Writing the Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

novel.
    Of course you don’t. Nobody does.
    The chapter on outlining will offer some suggestions in this regard. Meanwhile, there are two things to keep in mind.
    First of all, recognize that the total control you have over short stories may be largely illusory. What you really have is confidence—because you think you know everything about the story by the time you set out to write it.
    But, if you’re like me, you keep surprising yourself at the typewriter. Characters take on a life of their own and insist upon supplying their own dialogue. Scenes that looked necessary at the outset turn out to be superfluous, while other scenes take a form other than that you’d originally intended for them. As often as not, midway through the story you’ll think of a way to improve elements of the plot itself.
    This happens to a much greater extent in novels. And it should. A work of fiction ought to be an organic entity. It’s alive, and it grows as it goes. Even the most elaborately outlined novel, even the product of those authors who write outlines half the length of the final book, must have this life to it if it is going to live for the reader. The writing of fiction is never purely mechanical, never just a matter of filling in the blanks and tapping the typewriter keys.
    A second thing to realize is that you do not have to grasp the whole book at once because you are not going to be writing the whole book at once. Novels are written—as life is lived—One Day At A Time. I’ve found that all I really have to know about a book in order to put in a day’s work on it is what I want to have happen during that day’s writing.
    I get in trouble when I find myself starting to project. As soon as I step back and try to envision the novel as a whole, I’m likely to be paralyzed with terror. I become convinced that the whole thing is impossible, that there are structural flaws which doom the entire project, that the book can’t conceivably resolve itself successfully. But as long as I can get up each morning and concentrate exclusively on what’s going to happen during that particular day’s stint at the typewriter, I seem to do all right—and the book takes shape, page by page and chapter by chapter.
    Many of the books I write are mystery novels of one sort or another. Books of this type have two storylines which unfold simultaneously. First, there’s what happens before the reader’s eyes from the first page to the last, the record of action as perceived by the viewpoint character or characters. Underlying this plot is the mystery storyline itself, that which is happening (or has happened previously) and is withheld from the reader until the book’s climax.
    Years ago, I took it for granted that a writer had to have both of these storylines fully worked out in his head before putting a word on paper. I’ve since learned that it’s occasionally possible to write an elaborately complicated mystery novel without knowing the identity of the villain until the story is almost at an end. In Burglars Can’t Be Choosers, I was within two or three chapters of the finish before a friend’s chance remark enabled me to figure out whodunnit; I had to do some rewriting to tie off all the loose ends, but the book worked out fine.
    Suppose I spend a year writing a novel and it proves to be unsalable. I can’t risk wasting that much time, so wouldn’t it be safer to stick to short stories?
    Would it? Let’s assume that you could write twelve or twenty short stories in the time it would take you to write a novel. What makes you think you’d have a better chance of selling them? The nature of the market is such that you’d probably have a better chance placing one novel for publication than one out of twenty short stories. And, assuming you wouldn’t sell either the novel or the short stories, why would a batch of unsalable short stories feel less like a waste of time than an equally unsalable novel?
    Nevertheless, the fear of