The One Thing That Will Make Your Reader Want To Throw Your Novel Into The Ocean And Curse Your Lineage
Seven Mistakes Every Writer Who Started Writing Novels Yesterday Makes
How To Write A Novel That’ll Immediately Sell — That’s Why You’re Writing, Right? RIGHT?????
if you’re a writer, I imagine you’ve seen something like that. if not, is it just me?
what posts and articles and listicles like that fail to consider is that maybe the novel wants to be thrown into the ocean! maybe it wants to be cursed!
I mean, not really. but if the novel (or anything else: the short story the album the song the painting the cake) is true to itself and the state of being what it is leads to it being thrown into the ocean — oh well. it’s an interesting reaction, at the very least. maybe it’s the best reaction to be expected if a certain kind of reader meets a certain kind of book. maybe someone else will love it and reread it once a year for the rest of their life. who knows!
making things is hard, and the abundance of “help” is sometimes obstacle enough. writing tips, writing advice, writing hacks, cleaning hacks, hacking hacks. hacks.
the ability to listen to feedback, receive it open-mindedly, consider it, allow other voices in is important, essential even. but so is discernment, and the ability to tune voices out.
you can learn a lot from others, from books on craft, essays. you learn so much from people giving you very pointed, thoughtful feedback, like a kinder version of “I get what you’re trying to do here, but you’re failing miserably and I think this might be why.” you can (and should?) learn an absurd amount from reading, just you and the book, trying to figure out why you love or hate it so much.
but if the post/listicle/article’s title already starts with a number and/or a generalisation — 5 things that every, 6 mistakes that every, do this and a Big 5 editor will mortgage their house to acquire your book at auction —, I start to preemptively tune out.
it’s always more or less the same. I won’t seek it, but a post like that will find me somehow, as Substack mistakes my interest in literature for an interest in being told what to do. the sounds of the world get more and more distant after that, like I’m underground. I turn myself into a snail1. the presumptuous generalisation towers over me, wants my barely-emerging attention, but I’m safe now, because snails can’t read. snails can only glide around and leave weird bite marks in the lush shrubbery hedging my open mind.
I actually detest snails (sorry), but they do make me think of green leaves and spring and rainy days. and of animals who can’t read. as you know, this is an association-heavy “blog”, and will continue to be.