But how do I write a novel?

My Unorthodox Journey to the Published Land: 3

(Note: I may publish a few of these early posts in quick succession to build up an archive for new subscribers to peruse before starting to release new posts every two weeks or so.)

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What do I write about?

I spent a lot of time in early 2005 trying to decide what to write about in my attempted first novel. Of course, if I wanted to be an international bestselling novelist, it made sense to write about those big questions that figure in our lives where ever in the world we live. Love. War. The meaning of life. The eternal struggle between good and evil. You know, the big ones.

But as I kicked those ideas around, I found I wasn’t really connecting with any of them. What do I know about war or the meaning of life? It was then, after much soul-searching, deliberation, and arguments with myself, that I finally decided that the most important requirement was that I write about something I know about, and care about. So however out of fashion it might be in some writing circles, I embraced (and still embrace) the rookie writer’s axiom..

This notion made sense to me. Writers strive to be believable and credible on the page. So I decided that to write with authenticity, conviction, and authority, I needed to write about worlds, issues, and questions that have touched me personally. Having said that, I hasten to add that none of my novels is autobiographical. I am not narrating my own novels. But I have lived in, or at least experienced, the worlds I write about and I certainly know the voice of my narrator well. (That’s my little writerly cheat. In an effort to write more easily, naturally, even organically, my narrators all tend to sound like me (a voice with which I have some passing familiarity) even though I’m not the narrator, if that’s not too convoluted a concept to grasp.) Again, I digress.

So instead of writing about love or the meaning of life, I decided to write about something just as universal that unites millions of people around the globe… Canadian politics. (Yes, I intended you to snort here, or at least roll your eyes.)

The fact that I decided to write a satirical novel of Canadian politics is the clearest evidence that I really knew nothing about the publishing world. But I maintain a strong belief that writers, particularly aspiring writers, should tackle subjects about which they are passionate. It’s hard to capture and compel readers if the writer is not first captured and compelled by the story. So do not write a vampire novel just because they happen to be popular unless of course, you’ve been obsessed with vampires for years, or happen to be a vampire, and then by all means go ahead. Readers can tell in your writing what moves you. So write about worlds that have seized you. The passion makes its way into your prose and readers feel it.

So, against all prevailing wisdom about what the Canadian publishing establishment was looking for at the time, I wrote my first comic novel about, yes, Canadian politics. It was not just knowledge of politics that I brought to the task. My first novel was born out of my own frustration with how we practice politics in this country (after seeing it from the inside). The absence of policy, the ultra-partisan and personal attacks, the sacrifice of long term national needs for short term political gain, the questionable use of polling in governing, the role of opposition parties, the declining public respect for our democratic institutions, the steadily falling voter turnout, all deeply concerned me. So while I did want to write a funny novel, I also wanted to illuminate a different path we might take in our politics and I embodied that new approach in the character and actions of my accidental MP, Angus McLintock. (Yes, perhaps an unrealistically ambitious goal, but I say again, I didn’t really know what I was doing. Blissful naïveté is often a blessing.)

But how do I write it?

Okay, so now I had my very basic storyline, not to mention a head start with the short story I’d submitted to that contest in the Toronto Star. I liked the idea of somehow taking the least likely and traditionally “unelectable” political candidate in Canadian history and transporting him to the floor of the House of Commons. A classic fish out of water story that would allow me to explore the shortcomings of our politics and how Angus might change the game all with a comic edge.

I could generally see the story unfolding in my mind. But how do I get it on paper? Every writer writes differently. I’ve come to believe that one of our first responsibilities as writers is to figure our how we write best. This takes some experimentation but I was fortunate to discover early on that uncertainty is the enemy of my writing. I have to know almost every detail of the story before I write the manuscript. I simply could not write chapter 3 without knowing what happens in chapters 7, 8, and 9. I need to know what foreshadowing and tone to employ in Chapter 3 so that everything makes sense when you reach Chapters 7, 8 and 9, not to mention Chapters 14, 15, and 16.

So, on instinct, I leaned on my engineering degree.

Yes, I earned a Bachelor of Mechanical Engineering, with a focus on biomedical engineering, from McMaster. While I’ve never practiced engineering professionally for even one instant in my life, I still think very much like an engineer. In fact, I’m quite sure I did even before my engineering education. An engineer doesn't build a bridge without a blueprint, I decided I don’t write a novel without a blueprint.

Other writers and perhaps even some readers will have heard about the two kinds of writers: the “pantsers” (those who write by the seat of their pants); and the “planners” (those who map out their story in some way before writing it). I knew almost right away that I was a member in good standing of the extreme planners brigade.

I spoken to writers who reside at nearly every position on the spectrum from pantsers to planners. Some of our finest writers work with no outline at all. I once heard Richard Wright speak (the author of Giller Prize winner, Clara Callan). He said that he “could not get his ass in the chair each morning if he knew where the story was going.” For him, it’s that sense of discovery that keeps him coming back. I’m the polar opposite to Richard Wright. But we both end up with novels at the end of the process.

I’m an extreme (read anally retentive) “planner.”

Whenever I wrote essays in high school and in my few non-engineering university courses, or when I drafted my weekly column in McMaster’s newspaper (one of my responsibilities as President of the students union in my final year), I quite meticulously “outlined” whatever I was writing, as a guide. There were bullet points, boxes, and arrows (oh my). I discovered that for me, adding that extra step of outlining actually shortened the time I spent on whatever I was writing. I felt most comfortable (and efficient) when writing from a detailed outline. So I adopted the same approach for the novel.

I had notes on my characters, the settings, and of course the story. I then wrote a chapter-by-chapter bullet point version of the novel that ran to about 75 pages (about three or four pages of bullet points for each chapter). I included bits of dialogue or funny lines I didn’t want to forget in the outline, along with detailed descriptions of what was to unfold in each chapter. When I finished reviewing, amending, reviewing, refining, and reviewing again, my outline, it felt as if I’d finished writing the novel, even though I’d not yet written the first word of the manuscript. But it anchored me in the story and allowed me at that stage to then focus all of my questionable cerebral powers on the act of crafting sentences. No part of my brain was worried about what my characters would do on the next page or the next chapter, I already knew what was going to happen. I’d known for several months since finalizing the outline.

So at that stage, I moved my 75-page outline to the right side of my laptop screen and then opened a new document on the left side for my manuscript. Guided by my detailed outline, I then wrote the 103,000 word manuscript for The Best Laid Plans, almost in a sprint. I finished it by the end of 2005 after editing and polishing for several weeks. I honestly had no idea whether I’d actually written a novel. After being immersed in it for months, I had lost all perspective on what I’d written. I didn’t know whether the story held together. I didn't know whether my characters were believable. I didn’t know if it was funny. I just had a faint inkling it was finished.

My first completed manuscript, late 2005.

I printed it out and cirloxed it so it at least resembled a book. I’d written my first novel. Even though no one had yet read it, I felt as if I’d just scaled Mount Everest, minus the oxygen mask and the ever-present risk of death. Now what?

Up next: Navigating the publishing world (or not navigating it as it turned out), a novel podcast, and reluctantly self-publishing (at least initially). Stay tuned.