Writing the Serious Novel
Let me put my cards on the table straight away and say that I am
primarily interested here in giving you an insight into what is
involved in writing a serious novel. What I mean by 'serious'
will become more obvious, I hope, as I explain my position. For
me the initial urge to write can be anything as mundane as a
snatch of conversation, a character, a memory, an absorbing
situation - any one of which might, if I'm lucky, push me off on
the long journey of writing a novel. Then once I'm away and as
my story develops, I discover that I am writing what I feel
bound to call a serious work of fiction. This has been true of
all my writing endeavours in the past. Not that I set out with
the intention of being especially serious; I would say it was
more out of interest that I lent an ear to whatever it was made
itself available to my imagination. I was intrigued. You might
say I thought it would be fun to follow that lead. But let me
give you a clearer idea of that process from the experience I
had of writing my last novel THE PURSUIT OF INNOCENCE.
Imagine me then one morning sitting before my computer screen
and letting my fingers range over the keyboard. For some reason
I begin with a young man (name not yet decided) running away
into the night. Perhaps this is not the first bit of doodling of
the morning but I like this young man who suddenly appears on my
screen, and I persevere with him. I like his innocence, his will
to live. So I decide to nurture him. Go with him. This young man
is elated and fearful: elated, because he is running away into
the dark to freedom; fearful, because he has no idea what he
will encounter. There is a metaphor here for me as a writer
(only later do I realize this) for I too am elated to have set
out on my journey of writing a novel, though fearful also of how
much I have yet to do in order to achieve that goal. But now the
young man is on his way at least and I am excited for the both
of us. You see, I am that young man.
There are days, months and even years ahead of us. But I am not
yet to know this. Either of us could run out of puff any day. Or
worse. After all, I have forced this innocent youth to jump from
a train into a dangerous country, to run away from the loving
care of those who have made a terrible sacrifice for him to gain
this freedom. They have willed him to succeed, as I do. He
cannot let them down. They are his history and he carries that
history with him. So I push him on. But this young man needs an
ally. He cannot bear to be alone, not now that he has lost his
'brothers', his true family, as it were. Besides, he needs
someone to help him find his way home to freedom. He needs to
get a map. So, out of this bleak, nightmarish land a house
appears ... then a woman: a strong woman who has known suffering
... a mother ... a loving and defiant creature with a history of
lost ones too ...
And so I write, on and on. I write through dark and dismal days
when nothing much is achieved and I seem to have lost hope. By
way of distraction and excuse I polish and re-polish sentences
until they seem to stretch and groan under the weight of my
attention. I fiddle endlessly with punctuation marks that act
for me like worry beads until I can find the inspiration to go
forward. Then the sun shines and I'm off again. I do not think
of readers, of money, of best sellers. Not while I'm writing I
don't. I think only of this need I have to make it all come out
right - whatever 'all' that is. This need - urge, itch,
compulsion, call it what you must - is ever present within me.
When things are going well it manifests itself as a powerful
emotion, euphoric, almost palpable. And it seems to be working
for me now. I think I will call this novel THE MAP. That title
is solidly reassuring. It will do.
As time goes by my characters develop, grow to maturity at my
fingertips. I see their faces clearly, hear the sound of their
voices, recognize their own individual peculiarities. And I love
them all. I love their goodness; I love their humanity that
shines through the darkness of the horrors they have to face.
And I am convinced that if I love them enough and care for them
enough, by bestowing on them all the skill I have as a writer
then any reader of mine will care for them and believe in them
as much as I do.
But I see trouble ahead for these characters. Theirs is not a
kind world to find oneself in. I should know. Yet the
sentimental side of me wants all these good people of mine to
live and be happy right to the end of the last chapter. Their
suffering should grant them that comfort at least. But I cannot
save them from what is bound to happen to them, though I would
if I could. I have no recourse to flying broomsticks or wizards
or romantic swashbuckling heroes. No one can come to their
rescue here. They are too substantial for magic, for wish
fulfilment, and the world they inhabit is their natural element.
You see, everything here in this novel of mine is as real as my
fiction can make it. And my characters know it too. We have
colluded in this, made our pact. When all is said and done we
know that we have to face up to what's in store for us. That is
the truth we acknowledge. Our bible. Any cop-out would be
demeaning to the whole enterprise. Not worthy of us. There is no
going back. This is serious stuff.
Serious? Yes. For while I am preoccupied with shaping plot and
character and story the serious business of what the novel is
struggling to articulate has been brewing away all along. It is
deep down there somewhere in the misty undercurrent of all these
writerly preoccupations. Down there you will find an exploration
of the characters need for one another, the nature of family and
loyalty, the struggle of frail individuals against the tyranny
of absolute power, the wish to leave ones mark in the world, to
be remembered ... Above all there's the pity of being alive in a
cruel and unforgiving world.
And I have been exploring these issues all along, developing
these themes without actually been fully conscious of doing so;
certainly without deliberately setting them out for display. But
they are there sure enough and they are the lifeblood of my
story. You might say they are the heart and soul of the novel,
realized spontaneously, so to speak, through character and
situation. All along they have been the force propelling me
along the way towards that inevitable conclusion: the finished
work. And this is the business, as I see it, of what the serious
novel is all about. Indeed it is the business of all serious
novels. For such novels invite us as readers to explore the
issues that should concern us most if we are to count ourselves
as being truly human.
So now when I consider what I have been doing and the complexity
of issues that are being developed in this work I see that my
original title THE MAP will not do. It is too basic and
explanatory. Too perfunctory. For a start the innocence of my
young character is pervasive throughout the novel in various
guises. As an innocent he is being pursued by the authorities.
True enough and literally quite obvious. But what about the
farmhouse that is intended by the woman and her family as a
refuge from the callousness of the world outside? Is not that
the pursuit of an innocent, idyllic existence? Misguided as it
turns out, I know. Then there is the political dimension,
explored through the injustices and brutality inflicted by the
most autocratic of regimes, such as the one in this novel. Yet
do not these regimes often have their genesis in the pursuit of
some worthy, perhaps 'innocent' notion of how the world should
conform to some utopian ideal? This may be to stretch the term
'innocence' a bit; but at least it allows for an extended
discussion of the point at issue here. So for me THE MAP as a
title will not do. THE PURSUIT OF INNOCENCE will suit me better.
It invites a more searching appraisal of the work in question.
That is what I must have meant all along. And that, for me, is
what writing the serious novel is all about.
THE PURSUIT OF INNOCENCE by Clifford Forde is available from
Mountain Mist Productions at http://1stmist.com