sarah eve kelly

A few weeks ago I posted that I’m a cowardly reader; in fact, I’m my own worst enemy at the bookshop, unwilling to take a chance on much. It takes me ages of wandering up and down the fiction section, pulling things out, reading the jacket copy, reading a random page, to find something I’m willing to take home with me. When I love a book, I really love it, but books are like friends: it takes a lot for me to commit.

Now, another admission: I’m externally motivated.

I know, I know you’re supposed to write for the love of storytelling, for the love of pounding the keyboard, for the love of seeing your own ideas come to light. It’s partly that, sure. If it weren’t, I could seek gratification elsewhere. But what really gets me going is the idea of other people reading.

Actually, it’s usually just one or two people. This is a revolving-door system: I’ve always got somebody, or a couple of somebodies, in the back of my head when I’m writing. They’re always people I know, and I couldn’t begin to explain why, at that moment, I want to impress him or her in particular.

And my need for validation doesn’t stick at this one person: I want it from anyone who wants to give it. I write to be read, full stop. Naturally, validation can come in the form of criticism as well - I suppose it’s not validation so much as interest. Nothing I like better than a big fat fight over form and content. (I take criticism well, yes I do.)

Back in undergrad I was in this remarkable writing group; it started as an advanced non-fiction prose course of seven-odd people and Ted Bishop, still the greatest writing mentor I ever had. When the course ended, we decided to keep meeting, in pubs, to keep writing and passing our stuff round. We all wanted to write for a living; we were all a little full of ourselves, but good Jesus, we had a great time. One night, a night when I was scheduled for the chopping block, Ted bought the first round and asked everyone to dig out their copies of my piece, and after swallowing half his pint in one, he announced that Sarah Eve Kelly Has No Soul.

‘I couldn’t get past the second page,’ Ted said. ‘This was absolute, absolute swill. Just garbage.’

‘How can I make it better?’ I asked.

‘Take out the fucking garbage, why don’t you,’ he said, ‘and put something else in.’

By this point there was no solemnity left on his face, and he could barely make himself heard because we were all laughing so hard. It’s true, though: it was garbage. I went back to the piece the next day and took a hatchet to it, suffered for a week, wrote and rewrote, and sent the result to him.

I still have the email he sent back: ‘THERE, you see? I knew you could do it. Gorgeous.’

So, basically, I’m like the kid who kicks up in the middle of a restaurant. Any kind of attention will do.

Fast-forward to now: I knew I was going to struggle with novel revisions. I don’t look at a document and naturally see how it can be bettered; I lose the forest for the trees fairly quickly. I shall have to get over that. Right now, when a scene needs fixing, I’m far more inclined to just scrap it and rewrite it (although, of course, nothing is ever actually scrapped - I have a ‘cutting-room floor’ document that I fill with everything that’s deleted from the manuscript). Bad habit. So here I am, suffering, and instead of actually revising, I’m whining about revising to my (now online) writing group, moaning about how I wrote this novel in a vacuum, how nobody loves me - generally being the screaming kid at the restaurant.

Three people take pity on me and offer to read. They don’t even make it sound like pity. Being a brat obviously pays off: I’m dancing in my living room.

Suddenly I’m galvanized. Revisions need to happen, and fast. No more musing about the Muse - I make half a dozen practical quick-fixes and send the bugger off. And now I’m waiting.

That was the motivator; that got me out of my rut. The idea of people reading, like, right now. Not telling a beautiful story; not the subtle wonder of composition.

People reading: I love it. Even if I get a verdict of Swill.

This isn’t to be confused with glory, mind. Misanthropes don’t like presses of people. Just one person at a time. That’s the kind of career I hope to have. Unfortunately that’s not the kind of career that pays the rent, but it’s what I want.

There you have it: my ignoble Tuesday confession. What will it be next time, I wonder? My bath habit? That there are some published writers to whom I secretly think I’m superior? My hope that Stephen Fry will comment on one of my Twitter tweets? We’ll just have to see what next Tuesday brings.

Till next time, &c &c.

Related posts:

1. teaser tuesday: back in the saddle edition
2. teaser tuesday: the fidelity trial
3. tag