How to survive a car crash

I’m going to talk, in a moment, about the worst-best experience of my writing life, and the lessons learned.

First, a couple of words on Townhouse.

You’ve been signing up in your 100s since our launch last week. Hooray for that. I hope you’re enjoying the experience. Secondly, yes, we know, we know: the site is working far too slowly. We have some site speed specialists working on that problem right now. We’re hoping to have a fix in the next two weeks or so. And third, it’s just brilliant to see the variety and wisdom of the discussions that are taking place. If you want a peer-to-peer critique, then get involved. Or the “all about writing” forum is already crowded with conversations about (among other things) creative writing degrees, points of view, the use of foreign words, child characters who do bad things, writing contest submissions and more. There’s loads more too.

As Townhouse fills up and speeds up, the quality and depth of those conversations is only going to increase.

But now, let’s talk car crashes.

What if you have a writing car crash? A complete and total failure?

And, by the way, we need to be a bit careful to define terms here. If you’re writing your first novel and you make some plotting cock-ups, that’s not a failure – that’s just writing.

If you complete your work, edit it hard, then come to us for a manuscript assessment, only to be told that there are still a lot of issues, that too is not a failure. It’s just writing.

Same thing, indeed, if you go through the whole process, and send your stuff out to agents, and get some agents wanting to see the full manuscript only, ultimately, to say no. That’s disappointing, of course, but really, that’s a success. You wrote your very first novel and got it good enough, on that first outing, to have serious agents toying with the idea of taking you on? How is that not impressive?

So, yes, I have high standards for what constitutes a car crash. I think the key ingredients are (A) your work is way below the standard to be expected from someone of your experience – plus, (B) you’re completely in the dark about how bad things are. If you have the first element without the second, you don’t have a car-crash, you just have an unresolved editorial problem, and we all have those. Again: that’s just writing.

But, even on a strict definition, I had a total car crash early in my career – my only really bad experience.

I’d already sold my first book, via a highly contested auction, and the book went on to be a bestseller. So: good outcome, right?

Better still, I’d delivered the draft of my second book before the first was even launched. So: good author, right?

The trouble was that second book was AWFUL. I haven’t kept a draft of it and never re-read it, so I now only have a nightmare-style recall of what was in it. But – plotting, bad. Elevator pitch – worse. Writing – subpar. Characters – patchy and (yeugh) a bit icky too.

The draft was so bad that I got called into HarperCollins’ nice London offices for an editorial discussion. My editor and publisher, both very nice humans, told me – gently – how bad the book was.

I didn’t need a lot of telling. I wasn’t defensive. As soon as they started to talk it through, I realised they were right. Luckily, I had plenty of time to do a re-write. So I got home, copied the document into a Drafts folder that I could plunder for paragraphs here and there, then selected the whole document and hit delete.

This bestselling author had just deleted his second novel.

My redraft was about a million times better than the version before, and it was still the least good thing I’ve ever written. But it’s also where I really learned to be a writer. My first novel had just come too easily. The core idea had been a good one. My delivery was fine, or more than fine. But the absence of struggle had also meant an absence of knowhow. I’d read nothing at all about the craft of writing. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might need to do so. (We all know how to write, no? You just glue enough sentences together.)

That second novel was a wrestling match, start to finish. I read every book I could find on craft. I didn’t agree with everything I read, but even the process of disagreeing made me more reflective, more considered.

And that second book didn’t do badly. I got a sort-of film deal for it, which admittedly never quite materialised. The book was shortlisted for one of the big annual writing prizes. It sold a plump five-figures number of copies.

I still don’t love the book, but it did OK.

My reasons for offering you this story is threefold:

1. Car crashes happen

They’re not terminal. Don’t fret. Move on.

2. Use them to learn

I’m a huge believer in the importance of craft.

Writing technique is the sword and shield that protects you from disaster. It won’t protect you from mistakes – nothing does. But the better your basic writing craft, the quicker you’ll pick those issues up and the more rapidly you’ll solve them.

3. Protect yourself

The best way to avoid major problems, however, is to stop making them in the first place. The single strongest tool you have for doing that is a powerful idea for your book. The stronger that idea, the better your delivery is likely to be – and the less any errors of execution are likely to matter. Dan Brown is the ultimate exemplar here. He is a poor writer – but his Da Vinci Code idea was (for his particular market niche) one of genius. You could, I guess, say the same about EL James and Shades of Grey, except that her writing is even worse.

The reason I called my own personal car-crash a worst-best experience is because it made me a far better writer. It was the single biggest learning development of my writing life.

My first book was gifted to me. The rest? They were all worked for. And if I’m technically competent now, that’s largely because of the kick in the pants I got from that terrible second novel of mine.

***

That’s essentially it from me, but, as it happens, we have a “Meet Your Match” pitch session later this month, where you all get to pitch your ideas to agents – either via Townhouse or Twitter. Agents have requested full manuscripts following these sessions in the past. I’m sure they’ll do so again.

If you’re a free member of Townhouse, I strongly encourage you to get peer-to-peer feedback on those pitches before you put them in front of agents. Just put your pitch out there, and ask for input.

If you’re a Premium Member, then by all means get peer-to-peer feedback, but additionally, I’ll be looking at your elevator pitches from 12.00 to 2.00pm UK-time next Thursday. We’ll also point you to some great video resources on what a great elevator pitch looks like – and how to create your own. For pitches that impress us, we’ll have some free literary agent 1-2-1s to give away.

Hey ho. What a week.

I’ve promised to take the kids out mushrooming this afternoon. My wife is always terrified that I’m going to feed the kids toadstools, but I’ve not lost a child yet.

Till soon, old buddies. Till soon.

Harry 

PS: This post appears on Townhouse right here 

Best way to get a response from me on the issues raised – chat on Townhouse, of course! Let’s have an after-party.

PPS: At the end of this month – the 27^th – we’ll have a “Meet Your Match” pitch session with literary agents on Twitter. 

In preparation, on the 13 October (next week), I’ll be using my “Office Hours” to run an open elevator pitch session on Townhouse. I’m going to help out any Premium Members who want input before the big day. I hope there’ll also be lots of peer-to-peer interaction in addition. During these “Office Hours” I will also be keeping an eye on the Premium Member group for any non-elevator pitch questions you have to ask me. Just hop along and tell me what’s on your mind. 

But that’s not all! On the 20^th of October (and thereafter), my colleague Polly Peraza-Brown will also be helping you all in the lead up to Meet Your Match with Twitter etiquette, how to use hashtags and all that.

The Meet Your Match preparation group can be found here. 

PPPS: Hate writing? Love arboriculture? Don’t actually know what it means, just like the sound of the word? Pah! Unsubscribe, you brute.