Tag Archives: Kafka

Advice from Kafka

Over the last few weeks I’ve gone through draft five of A Remedy for All Things. This draft was a slow, meticulous read through looking for the tiniest hint of cliché, the odd rogue space, the distant scent of an inconsistency, typos, missing commas, over-writing and anything that could in any way snag. I was, as always, amazed at how much I found, given how many times I’ve read the manuscript already, but I’m also certain that there will still be errors, some of them so glaring that by this stage I have no chance of seeing them. I’m far too close to the narrative now. I feel in my bones that that people I invented lived real lives, perhaps because one of them is a fictionalised version of a historic character, whilst another lived a life that many endured in that particular political context. Or perhaps because reality is in any case such a disputed notion that in writing the trance becomes where we live.

And then it ends, at least for a while. There will be another draft, but not until a thorough and trusted reader has gone over this draft to root out all those snags and errors that I can’t see for myself. So I’m in that strange period of hiatus. It feels itchy. The spell has been broken and for a while I have nothing to write; a restless, unnerving gap, but an essential one.

kafka headKafka famously had a sign over his desk that simply said, ‘Wait’. It’s not advice that writers often want to hear. We’re more liable to be keen to get on, keen to finish, keen to find a publisher, keen to … We don’t live in a patient world, but a slow writing movement might be as timely as the slow food movement. Waiting, sending the manuscript off to be commented on and positively critiqued, or just putting the file away for a period of time, has all kinds of benefits. It ensures that the glitches are more likely to be caught and the final draft will be one that is as polished as possible. And it pulls us out of the trance so that the next time we encounter the manuscript we’re not so emotionally involved with the characters whose lives had started to invade our dreams.

Feeling creatively restless is both uncomfortable and inspiring. On the other side will be the final stages of the second book in the trilogy and the beginnings of the third. To allow the new ideas to flourish there has to be some time for germination, for the loamy underground imaginative processes to push towards the surface. While that’s happening it’s essential to WAIT.

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Emerging from the Rapture

remedy front cover

Kafka apparently had a large sign over his desk that said: WAIT. It’s good advice – putting a novel away and coming back to it with fresh eyes makes a huge difference. So, having worried about the hiatus in writing after returning from Budapest, I’m now glad of having taken that space and I’m slowly making my way through the final draft, amazed to find that, despite thinking that draft three was almost ready to go, there are a myriad tiny details to deal with as I go.

What is interesting in this read-through, is that the book feels like it arrived in the universe from who-knows-where, with very little reference to anything I did to make it happen. I’ve been talking to a writer friend who feels the same about her poetry pamphlet coming out next year – wondering where it all came from and did she really write it. It’s a sensation that seems common among writers. But what is it that makes us feel that our own writing simply happened, that we can hardly reconstruct the process in retrospect?

While I was putting together a writing workshop today, it occurred to me that this sensation of discontinuity is related to what John Berger recognised when he talked about writers as witnesses. When we write, we become porous to other places, other lives. If the writing is working, we are totally immersed in a process that is ‘other’ so that we emerge into the quotidian blinking and surprised. Virginia Woolf described writing as rapture and I’ve heard poets, when asked why they write, say they write for the trance.

No wonder we have to wait. Having been in a dreamlike-world of our own creation, we surface into a different atmosphere – one in which every comma and space has to be right; in which every sentence has to be weighed and measured in case it is found wanting. It’s a very different aspect of the writing process and it needs a different kind of concentration and attention, one that is certainly assisted by having taken some time away from the novel after the initial magical process of writing in Budapest.

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