Robinson Crusoe's Airplane

I recently heard mention of a book called How To Talk About Books You Haven’t Read by a man called Pierre Bayard. The title reminded me of the UK politician who was famously asked what he was going to do now that he had some free time. He replied that he was going to read Ian McEwen’s brilliant new novel. Now, he hadn’t actually started reading the book at this point but he had already made up his mind that it was brilliant. Why? Because he’d heard other people saying so and, being a man who liked to appear knowledgeable, he was more than ready to join in the chorus of praise. That’s what happens when you see a book as a badge of cultural rank instead of as something to be enjoyed.

Of course at one time or another most people, myself included, have tried to pretend they knew about something they were secretly ignorant of. But it doesn’t look good when you get found out. And what a shame to turn books into trophies in this way! It takes all the fun out of reading. Novels become like cod liver oil – something to consume, not because you really want to, but because they’re good for you,.

A few years ago I was asked to speak at a Literary Festival in South London. One particular member of the audience was determined to pick a fight with me.

‘Don’t you think that novels for teenagers are a waste of time?’ she began.

‘Well, no I don’t, obviously, since I write them,’ I replied.

‘When I was a teenager, I was reading Jane Austen, Dickens and Thomas Hardy,’ she said, emphatically.

‘Well I expect that plenty of teenagers read those authors now,’ I pointed out, ‘but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a place for books that reflect the current experience of young people.’

‘But why do we have to keep dumbing down all the time?’ she demanded.

I suggested, politely enough, that I didn’t think my books were dumbed down at all. But I was wasting my breath. On and on she went, complaining that young people weren’t being stretched. She kept talking about her own teenage appreciation of literature and how much she had gained from it, though I couldn’t help feeling that it hadn’t improved her powers of empathy one little bit.

Surely literature should be something to celebrate, not to boast about, or to make other people feel inferior? Remember that sensation of losing yourself so completely in a story that when you stop reading, you look around, dazed for a few moments, as reality reasserts itself. You know you’ve got to put the book away or you’ll be late for your appointment, but it feels almost painful. And all the time you're away from it, the story is still going on in your head, calling you back so that you can’t wait to pick up the book once more. That’s why we read books, not so that we can boast about them, or use them to make other people feel inferior.

This is what I wanted to say to the woman at the festival but of course I only thought of it afterwards. At the time I was too busy trying not to be rude.

I recall a conversation that took place many years ago when I was at Primary School. A number of children were talking about the things they’d done and seen during their Summer vacation. There was one poor boy whose parents never took him anywhere. But he was determined not to be outdone. He waited until there was a gap in the conversation, then he piped up with, ‘My dad took me to see Robinson Crusoe’s airplane.’

The rest of us looked at him in complete bewilderment. Nobody bothered to point out that Robinson Crusoe was a fictional character or that there was no airplane in his story. We just nodded, saddened even at ten years old, by such a desperate need to gain status. Thank goodness we’ve all grown up since that time. Or at least some of us have.

Writers' Heaven

For the past week I have been reading the first three chapters of a series of novels. This is because I’m on the judging panel for entrants to the Apprenticeships In Fiction scheme. (You can find out more about it by clicking on the link on this page labelled Mentoring for Writers).

The course programme involves the chosen writers getting professional help to bring their work up to a publishable standard. So, in addition to submitting the first three chapters of their novel, they also have to prepare statements about how they see themselves tackling the year of work that lies ahead.

The thing that often strikes me on these occasions is how few of the candidates really understand the amount of work involved in writing a novel that is fit to be published. You don’t just write one draft; you don’t just write two drafts; you don’t just write three drafts. You go on and on fiddling with the damn thing until you reach the point where you are ready to murder anyone who suggest you make any more changes. That’s what it takes

Then afterwards, when you’re finished, what’s the next stage? Relaxing beside a pool in the Mediterranean? A world tour? Your own chat show? None of these, I’m afraid. The first thing you do after you sign a contract with a publisher is start thinking about your next book. There’s a well-known joke about a writer on his death bed which sums the situation up very neatly in my opinion. Apologies if you’ve heard it before.

An author was lying on his deathbed when the Angel of Death appeared. 'I don't know whether you realise this,' the angel began, 'but God is a big reader.'

'Really?' asked the author.

'Oh yes!' the angel replied. 'She runs our Heavenly Book Group and she's particularly keen on your work. So keen in fact, that She has sent me down to earth to offer you a choice. You can go to hell or heaven. So what's it to be?'

Now. the author had signed too many publishing contracts to make a rash decision. So he thought about his options for a while. Finally he said, ‘I think I’d like to see exactly what these two places have to offer before making my choice. Would that be acceptable?’

The angel sighed. ‘You authors are all the same,’ he said. ‘Always looking for a better deal. Very well, I will grant your request but you must realise that though there are many heavens and many hells, I can only show you Writers’ Heaven and Writers’ Hell since that is what your life on earth has prepared you for.’

With these words, the angel flapped his wings once, twice and in an instant the author found himself standing upon the brink of a vast pit in which row upon row of writers were chained to their desks, typing away furiously. As they did so, they were whipped and tormented endlessly by grinning demons while other, smaller imps sat upon their shoulders and filled their ears with a stream of mindless chatter.

The author was horrified. ‘So this is Writers’ Hell!’ he gasped. ‘It is a truly dreadful place! Take me to heaven, quickly, for I can stand no more of this!’

‘As you wish,’ the angel replied. He flapped his wings once, twice and in an instant the author found himself standing outside the gates of heaven. The gates were shining with a cold radiance but when the author peered inside he saw, to his dismay, row upon row of writers chained to their desks, typing away furiously. As they did so they were whipped and tormented endlessly by grinning demons while other, smaller imps sat upon their shoulders and filled their ears with a stream of mindless chatter.

The author turned to the Angel of Death in fury. ‘Is this some sort of trick?’ he demanded.

The angel shook his head. ‘There is no trick, I can assure you,’ he replied.

‘But this is just the same as hell!’ the author pointed out.

The angel smiled a patient smile. ‘You authors have such unrealistic expectations,’ he said. ‘Listen to me. The difference between Writers’ Hell and Writers’ Heaven is quite simple. Up here, in Writers’ Heaven, the authors get their books published.’