In praise of smaller books & Early news of my 11th novel

Writing life: 68

The manuscript for my tenth novel, The Marionette, now sits with my editor. So, for a short time at least, it is out of my hands as he takes his first pass through it. So, rather than sitting around on my laurels—though I’ve never quite understood exactly where one’s laurels are located—I’ve started working on my eleventh novel. Of course, I’ll be back to editing The Marionette just as soon as I hear from my editor, but in the meantime, it’s nice to be in a position this early to turn my mind to my eleventh novel.

And this is new for me. I don’t usually have the idea for “the next book” until a few months after the current novel is published. But this time around, I found my next story already waiting in my cerebral chute, as it were, nearly fully formed. But how, you ask? I had the same question. Before I share at least a skeletal sense of the basic story, let’s step back…

Good things come in…

Over the course of the last year or so, I just happened to have read several shorter novels. Not only were these stories told in fewer words and pages, they also came in smaller physical forms. A couple were selections for my book club, but others I just picked up and read. These smaller novels included Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These, C.S. Richardson’s The End of the Alphabet and All the Colour in the World, as well as Ami McKay’s Half Spent was the Night and Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata.

Even before reading the literary pyrotechnics between the covers, I was immediately taken with these smaller, elegant, beautiful, physical pieces of literary art. And inside, the layout was also lovely with somewhat thicker paper stock, lots of white space, and attractive fonts. These were all little polished, publishing gems, in every way.

I’ve never met Claire Keegan or Sayaka Murata, but Scott Richardson and Ami McKay are both friends, though we don’t see one another as often as I’d like. Interestingly, Scott Richardson, an accomplished and lauded book designer before he was a novelist, actually designed the covers of my first two novels, The Best Laid Plans and The High Road. I first met Ami McKay when we were both finalists in the 2011 edition of CBC’s Canada Reads. In fact, her wonderful novel, The Birth House and my novel The Best Laid Plans, were the final two books standing. We’ve been friends ever since.

(L) With Scott Richardson at Blue Heron Books for Canadian Independent Bookstore Day this year. (R) With Ami McKay in Nova Scotia in 2017.

But here’s the kicker. After reading these brief novels, one as short as 92 pages, it never actually seemed as if I’d just read a shorter book. They all felt like complete, fully realized stories, and left me as satisfied as the 400 page novels I’d recently read—and sometimes more satisfied. I’m not sure why this was mildly surprising to me, but it was. And it got me thinking about telling a story on a smaller canvas—smaller both in word count, and in the physical size of the book itself. But not short stories. Still a novel or “novelish”. Just perhaps a smaller story in a smaller package.

Reading these small, fine pieces of literary art enkindled an interest in writing one myself. About six months ago I had an idea for my next novel. But it seemed a smaller story that wouldn’t require 100,000 words to tell. Yet it kept rattling around in my mind—a sign I’ve learned not to ignore. I remember wondering whether this idea just might be a candidate for my shorter, smaller novel?

So, back to where I started this post, while my editor reviews my manuscript for The Marionette, I’ve actually been outlining my eleventh novel, Yes, a shorter novel—almost a fable—yet I hope no less a story than my others.

A first glimpse at my 11th novel

Last March I wrote a post entitled The Immutable Economics of Publishing. In it I tell of the many encounters I’ve had with friends, family, acquaintances, and even people whom I’d only just met, wherein they assume, because they saw my novel on the bestsellers list, that somehow I’m now on Easy Street. I wish.

This sign was a recent gift from a book club. I love it.

As well, I often get questions at readings, festivals, and book clubs about how I feel about the huge sums of money professional athletes or rockstars earn relative to novelists. Doesn’t it bother me? Isn’t it a shame? I confess I don’t spend much time or cerebral cycles thinking about such imponderables. I usually respond by saying that I write because I love to write. Sure, it would be nice if someone could wave a magic wand and miraculously increase the average income of writers everywhere, but money isn’t what motivates me (or most wordsmiths) to write.

Well, my eleventh novel somehow springs partly from these many encounters. In the story, Malcolm Forde, a mid-list novelist in the twilight of his middling literary career struggles along as a full-time writer. He lives in an old, somewhat rundown apartment building, his 15 year-old Hyundai leaking oil in the underground parking garage. He’s lived and written there for thirty years or so. One day, after a reading at his local public library attended by nine people, he returns home and writes well into the wee hours of the morning, as is his habit. He’s been having headaches lately and when he feels the onset of another, he rests his head on his arms at his writing desk and closes his eyes. It’s not the first time he’s nodded off while writing. But when he awakens, he is shocked to find himself in a different world, a world turned on its head, where up is down, and writers are treasured, revered, worshipped. He no longer lives in his dingy apartment, no longer drives an aging Hyundai, no longer gives book talks to nine people at his local library. In short, rockstars have been replaced by “writestars.”

Two very different worlds collide in my eleventh novel.

I won’t tell you how he comes to this new world—this parallel universe—how he exists in it, whether he returns to his own reality, or what he learns in the process, but suffice it to say, it’s quite a ride. And along the way, Malcolm comes to realize what writing really means to him. I should perhaps mention that this little trip to what seems like an alternate universe is not courtesy of a dose of magic realism. There is a logical explanation for his foray into a very different world. As I mentioned, the story feels a little like a modern day fable.

It’s a tightly focused tale that I expect will run to about 150 pages. I hope it might have a more literary sensibility to it, with moments of humour and melancholy, and a few surprises along the way. For some reason, with fewer words, I feel the need to work even harder to ensure I choose the right ones. Finally, I’m almost certain that for the very first time, I’ll be writing a novel in the third person, not my traditional first person narrative. Enough said.

My outline is essentially complete, so I may even start to write it, at least until my editor turns my attention back to my tenth novel, The Marionette, and the editing begins in earnest. It’s nice, even a little exciting, to have my eleventh novel teed up and waiting for me when The Marionette heads off into the world later in 2025.

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Wrapping up…

Here endeth another post. Thanks for taking a look. I’ll be back in two weeks. I’ll leave you with a brief Monty Python audio sketch about a novelist, Thomas Hardy, in fact, writing his latest masterpiece before a capacity crowd packed into a big soccer stadium. As I was just beginning to see the idea for my eleventh novel emerging from the mists in my brainpan, this sketch came to mind.

In the meantime, here’s hoping you’ll subscribe so you won’t miss any future posts. It’s free and easy. Many thanks.