted in favor of literary novels and a snob concerning genre novel forms; it's that I'm not a novelist. Not knowing thrillers is not the problem. It's that's I don't know novels. I probably read 40 books of nonfiction for every novel I read. At least 20. That's the problem.
You've got to know when to press on, but you've also got to know when to quit. "Persistence" and "perseverance" are beloved myths. But the truth is that persistence is just as often counterproductive as it is positive. You can't make yourself be what you aren't, no matter how hard you try. You've got to figure out what it is you're meant to do. I'm pretty discouraged right now, but I'm not going to give up on that. There's got to be some kind of long-form writing I'd be good at, and somehow I need to figure out what it is.
On that score, I will try to persist. :-)
Mike
*Cf. Jack London's "To Build a Fire"—but note that there are two versions with divergent plots and different lessons learned by the protagonist! I like the little-known 1902 version better.
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(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:
Joe: "I just finished Robert Gottlieb's Avid Reader, a memoir in which he talks about his time as Editor-in-Chief at Simon and Schuster (among many, many other interesting positions including Editor-in-Chief at The New Yorker).
"He has a lot to say about Michael Crichton. Apparently Crichton needed a lot of editing:
'...Michael had a strong background in science. And he had a keen eye, or nose, for cutting-edge areas of science—and, later, sociology—that could be used as material for thrillers while cleverly popularizing the hard stuff for the general public. You got a lesson while you were being scared.
'What Michael wasn’t was a very good writer. The Andromeda Strain was a terrific concept, but it was a mess—sloppily plotted, underwritten, and worst of all, with no characterization whatsoever. His scientists were beyond generic—they lacked all human specificity; the only thing that distinguished some of them from the others was that some died and some didn’t.'"
Joseph Reid: "As a person who makes a living putting words on paper, I can can tell you that writing is easy. Hard is picking a fabric for a sofa. That is an irretrievable act. What you write you can change endlessly before publication, before you have to face the fear that someone else will see your words and retch. So write, dammit! STFU and punch those keys! Also, when did this undertaking change from personal story to thriller? Writing the former would fix that fact-block you have."
David A Edelstein: "My favorite bit of trivia about the 1908 version of 'To Build a Fire' is that apparently Mr. London wrote (revised?) it sitting on the lanai of his friend Princess Kaiulani's house, on O'ahu."
Bill Mitchell: "Thirty years ago a photographer friend and myself decided to write a best seller. It was going to be a 'dirty book' with each chapter fully devoted to a one single perversion. Couldn't lose! It had to have some sort of plot, so we decided to make a murder mystery out of it. Unfortunately, as we progressed, we found the story more interesting than the perversions. I have spent the last 30 years rewriting, revising, and updating the manuscript. Finally, 30 years later, Born to Die will be published this year by a reputable publisher. Occasionally, I run across one of those obscene chapters that we discarded. Even today, I find them incredibly erotic as hell! (Including the ones that I wrote 30 years ago!) Good luck with yours Mike!"
Charlie Ewers: "Points well taken, Mike, but you should still finish your novel. I'm a nonfiction writer, pure and simple, and nonfiction makes up 100% of my published work, but I wanted to write a novel, more or less to see if I could do it. I could, and I used that novel for the thesis in my Master's program. Tried unsuccessfully to get it published (I still think it was pretty good) but then realized its true purpose. I had to write that novel to move past it and back into my nonfiction. Yes, I did learn some stuff regarding narrative form, dialogue writing, and so forth, but the real benefit came from successfully finishing a long (in terms of number of words written) project. That experience served me very well when it came time to write my dissertation, and I would guess it would serve you well, too, if you turn later to writing a long piece of nonfiction."
Tex Andrews: "Oh, boy! Have I got a lot to say about this! Here's a story from grad school, severely cropped: For those who haven't been through it, studio art programs rely an 'the crit'—end of semester, faculty troop into your studio, rip you up, you defend. Lots more to that, but no room here. let's just say the better you are at defending/deflecting, the more success you'll have in the crit. Note I didn't say the better your work was....
"So, in my second semester, I was bound and determined to have a super-strong crit. Tons of work, because I thought other students did far too little, so much it was all over my studio, floor to ceiling. A sculpture I was working on I couldn't finish, so I laid the parts on the floor, and wrote notations in chalk with arrows, like a 3D mechanical drawing. Not enough room for people to come in my studio, fully.
"I was also working full time, two-hour commute one way, and, in the opposite direction of the University of Maryland, one-hour commute one way. By the day of the crit I was exhausted, running on fumes. My normal defenses and intellectual readiness at an all-time low. Could barely, numbly answer questions, coming at me fast and furious. Everyone looking at me really strangely, some peering into the room. They looked oddly alarmed.
"Crit ends, and everyone starts to leave. One prefessor, Jim Sanborn, a sculptor with a rising star in those days, last one to leave, stopped and looked back at me, cocked his head, and said: 'You know, Tex, you should really stop and look at your work sometime.'
"Huh?
"Then I kind of spun around and saw what they saw. I had entered as a painter, started getting other ideas, started furiously developing them, and then basically exploded my brain onto the walls of my studio—and created my first installation. So, then I was an installation artist (plus other things).
"So, Mike, I think you should take a look at your work, all of it. ;-} You know, novels take lots of forms...."
