novelist is at a disadvantage in comparison to writers of shorter forms. Especially in his apprentice years, when it matters most, success comes rarely.
Let us look more closely at the process a novelist must depend upon. First of all, the serious novelist can seldom punch straight through, write from beginning to end, knock off a quick revision, and sell his book. The idea he’s developing is too large for that, contains too many unmanageable elements—too many characters, each of whom the writer must not just create but figure out (as we figure out peculiar people in real life) and then must present convincingly; and the story contains too many scenes, too many moments, each of which the writer must imagine and render with all the intensity and care of his being. He may work for weeks, even months, without losing his focus and falling into confusion, but sooner or later—at least in my experience—the writer comes to the realization that he’s lost. His overfamiliarity with the characters, after endless hours of writing and rewriting, may lead to his suddenly feeling bored with them, irritated by everything they say or do; or he may become so close to them that, for lack of objectivity, he’s baffled by them. Just as we can often predict how casual acquaintances will behave in a given situation, though we cannot make out what we ourselves or those close to us would do, so writers often have a clearer fix on their characters when the novel is still a fresh idea than they do months later, when the writing is well along and the characters are like family. I myself am stopped cold when I cannot make out how a character would deal with the situation presented to him. If the situation presented is trivial, one’s perplexity can be maddening. Once during the writing of Mickelsson’s Ghosts I found the novel’s heroine being offered an hors d’oeuvre, and I couldn’t tell whether she would accept it or not. I forced the issue, made her refuse it; but then I found myself stuck. It didn’t matter a particle which choice she made, but damned if I could move to the next sentence. “This is ridiculous,” I told myself, and tried a little gin—to no avail. It seemed to me now that I knew nothing about this woman; I wasn’t even sure she’d have come to the party in the first place. I wouldn’t have. Stupidest party in all literature. I quit writing, put the manuscript away, and took out my frustration on woodworking tools, making furniture. A week or so later, in the middle of a band-saw cut, I saw, as if in a vision, the woman taking the hors d’oeuvre. I still didn’t understand her, but I was positive I knew what she would do, and what she would do after that, and after that.
Or the novel may bog down because in terms of overall structure—pace, emphasis, and so on—the writer can no longer see the forest for the trees. I’ve often labored with ferocious concentration on a scene, polishing, revising, and tearing out; rewriting, polishing, and revising again until finally I realize that I have no idea what I’m doing, can’t even recall why it was that I thought the scene necessary. Experience has taught me that, unpleasant as it is to do so, I have no choice but to put the manuscript away for a while—sometimes it takes months—and then look at it again. When the proper time has elapsed—in other words when the manuscript is “cold”—the faults stand plain. One may discover that the scene is much too elaborate in relation to scenes before and after it, or that it does not belong in the novel at all, or—this happened to me just once—that the scene is terrific but the rest of the novel has to go. It is hard even for an experienced writer to throw away two hundred pages of bad writing, or anyway it’s hard if one is still close enough to the writing to remember how much time and work it took. A year or two later, taking a fresh look at those bottom-drawer pages, it is easy—even satisfying—to be
Let us look more closely at the process a novelist must depend upon. First of all, the serious novelist can seldom punch straight through, write from beginning to end, knock off a quick revision, and sell his book. The idea he’s developing is too large for that, contains too many unmanageable elements—too many characters, each of whom the writer must not just create but figure out (as we figure out peculiar people in real life) and then must present convincingly; and the story contains too many scenes, too many moments, each of which the writer must imagine and render with all the intensity and care of his being. He may work for weeks, even months, without losing his focus and falling into confusion, but sooner or later—at least in my experience—the writer comes to the realization that he’s lost. His overfamiliarity with the characters, after endless hours of writing and rewriting, may lead to his suddenly feeling bored with them, irritated by everything they say or do; or he may become so close to them that, for lack of objectivity, he’s baffled by them. Just as we can often predict how casual acquaintances will behave in a given situation, though we cannot make out what we ourselves or those close to us would do, so writers often have a clearer fix on their characters when the novel is still a fresh idea than they do months later, when the writing is well along and the characters are like family. I myself am stopped cold when I cannot make out how a character would deal with the situation presented to him. If the situation presented is trivial, one’s perplexity can be maddening. Once during the writing of Mickelsson’s Ghosts I found the novel’s heroine being offered an hors d’oeuvre, and I couldn’t tell whether she would accept it or not. I forced the issue, made her refuse it; but then I found myself stuck. It didn’t matter a particle which choice she made, but damned if I could move to the next sentence. “This is ridiculous,” I told myself, and tried a little gin—to no avail. It seemed to me now that I knew nothing about this woman; I wasn’t even sure she’d have come to the party in the first place. I wouldn’t have. Stupidest party in all literature. I quit writing, put the manuscript away, and took out my frustration on woodworking tools, making furniture. A week or so later, in the middle of a band-saw cut, I saw, as if in a vision, the woman taking the hors d’oeuvre. I still didn’t understand her, but I was positive I knew what she would do, and what she would do after that, and after that.
Or the novel may bog down because in terms of overall structure—pace, emphasis, and so on—the writer can no longer see the forest for the trees. I’ve often labored with ferocious concentration on a scene, polishing, revising, and tearing out; rewriting, polishing, and revising again until finally I realize that I have no idea what I’m doing, can’t even recall why it was that I thought the scene necessary. Experience has taught me that, unpleasant as it is to do so, I have no choice but to put the manuscript away for a while—sometimes it takes months—and then look at it again. When the proper time has elapsed—in other words when the manuscript is “cold”—the faults stand plain. One may discover that the scene is much too elaborate in relation to scenes before and after it, or that it does not belong in the novel at all, or—this happened to me just once—that the scene is terrific but the rest of the novel has to go. It is hard even for an experienced writer to throw away two hundred pages of bad writing, or anyway it’s hard if one is still close enough to the writing to remember how much time and work it took. A year or two later, taking a fresh look at those bottom-drawer pages, it is easy—even satisfying—to be
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