Writing the Novel Read Online Free PDF

wasting one’s time keeps a lot of people from writing novels. But I don’t think the fear is justified even when it proves true.
    So what if a first novel’s unsalable? For heaven’s sake, most of them are, and why on earth should they be otherwise?
    Any of several things may happen to the person who produces an unsalable first novel. He may discover, in the course of writing the book, that he was not cut out to be a novelist, that he doesn’t like the work or doesn’t possess the talent.
    I don’t know that it’s a waste of time to make this sort of discovery.
    On the other hand, the author of an unpublishable first novel may learn that writing is his métier, that he has a burning desire to continue with it, and that the weaknesses and flaws which characterized his first book need not appear in the ones to follow. You might be surprised to know how many successful writers produced hopelessly incompetent first books. They were not wasting their time. They were learning their trade.
    Consider Justin Scott, whose first novel I read in manuscript several years ago. It was embarrassingly bad in almost every respect, and hopelessly unpublishable. But it did him some good to write it, and his second novel—also unsalable, as it happened—was a vast improvement over the first.
    He remained undiscouraged. His third novel, a mystery, was published. Several more mysteries followed. Then he spent over a year writing The Shipkiller, a nautical adventure story on a grand scale which brought a six-figure paperback advance, sold to the movies for a handsome sum, and did well enough in the stores to land on several of the bestseller lists.
    Do you suppose Justin regrets the time he “wasted” on that first novel?
    Maybe I haven’t started a novel because I’m afraid I wouldn’t finish it.
    Maybe so. And maybe you wouldn’t finish it. There’s no law that says you have to.
    Please understand that I’m not advocating abandoning a novel halfway through. I’ve done this far too often myself and it’s something I’ve never managed to feel good about. But you do have every right in the world to give up on a book if it’s just not working, or if you simply discover that writing novels is not for you.
    As much as we’d all prefer to pretend our calling is a noble one, it’s salutary to bear in mind that the last thing this poor old planet needs is another book. The only reason to write anything more extensive than a shopping list is because it’s something you want to do. If that ceases to be the case you’re entirely free to do something else instead.
    I’m inclined to hope you will complete your first novel, whatever its merits and defects, whatever your ultimate potential as a novelist. I think the writing of a novel is a very valuable life experience for those who carry it through. It’s a great teacher, and I’m talking now about its ability to teach you not about writing but about yourself. The novel, I submit, is an unparalleled vehicle for self-discovery.
    But whether you finish it or not remains your choice. And failing to begin a task for fear of failing to complete it doesn’t make abundant sense, does it?
    Okay, I’m convinced. I’m going to sit down and write a novel. After all, short stuff isn’t significant, is it?
    It isn’t, huh? Who says?
    I’ll grant that commercial significance singles out the novel, and that long novels are automatically considered to be of more importance than short ones. I’ll admit that, with a handful of exceptions, short story writers don’t get much attention from literary critics. And I won’t deny that your neighbors will take you more seriously as a writer if you tell them you’ve written a novel. (Of course if that’s the main concern, just go ahead and tell them. You don’t have to write anything. Lie a little. Don’t worry—they won’t beg to read the manuscript.)
    But as far as intrinsic merit is concerned, length is hardly a factor. You’ve probably