Getting muddled with an astrolabe

What’s the most important part of a book? Well, it’s either the beginning or the ending, but in commercial terms, you’d probably have to pick out the start, because if that bit flunks, no one will find out what you do later on.

So beginnings matter.

And which bit of the novel does a new writer tackle first? Well, duh, the beginning, of course.

So the normal way of doing things is that woefully inexperienced writers take on the most important part of their projects first thing. It’s like a newbie architect deciding that he’ll tackle the Dome of St Peter’s as his first build, rather than say, a school toilet block, or a nice little kitchen extension.

Now, yes, writing is easier to revise than a large stone dome, but there are some important issues here.

First, as you all know, I think it’s beyond essential to get a proper concept for your book in place, before you start to write it. I know it’s tempting just to race away when then ideas start fizzing, but it is a disaster to race off west-nor-west, if you’re actually trying to head north. I’ve known a zillion manuscripts where a writer has battled endlessly with trying to get it just right … and more or less did so. But when the fundamental concept was not saleable, all that work was for nothing.

So get that concept right. Don’t put pen to paper until you’ve done so.

But that’s not today’s topic. Let’s assume you have a cracking concept. Let’s assume you have started writing – the first two or three pages of your new book.

What’s the one thing you really need to check before you go any further? What’s the one bit that has to be right?

Story? I don’t think so. I’ve written books where nothing much happens in the first chapter. Yes, there’ll be a wriggling hint of an emerging story, but (a) not a lot and (b) it wouldn’t take more than a few lines of editing to get one in there anyway.

Character? Well, yes, that’s a better guess, except that you don’t necessarily start with your main character, and the early-on character reveals are likely to be quite modest anyway.

So what I think really matters – matters so much that it comes second only to basic novel concept / pitch – is voice.

If you start bland – if you accept bland – if bland is how you begin your book – then the entire novel is likely to drive down the Autoroute de Blandeur, the Autobahn von Boring, the Motorway of Mediocre.

It’s not that books without voice can’t sell – they do – it’s just that they are up against a ton more competition. Why should an agent or publisher pick out your basically cookie-cutter book from the pile? I mean, yes, a strong concept will always help, but you’re giving yourself a huge and needless handicap by taking that route.

Here are the openings of a handful of kids’ books:

1. The Sword in the Stone, by T. H. White (1938)

“On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, it was Court Hand and Summulae Logicales,  while the rest of the week it was the Organon, Repetition and Astrology. The governess was always getting muddled with her astrolabe, and when she got specially muddled she would take it out on the Wart by rapping his knuckles. She did not rap Kay’s knuckles because when Kay grew older he would be Sir Kay, and the master of the estate. The Wart was called the Wart because it rhymed with Art, which was short for his real name. Kay had given him the nickname. Kay was not called anything but Kay, because he was too dignified to have a nickname and would have flown into a passion if anybody had tried to give him one.”

My comment:

Yes, this text is almost 100 years old and wouldn’t work well today. But it already boils with invention and wit and a bubble of character interplay. You pretty much know from this tiny chunk that you are going to be happy to curl up with this author for the next 300 pages. (He won’t disappoint you.)

2. Jolly Foul Play, Robin Stevens (2016)

“We were all looking up, and so we missed the murder.

I have never seen Daisy so furious. She has been grinding her teeth (so hard that my teeth ache in sympathy) and saying, ‘Oh Hazel, how could we not notice it? We were on the spot!’

You see, Daisy needs to know things, and see everything, and get in everywhere. Being reminded that despite all the measures she puts in place (having informants in the younger years, ingratiating herself with the older girls and Jones the handyman and the mistresses), there are still things going on at Deepdean that she does not understand  – well, that has put her in an even worse mood than the one she’s been in lately.

And, if I am honest, I feel strangely ashamed. The Detective Society has solved three real murder mysteries so far and yet we still missed a murder taking place under our noses.”

My comment:

The prose here isn’t bouncing with obvious invention, but it’s slick enough to do the two things it wants to establish immediately. First – establish that this is a book about some girls solving murders. (Brilliant idea.) Second – establish that this will be a book about characters and personalities and emotional interplay just as much as it’s about clues and corpses. (There is, in fact, much more of the former than the latter in this small chunk, even though it’s ostensibly about murder.)

The prose isn’t showy, but it is supple enough to handle all this. When the narrator wants to emphasise quite how much Daisy needs to know things, she gives us a sentence so big, it bulges at the seams. When she wants to address her sense of shame, she does so in fewer than 10 words.

3. The Dark is Rising, Susan Cooper (1973)

“He remembered Mary had said, ‘They all speak Welsh, most of the time. Even Aunt Jen.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Will.

‘Don’t worry,’ his sister said. ‘Sooner or later they switch to English, if they see you’re there. Just remember to be patient. And they will be extra kind because of your having been ill. At least they were to me after my mumps.’

So now Will stood patiently alone on the windy grey platform of the small station of Tywyn, in a thin a drizzle of October rain, waiting while two men in the navy-blue railway uniform argued earnestly in Welsh. One of them was small and wizened, gnome-like; the other had a soft, squashy look, like a man made of dough.”

My comment:

Again, nothing ostentatious here, but still sophisticated. We learn immediately that this book will be careful where relationships, feelings and morals are concerned – that’s the message of the first three paragraphs – whilst the physical description of the last paragraph is original, age-appropriate and interesting, without attempting to be “LOOK AT ME” interesting. It’s carefully judged and spot on. You already believe in the setting, believe in the relationship between the kids – and believe in the author’s fundamental humanity.

4. The Accidental Secret Agent, Tom McLaughlin, (2016)

“‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have spent a lifetime hiding in the shadows but today we finally get what we’ve all been waiting for. For today is Judgement Day. I look around this room and it makes me proud.’ Mr X paused to puff on a large cigar.

‘Look at the great things we’ve already done. We steal, not to make us rich, but because we can. We hurt, not because we’re scared, but because we are courageous. And today, we destroy the world!’

Knowing nods rippled round the room which corrupt politicians, ghastly gangsters, and vile villains. [sic – this is how the sentence actually reads.]

‘We are finally ready,’ said Mr X, sitting at the end of a very long table. ‘All I need to do is press this red button and –’

‘PIZZA!’ a chirpy voice interrupted.”

My comment:

This is all just shouting. It’s cliché, but not even clever cliché. It’s a desperate (and successful) attempt to get publishers and kids to attach to the book by offering maximum volume, maximum knockabout humour from the very first paragraph. What makes it worse, is that all this is just a dream – as bad a way to start a book as you can find.

Again, I’m not saying you can’t be commercially successful doing that, but (a) you have to fight off a lot more competition and (b) there is not a chance that this book will be read or in print in 50 or 100 years’ time, unlike the books by White and Cooper.

And you?

Well, take care. In all four of these cases, the author established very, very early the approach they were going to be taking in all the rest of the book.

As you can see from both the Robin Stevens example and the Susan Cooper one, the approach can be subtle – not loud – but still perfectly pitched to the kind of books they want to write. A less highly attuned version of either voice would have set the authors off on a much poorer journey altogether.

And because voice goes under the radar a bit – it feels much more productive and important to draw up mind maps of your plot and spreadsheets of character interactions – you can easily misnavigate from the start.

Don’t.

Get your concept right. Get your voice right. Do those two things, do them well – and you’re good to go.

FEEDBACK FRIDAY / Voice

Give us any 250-word passage that properly exhibits the voice you’ve adopted. (Probably don’t choose the very opening chunk of your work, just because we do that quite often.)

As ever, give us the title, genre and context of your chunk, but also say something about what you’re trying to do with that voice – what characteristics do you think it has, and why does that work well with your novel?

Please title your post in this format: title / genre / [anything else we need to know]. That will help others navigate a big old forum with speed. When you’re ready, you can post your work here.

Til soon.

Harry