...when an executive editor at Tor Books tells you in no uncertain terms that first time novelists shouldn't attempt first person narratives, after you've spent part of the afternoon writing the second chapter of your first novel... which happens to be a first person narrative?
At a panel of authors and editors at last year's WesterCon, I asked a question in response to Howard Hendrix's comment about the "polyvocal" nature of novels. I wanted to know how you pull that off with a first person narrative. His response was that there are always other voices in any novel--as opposed to lyric poetry, for example--and that these voices will form its polyvocal nature. I had a follow-up question about how one deals with the fact that even though there are obviously multiple voices, they're all necessarily filtered through one voice in a first person narrative. I wanted to know what to focus on so I could avoid a sort of vocal monotone, which is when Beth Meacham jumped in with tidings of first novel doom, saying that "you've really got to have your chops" to pull off such a thing.
So, I waited until the panel ended, and approached Howard with my follow-up. His more detailed response was that in order to overcome the first person filter effect, your other characters really have to pop. They must be vibrant, distinct, and interesting.
When Shelly Lowenkopf said last year that I should press on and turn my short story, Walk of the Night People, into a longer work, he specifically said it was because "We want to spend more time with these characters." This story is a first person narrative, with (at the moment) four other prominent characters. So I suspect that I may have the character pop I need.
After another panel, I sought out Tad Williams and asked for his opinion. "First novel, first person narrative: do it or don't?"
His response was enlightening. "If you're writing a story that you absolutely love, that you're passionate about, and that's the best way you can get that across, then for Christ's sake write it in the first person." He told me about a first novel for which he had recently written one of his rarely-dispensed blurbs that had a third-person frame at the beginning but was, essentially, a first person narrative. There are all these rules, he said, and people come to conventions looking for tips. But beyond the basic three (try not to write crap, be passionate about your story and your craft, treat people professionally and with respect) any of those rules can be bent or broken as necessary for the telling of the tale. "Now, you may get a publisher who says, 'This is great, but it needs to be in third person.' So argue with them. Make your case. Rewrite a chapter in third person and ask them if they really think it's improved."
So, to answer the question I posed at the beginning of this post, what you do first is seek further information from People Who Know These Things. Then, you weigh their responses against an honest assessment of your own skills. Beth was right: I do need to have my chops to pull this off.
But I need chops to pull anything off. So, essentially, I was right where I started: seeing whether I've really got what it takes to do this thing.
This is why it's important that those of us who are writers spend time with other writers, editors, agents...anyone who has anything to do with the business and the craft. I had one question that required input from four people before I was satisfied with the answer.
I'm not particularly happy that, almost a year later, I am still right where I started. Oh, I've got more chapters. But it's not done, there are major problems with the material, and I still don't know whether I've got what it takes.
I believe that I do. But believing you've got what it takes, with 11 so-so chapters on your hard drive, is quite a bit different than knowing that you do, with a finished manuscript on its way to an editor who's asked to read it.
This kind of doubt, though, is necessary. It keeps you sharp. If you ever lose that doubt, that little voice that says, Jeebus, can I really do this? you're fucked. It's that doubt that keeps you honest, keeps arrogance at bay, and maintains humility in the face of whatever success comes your way.
Nobody owes you anything. Ever. Not editors, not agents, not your readers. I think it's important to remember that, especially if you've got a tendency to out-clever yourself, like I do.
Anyway: so far I've gone through the first two chapters of what I've written and, of course, it's all wrong and I hate it.
Moving on.
At a panel of authors and editors at last year's WesterCon, I asked a question in response to Howard Hendrix's comment about the "polyvocal" nature of novels. I wanted to know how you pull that off with a first person narrative. His response was that there are always other voices in any novel--as opposed to lyric poetry, for example--and that these voices will form its polyvocal nature. I had a follow-up question about how one deals with the fact that even though there are obviously multiple voices, they're all necessarily filtered through one voice in a first person narrative. I wanted to know what to focus on so I could avoid a sort of vocal monotone, which is when Beth Meacham jumped in with tidings of first novel doom, saying that "you've really got to have your chops" to pull off such a thing.
So, I waited until the panel ended, and approached Howard with my follow-up. His more detailed response was that in order to overcome the first person filter effect, your other characters really have to pop. They must be vibrant, distinct, and interesting.
When Shelly Lowenkopf said last year that I should press on and turn my short story, Walk of the Night People, into a longer work, he specifically said it was because "We want to spend more time with these characters." This story is a first person narrative, with (at the moment) four other prominent characters. So I suspect that I may have the character pop I need.
After another panel, I sought out Tad Williams and asked for his opinion. "First novel, first person narrative: do it or don't?"
His response was enlightening. "If you're writing a story that you absolutely love, that you're passionate about, and that's the best way you can get that across, then for Christ's sake write it in the first person." He told me about a first novel for which he had recently written one of his rarely-dispensed blurbs that had a third-person frame at the beginning but was, essentially, a first person narrative. There are all these rules, he said, and people come to conventions looking for tips. But beyond the basic three (try not to write crap, be passionate about your story and your craft, treat people professionally and with respect) any of those rules can be bent or broken as necessary for the telling of the tale. "Now, you may get a publisher who says, 'This is great, but it needs to be in third person.' So argue with them. Make your case. Rewrite a chapter in third person and ask them if they really think it's improved."
So, to answer the question I posed at the beginning of this post, what you do first is seek further information from People Who Know These Things. Then, you weigh their responses against an honest assessment of your own skills. Beth was right: I do need to have my chops to pull this off.
But I need chops to pull anything off. So, essentially, I was right where I started: seeing whether I've really got what it takes to do this thing.
This is why it's important that those of us who are writers spend time with other writers, editors, agents...anyone who has anything to do with the business and the craft. I had one question that required input from four people before I was satisfied with the answer.
I'm not particularly happy that, almost a year later, I am still right where I started. Oh, I've got more chapters. But it's not done, there are major problems with the material, and I still don't know whether I've got what it takes.
I believe that I do. But believing you've got what it takes, with 11 so-so chapters on your hard drive, is quite a bit different than knowing that you do, with a finished manuscript on its way to an editor who's asked to read it.
This kind of doubt, though, is necessary. It keeps you sharp. If you ever lose that doubt, that little voice that says, Jeebus, can I really do this? you're fucked. It's that doubt that keeps you honest, keeps arrogance at bay, and maintains humility in the face of whatever success comes your way.
Nobody owes you anything. Ever. Not editors, not agents, not your readers. I think it's important to remember that, especially if you've got a tendency to out-clever yourself, like I do.
Anyway: so far I've gone through the first two chapters of what I've written and, of course, it's all wrong and I hate it.
Moving on.
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