Writing a Novel is Really Hard

…why didn’t anyone tell me?

I haven’t blogged for a while, and I wanted to point that I have not just been sitting on my arse, browsing porn, eating puddings, swilling whiskey, inviting strange men up into my room and yelling profanities at small children.

Not to say I haven’t been doing any of these things, but as well as all that, I’ve been finishing My Novel. (Crazy AND organised!)

Whenever I mention this to people, I am invariably presented with this perplexing question:

What’s it about?

Simple, right?

Um, no. It’s actually very difficult. Particularly since I don’t express myself terribly well in conversation (without the aid of a backspace key and a thesaurus), and most people are only really looking for a one-sentence answer.

Here’s a tip for anyone who is not used to talking to writers: don’t ask them about their novel/thesis/dissertation/collected works of poetry unless you want to be subjected to three hours of them explaining, with a sufficient amount of self-effacing humour, (which is only really there to cover up the fact that they secretly consider themselves to be undiscovered prodigies), the conception, development, grammatical intricacies, emotional hardships, existential crises, highs, lows, and disturbingly frequent moments of utter insanity brought about by their project.

See, I’m even doing it now. I couldn’t tell you how many well-meaning friends and relatives have been bombarded by this torrential outpouring whenever they’ve asked me about The Novel. I’ve watched their poor faces become frozen in the same expression of polite obligation as I’ve opened my mouth and breathed all over them like a neurotic and slightly flatulent dragon.

So, once and for all, at the risk of alienating everyone I’ve ever known, I’m writing down what my novel is about, so I can print off a bunch of cards with a link to this blog, and send these people away to read about it in their own time, if they’re so damn interested.

Kay?

Now. In order to properly answer this question, I must tell you that in order for you to properly understand what my novel is currently about, you must know what it used to be about.

Why?

BECAUSE I SAY SO. Now, shut up, and pay attention:

Way back in 2005, I went to Europe instead of sticking around for the fourth year of my wankerific communications degree. I knew that I would, at some point, have it in me to write a creative thesis, but back then, I was bored, tired, annoyed, and fed up with study. So I went on an overseas trip, (part of which included a Contiki tour of Russia – in which I did not manage to score with anyone – the shock of which nearly prompted me to ask for a refund); and I dedicated much of the time in which I was NOT having sex to thinking upon what my Big Glorious Great Idea for a Novel could be.

All I could think about was how horny I was.

“God damn, Catlady,” I said to myself. “Halfway around the world, standing on Moscow’s Red Square for Christ’s sake, and all you can think about is sex?”

Twenty-two years in the world, and the only thing I had to show for it were some sexy anecdotes. What use were they?

Another year later, I took myself off to a writer’s retreat for two weeks. I went up there with an idea to write a book about a teenage girl who dies… or something… (I’ve since erased this idea from my mind, due to it being shit).

It didn’t take long for me to realise that I hated being a teenager, and revisiting that entire hellish portion of my life in the form of a novel was not my idea of a good time.

So what did I want to write about?

Sex, of course. Sex, sex, sex.

“Okay, Catlady,” I says, pen poised above my blank notepad, “you can’t just write a novel comprised entirely of sex scenes. Think harder.”

Then, like a lightening bolt, like a herald from the heavens, like a thousand other ridiculous clichés, it struck me:

A novel comprised entirely of sex scenes.

Like, not porn. An actual, serious work of contemporary fiction, that just so happens to tell its story from the point of view of two lovers, using sex as their primary means of conversation. Letting everything that occurs outside their bedroom express itself through their fucking.

Sex as language.

It was at this same point that I gave up on feeling guilty about using my own life as inspiration for my writing. As Helen Garner puts it: “People talk as if a story is something found lying on the ground.”

I’d a had lot of unusual sexual experiences. Why not ditch the disclaimer and use them in my fiction?

So I did. And ‘Some Kind of Love Story’ was, uh, born.

I wrote twenty-seven chapters of this, during a period of intense misery in my actual life. I made all the rookie’s mistakes. The whole thing was self conscious, overwrought, indulgent, boring, infested with errors; basically absurd.

But it taught me a lot. By the time I’d made it to chapter 27, I could see exactly how far I’d come since chapter 1.

So I went back to uni, and began again.

My supervisor was an intimidating woman. ‘Ice Queen’, I believe she was unkindly dubbed. It wasn’t easy to walk into her office, located somewhere in the catacombs of the UTS Bon Marche building, and tell her that I intended to write a creative thesis entirely about sex.

The best thing about ‘ol Icy Pole, was that she did not mince words:

“All your characters seem to do is have sex and fight. Where’s the plot?”

Ah, plot. That slippery sucker. It would seem that somewhere in between my character’s second threesome and umpteenth hardcore bondage session, I’d neglected to write anything of, ah, substance.

With two weeks to go before my thesis was due, Disney-on-Ice suggested that I rewrite the whole thing from first person to third person, and write about ‘things happening’. (Crazy concept, I know).

Now, as part of this whole ‘being at university’ thing, I was forced to go a little out of my comfort zone and do some ‘research’ by way of reading some ‘theorists who had lots of fancy things to say about shit’. And what I ended up reading were a lot of feminists, all banging on about the representation of female desire in fiction.

Which led me to thinking: is it anti-feminist to write about female characters who desire to be sexually submissive?

(The short version of my conclusion to this essay was, ‘no, it’s not’).

Anyway. Since all of my research-type-stuff revolved around the notion of desire, I thought: how can I include this as a central theme in my creative work?

Then, late one night, after a lot of teeth gnashing and tea making, I decided to write my story from the point of view of desire. So, ‘desire’ acted as a sort of third character, who even got its own speaking part. (Which was kinda lame, and I’ve since cut it, but hey, the academics just love that kind of crap).

The name of the thesis was ‘A Conversation With Desire’.

At this point, I was willing to part ways with the whole stupid idea. After I handed it in, I would have been happy to burn it and never speak of it again.

Unfortunately, academics are the biggest perves of them all – and they loved it.

Although, they did make it clear that if I wanted to develop the concept into a novel, it would need a lot more work.

Another six months passed while I decided whether I was ready to look at it again. In the meantime, I got myself a job as a retail copywriting whore, and watched morosely as my soul died a little more each day.

Still, the idea wouldn’t die. It pestered me constantly, until there was nothing left to do but sit down again and open a brand new Word document: Chapter 1.

This time, I wrote a plan. I created back-stories and subplots. I worked on my character development. I made it funnier – less oppressive.

Halfway through this process, I quit my job. Now I was free, free to write all the time! No more getting butt raped by The Man on a daily basis!

Which of course resulted in the most crippling writer’s block I’ve ever known.

I got lost in the murk of it, forgot what it was supposed to be about, became intensely frustrated by my writing style, hated my characters, became depressed by writing it, but even more depressed by not writing it.

Around chapter 34 it all turned to shit, and I wanted to throw it in. (And grow up, get a job, and suck it up, just like everyone else. How much easier that would be!)

Then, in all that darkness, I realised I didn’t care anymore.

Which cured the block.

And then I rose up like a mighty horseman, galloping towards the finish, shaking my sword at the dawn.

Ha HA, novel! Thought you could fucking beat me! Well, think again. For it is I, Amazing Novel Finishing Woman, here to vanquish you!

Yesterday, at chapter 47, I came up with a new and improved title, which I think brings it all together:

‘Of Love and Blood’

Now with 50% more blood!

(It’s OK. You can go now. I know that it’s getting late, and you’ve missed all the best bits of the party, and the punch bowl is empty, but gosh, wasn’t it worth asking me that simple little question! Wasn’t it? WASN’T IT??)