How to write a manifesto

I’ve written a few books of non-fiction, and had a brilliant time doing so (with, erp, maybe one exception). And one of the things that really stuck in my head came from my agent.

We were about to pitch a book on the basis of a short proposal: basically three sample chapters + an outline of the whole book + the book’s introduction. I had thought of the intro as being the least important part of that package, but my agent told me no, it was crucial. I had to think of it, he said, as a manifesto for the book. A declaration of intent, but one that also laid out an argument to the reader: “Here’s why this topic is so important / interesting, and why you won’t be happy unless you buy this book.”

So I took my intro more seriously and rewrote it. We took that proposal out to market. By that point, I was fine with the chapters themselves and had a good, strong introduction. I was much blurrier about the actual outline, though – so I fudged the issue, and wrote an outline that kinda looked like a proper outline. It had all the right headings, but it was deliberately cryptic. My actual intentions as to content remained obscure.

Thanks to my agent’s insistence on getting the presentation right, we got a couple of huge offers and accepted one of them. We then had a Woo-hoo-we’re-so-excited lunch with the publishers at a posh place in London, and after an hour or so, I said, “Guys, the book outline I gave you was kind of cryptic. Don’t you maybe want to know what this book is going to be about?”

And yes: they did – and I told them – but they didn’t really care. They bought the book, and were happy buying the book, without knowing much about what was going to be inside it.

The point is:

1. They trusted my manifesto-style introduction. They thought, “Gosh, yes, this is an interesting and important topic which will engage plenty of our readers.”
   
2. They looked at my three sample chapters and thought, “Yep, this guy can write and this is the kind of material that will engage a broad audience.”

That was it. They didn’t need more. They trusted me (rightly) to do the rest well.

It’s much the same with the opening of any book – novels, included.

Obviously, you don’t open a novel with something that sounds like a manifesto… but that’s more or less what you’re doing anyway. You’re saying to the reader, in effect, “You like novels that are [literate / suspenseful / raunchy / funny / weird / whatever] and this novel is going to completely satisfy that desire in you.”

Those opening pages constitute a promise (“here’s what’s on offer”) and a convincer (“And boy, it’s going to be good”) all in one.

Now, plenty of writers are seduced into thinking that they can only achieve those goals via the sort of gimmick that opens a Bond movie: masked gunmen, alpine setting, ski chase, huge cliff, certain death … but wa-hey – Union Jack parachute opens and theme music begins.

That approach works for Bond movies and it works for some novels, but it’s not compulsory. The only elements that have to be there are:

1. Genre promise. You have to announce, accurately, “this is an xyz kind of book” – a police procedural, a literary novel, a hist-fic epic, etc. Most books don’t fit into a clearly defined genre, of course, but they still have to announce their niche. “I’m a funny, book-club style novel about relationships and loneliness in a digital age.” You’re giving co-ordinates to the reader, and those co-ordinates must be accurate. (That’s why those Bond intros work: you know exactly what kind of film you’re about to watch – a promise made, then kept.)
   
2. Authority. You need to convey authority. You need a reader (who may not have read any of your work before) to think, “Yes, I can trust this person to deliver the promise that is being made here.” And again: authority doesn’t need ski chases and parachutes. When you walk into a bank to take out a loan, you wouldn’t feel comforted if your putative lender were dressed in a yellow ski-suit and spouting double-entendres. The way you need to display authority will vary according to the book you’re writing.

And of these two, the key is authority.

Not many of you are going to falsely signal “gory, Nordic horror novel” when the book is actually going to turn into a sun-drenched rom-com, set over a Provencal summer. So, in effect, it’s authority you need to worry about.

And?

Well, now is a good moment for me to remind you that The Ultimate Start – our latest self-paced video course – is running at the moment. There are well over four hundred of you already taking it (I’m staggered), but you can easily jump in, if you’re a latecomer. The course is £49 if you’re not a Premium Member, but it’s as free as the wind, if you have the wisdom to be a PM. The aim of the course is to get your novel started on the right track – and of course to introduce you to our Ultimate Novel Writing Programme tutors, in case you’re thinking about taking that most excellent course. 

Next week, I’ll talk about how authority can be made to work on the page – with or without ski-chases, yellow jump-suits and plenty of men-in-black getting shot.

FFEDBACK FRIDAY / Setting the scene

This week’s Feedback Friday task is from Philip Womack, one of our tutors on The Ultimate Start. It’s this:

Rewrite your opening 500 words, this time trimming any unnecessary backstory or description. 

When you’re ready, post your work to the forum, then read and comment on the thoughts of at least two of your fellow writers. Can you learn anything from their observations? 

Til soon. 

Harry