If I only had time
Imagine a
patient saying to a doctor at the end of a consultation, 'I could have been a doctor you know, I've often thought about that,
but somehow I never got round to it. I've never really had the time to do it.'
Unlikely, yet substitute one profession for another - writer for doctor - and
you'll find it happens a lot, or it does in my experience.
Time,
apparently, is the only essential requirement for writing a book. Oh, and
ideas, but they're no real obstacle. 'I've got a headful. The life I've had... The
stories I could tell... If I only had the time to put them down I could have a
best-seller. You should come round sometime, I'll give you plenty of ideas for
your next book. You can pay me commission.'
I've
perfected the strained smile on hearing these words - I'm sure every writer has
- and I've learned the futility of counter-argument, though I'm often tempted
to quote the late journalist and author Gene Fowler: 'Writing is easy. All you
do is stare at a blank piece of paper until drops of blood form on your
forehead.'
I guess for
most people most professions - doctor, lawyer, banker - are a mystery, but
writing is something we all do to a certain extent, if only to update our
status on Facebook. And of course we've all done creative writing - the faded
pages of the school exercise books still stacked somewhere in the loft are
testament to a talent shown from an early age - so there's no mystery to it,
and no anatomy to learn, or jurisprudence, or how to make sense of a balance
sheet. Plus, you can read a book in a couple of days so how hard can it be to
write one?
My urge to
rage is sometimes strong: a sublimation of my inner demand to be given due
credit for all the time (yes), ingenuity, craftsmanship and sheer bloody hard
work (bordering on agony) that I've put into producing a book. I want to take
the hapless reader through every page, every line, to deconstruct and
forensically analyse, disinter the learning beneath, reveal the artist at work
(how he plays with tone, colour, variation; how brilliantly he achieves balance
and synthesis from thesis and antithesis); to hold my jewel to the light and
have my reader marvel at its distilled beauty. Sorry, am I gripping your arm
too tight?
Perhaps the
real reason I do talks is not to sell my books (another oft-crushed hope) but
to offer myself up for such examination, to lay myself open to questions that
might begin: 'I was intrigued by the way you revealed motive without needing to
express it directly in the words and thoughts of the lead characters - could
you say more about how you achieved such a feat?' Unfortunately questions like
that never occur. 'Where do you write?' 'How do you find a publisher?'
Questions like that occur. And during the post-talk tea ritual, as I wait in
shy expectation behind the pile of books that always turns out to be too optimistically
high, people sidle up to tell me of their own frustrated literary ambitions. My
excruciating chart-topper is the WI stalwart who said in all seriousness: 'I
have a fantastic idea for a novel; all I'm missing is the words. Do you do
ghost-writing?'
I am
anticipating sympathetic tuts and nods from fellow writers, but as we close in
our group hug maybe we are turning our backs on an essential truth, that the
only real difference between us and the literary wannabes is that we actually
have a book or two with our names on the cover. So what? What do any of us have
a right to expect beyond a cursory nod of acknowledgement for the production of
a new work, the equivalent of a pat on the head for the boy who has done his
homework. Less perhaps, for at least the boy was given the homework by someone
who demanded it. Whoever asked us to sit down at a desk and open a vein to
write copiously in our own blood? Why should we complain about how difficult it
is to write a book when many might prefer we found it impossible.
Has there
ever been a banner headline that announced The
world needs a new book? Of course not; there are millions on offer already,
far more than the world could ever hope to read. In fact what my experience
shows is that there may be more people out there with the vague ambition to
write a book than those with any desire to read one. Or maybe they just don't
have the time.
No. I can't
let the cynic in me close this argument. I must reach for a reason, a
justification for all those hours spent on squeezing out the words and shaping
something meaningful from them. Maybe I shouldn't dismiss as unimportant the
simple fact that so many others have thought about writing a book for
themselves but have never done it. Their
very number suggests there is a perceived status to being an author even if it's
somewhat below being a professional footballer or appearing on The X Factor,
among other favourites of the wishful thinker. And I should comfort myself with
the notion that if people did not spend half their time wallowing in daydreams
they might actually get around to producing something. So I'll continue smiling
as I listen to another would-be-should-be-could-have-been, I'll even nod my
head in a show of empathy while, in my mind only, I will say to my new friend: Keep dreaming the dream, but for pity's sake don't pick up the pen. We have
quite enough competition as it is.
