When I was young, I wanted nothing more than to one day publish a novel. Over time, I realised that being published will not solve my problems, or make me feel better. I’ve seen people I know achieve the sort of success I longed for and end up unhappy. And, besides that, the novel is a less important form than it was thirty years ago.
I did try for a long time. I have four finished novels, two of them that I think are good. I made a few attempts to sell them, and eventually settled down to other things. The submission of my work is the bit I hate about it most – the rejection cuts too deep and it makes me enjoy writing less. If someone reached out and asked to publish a book of mine, I’d be eager; but I’m not interested in begging for it. It’s the same with self-promotion. My enjoyment of my work is a fragile thing, and taking up strangers’ time by demanding they read it proves too much for me. There are risks to not submitting my work, of not having anything to calibrate against, but I’m happy to take that chance.
At the moment, I write a weekly story on a newsletter. I enjoy that, but I want to work on something larger. I have this idea of a great work in my head, something huge but composed of fragments. It’s not a book, not in its first iteration – I think fiction is more interesting online, where it is able to move in new ways; streams, not texts. There are huge opportunities offered by all these different platforms.
The South Downs Way is a start towards this. But I always run into trouble with big concepts – the structure takes over. Instead I want a process more like making a jigsaw – to generate fragments and see how they fit together. Maybe a new tiny story/fragment a day, if I can get up to that pace.
It’s a different way of working, but one that I have to have faith in. If I work with all these tiny fragments then the structure will emerge.