Book 3. What a beauty. What a biatch.
Greetings from my desk, where I should really be continuing with my next draft of book 3 rather than chatting away on Substack. Thank you, paid subscribers, for ensuring that this fannying about really does count as work. I bring you word from the writing front, which is to say that I am deep in the throes of regret at writing this damn book. The mustard gas is real.
When the story of this novel originally came to me, I was DELIGHTED. It combines a bunch of my favourite things - California, mid century modern, Elvis, complex families - and it came complete with a title that I have since shelved, it being deemed (rightly, tbf) ‘too quiet’.
Ah, too quiet. The anathema of the publishing world. Quiet books don’t sell. Quiet characters aren’t memorable. Punches need to be thrown from the first para, before the Amazon sample chapter ends and your prospective reader has closed the tab, bored and still holding their money.
I am not slating the publishing industry here. I get it. It’s a business and there is so much content these days that everything must stand out. However, it’s hard when you prefer a quiet book yourself.
I read Stoner this year for the first time and adored it. I’m not sure I’ve ever read a quieter book. It’s the story of a man who grows up in a silent household and marries the wrong woman, spending his life in a silent marriage and a mediocre job. Not much happens to him at all. The entire book is prefaced with a paragraph that says exactly this, and yet, I loved spending my time in the company of William Stoner. The book has the same mood as an Edward Hopper - beautiful, still…and oh so quiet.
But I’m not Edward Hopper. I’m a modern-day author, trying to make money in a noisy world. I would be an idiot not to listen to my publisher, because whatever my personal preferences, those words still have to pay my mortgage. And as the mood of the times is to stand out, I must find a way to follow suit.
The new title is not quiet. In fact, it’s spilling over with optimism and hope. Titles are a funny thing that are apt to change. Not a single one of my novels has ended up with its original title. Another Life was originally Dinosaur Man at the time of being written, then Hungry Heart when I was looking for an agent, before morphing into its final incarnation when we submitted to publishers. Oh, Sister was originally Jezebel, a word loaded with meaning in the world of those three women, and their names form a part-anagram of the word (Jen, Zelda, Isobel). It was deemed too religious a title that would not translate to the wider world, and so enter Mr Bob Dylan. (Any excuse.)
I’m really enjoying this little writing space right now. Speaking to you directly, rather than being at the mercy of an algorithm, feels more genuine and personal than social media. I feel a little lost on there, truth be told. So much noise. Anyone who knows me knows I’m much more comfortable in smaller settings or one-on-one than in a massive group. Perhaps the majority of writers/creatives are like this?
A huge thanks to those of you who have subscribed. I’m planning to write more about the creative process, my route to publishing, how returning to writing completely changed my life, and what I’ve found useful in my few short years of being a published author. Some of these posts will be only for my paid subscribers as they will be personal in nature and not something I feel comfortable broadcasting into the ether. A paid sub currently costs less than a monthly coffee, as I want my writing to remain accessible.
Right. Back to the keyboard. This book won’t write itself.