Conceiving a novel

In the beginning...

It can begin anywhere: A face; a place; a photograph; a conversation; a found story running through the generations; a media article; a friend’s testimony.

At first it’s just a tingle in the mind, but then you test it, start to dig. Initially it’s fragile – don’t even talk about it! Start scribbling the odd phrase or paragraph in a rough notebook, don’t put pressure on the delicate idea by capturing it on file. Carrying the idea around with you, does it start to grow? Does it seep through during the day – half-formed images; a face? You feed it, researching online perhaps, anchoring a character to a face and body you know.

The notebooks start to fill up. Whole scenes are beginning to form. They are detailed and visual, almost tangible. For me it’s not like I’m creating something new, adding to something; it’s more like the mist is evaporating from something that was there before and I can finally see it.

But this isn’t enough. As my husband says, “Each fresh novel is another PhD in terms of process, timescale and commitment.”  Agreed. In order to write a novel of 80 K plus words, you need to be obsessed. Many writers have their ‘advance’, which I’m sure is an excellent motivator! However, I’ve never worked this way. I fear it may put me off, or the warm breath on the back of the neck from a publisher with a deadline to keep, may affect the direction of the work. Maybe the story idea you originally submitted will change as it writes, then where will your contract be? Best to get the work well underway before approaching a publisher or agent.

So, it’s important to give it time. Am I forcing it? No use ‘flogging a dead horse’ (what a horrible image, I’ve never thought through it properly before!). After reaching a certain stage, I stop actively pursuing the idea.  This is the test.

Time passes. How quickly does it fade? Is there a slight, guilty feeling of relief? Do I miss it? More importantly, is the pot still cooking over its own fire i.e. are new ideas, images, encounters, still being generated,  despite my turning away? Are they forcing themselves on me, even though I’ve turned my back?

If the answer is ‘yes’, only then is it time to really turn the spotlight on the project; to articulate it out loud and examine how it sounds. Now you ask the tough question, ‘Is this worth spending the next three years of your life on? It won’t make you rich; there’s no guarantee anyone will publish or read it. Do you need it enough?’ Because you have to need to do it. For me, unless the project won’t leave me alone, I walk away.

So now, with the probation period over ( and there’s been a least one novel that never made it through), stage two, ‘The Realisation’ begins.