Tag: Inside the story

Q&A part 5: about the novel

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Question: Without giving too much away, what can readers expect from your debut novel?

P.J. Moroney: Hopefully an entertaining read. I think the protagonist is complex and interesting. The themes are pretty universal. And I think it has some good twists and surprises, though I’m not much of a judge of that. I’m told that’s the case.

I set out to write a book I’d like to read, but I hardly considered the audience when I wrote it. It makes the question a bit hard to answer. Readers will get their own thing out of it, hopefully something good – but, at the end of the day, it’s their business. And while I hope people enjoy it and I sell a million copies, I’m not too fussed.

I’ve heard a lot of writers say they write for themselves. I think I have, anyway. But it’s true for me, and think it must always be the case for any attempt at serious literature. It’s different if you’re setting out to write a commercial best-seller, a potboiler or whatever. Fair enough if you do your research to write what people want to read. I’d love to write a bestseller, but the reason I write is not to be acclaimed or make a million dollars or even to be read – though I hope all that happens. I write because I feel like I have something I have to say. Something I have to get out. My process is just the opposite of deliberately writing a popular novel.

I know it sounds a bit pretentious. And I note that I’ve inferred my book is serious literature. It isn’t, though it’s got things in it. It’s a detective novel. It has crime and murders, and it’s even got porn. I think it’s well-written. Some of the dialogue is snappy – it was fun to write it. And it’s got a big sex scene for those easily titillated. That was funny to write also.

Question: The sex scene is quite substantial. Do you have a process when writing sex scenes?

P.J. Moroney: Nothing special. These days, I’m going by memory. I’ve read some pretty ordinary sex scenes in the past and reckon the mistake they make is being too literal. In my experience, anyway, sex is more a series of impressions and sensations, and that’s how I write it. Sex isn’t cerebral; it’s in the body and the sense of self, merging and embracing and shifting, and the sensations, sudden sometimes, and sometimes slow. A build-up that includes anticipation and imagination. The best sex is always a bit of a trip. That’s how I write it. I don’t plan it. I let it happen, like the real thing – impressionistic, edgy, raw, a bit sloppy, but a lot of fun.

Question: Are any characters or events in your book inspired by real-life experiences or people?

P.J. Moroney: Everyone always wants to know this. Most of this story came into being 20 years ago. If there was anyone in mind, they’re long forgotten. Having said that, you borrow people from time to time in your writing. There’s never a complete person, but you might take aspects – the way someone talks or walks, little idiosyncrasies and tics here and there you re-purpose. Sometimes, when writing, I’ll be reminded of someone I know or have met, but it’s that way around. It’s possible they’ve been in my subconscious all this time and come out on the page, but you’d have to ask my Id.

There’s one character in the book who had the physical description of someone I used to work with, though the personality is very different. Sometimes, I imagine faces, and I’ll see someone and think, yep, that’s so and so. For the record, Kurten isn’t me.

As for events? I can’t think of any. Places a bit. Melbourne plays a big role in this story. There’s a pub I’ve described, as well as a bar that fits pretty well with the generic Melbourne bar vibe. There’s Brunswick Street, trams, footy, and so on. But that’s pretty standard.

Question: Was it a deliberate decision to make Melbourne such a character in this story?

P.J. Moroney: Yes. I’m a die-hard Melburnian. Love the place and know it back to front. It’s got a broody face that suited the story well, plus I wanted to show it off a bit. I had a European reader tell me very enthusiastically that they felt like they were walking the streets of Melbourne reading it. I liked that.

Getting into shape

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I’m midway through the second draft of my novel, Unknown to God. I first began writing this several years ago and had completed the first draft before I was diagnosed with cancer. That hit my writing for six; it was over a year before I began on the second draft.

The sole novel I’ve published went through about five drafts. By the end, I was tweaking elements of it, trying to make it perfect. The heavy lifting and significant changes happened in the first few drafts.

I’m not an expert on this – I’m making it up as I go along – but I’ve got a fair idea of the editing process as it applies to me.

The first draft is pretty much a mind dump. You have an idea that’s ticking in your head like a bomb, and, in my case anyway, I’m dead keen to get it on paper before it goes off and there’s nothing left. Throughout this, I’m afraid the inspiration will leave me before I finish. I don’t know why. It’s almost as if I fear a sudden onset of amnesia. So, I’m not fussed over much with the first draft, and it can be pretty messy, and I’m mighty relieved once I’ve got it done.

I’ll take a break from it after that. Working so intensively it can get in your head in an unhealthy way. When that happens, it’s hard to think objectively about it, which is what you need. I take a few months off from it and work on something else. In the background, a part of my mind is still labouring on it, considering the changes I need to make. By the time I get to it again, it’s pretty ripe.

The second draft is about cleaning up the obvious crap and refining it into something more agile and readable. The story remains, but I’ll adjust the plot here and there, taking things out and maybe adding some in. I’ll look at the language and consider the motivations more deeply. There are more drafts to come, so it’s not about making it perfect but getting the shape of it right.

That’s my main focus, really. I may change things up in later drafts, but 95% of the story should be there after the second draft. I want to come to the next draft and know what it’s about without having to do all the thinking again. I can get stuck doing that, but it’s important.

The later drafts are about further refining it. It’s a bit like an athlete training for a big event. He starts fat and unfit but motivated, and as he goes along, he settles on a training plan, losing the fat and adjusting the program as he gets fitter and stronger, fine-tuning it as he closes on his goal. One day, he’s ready. That’s when I hope the book is ready, too – though it never is, really.

That’s where I’m at, midway through the second draft, and it’s been torturous. That’s partly because I got so busy with other things I couldn’t get a good routine going. In my experience, you need a pattern of work to get in the zone properly. When that happens, your mind remains fertile and productive so that when you return to the page, there’s plenty of stuff to go on with. But, up to a couple of months ago, I failed to get a work pattern going, and the writing came hard.

For the last little while, it’s been going well, but then I got stuck again. I didn’t know the right ‘shape’ this time. When that happens, I stare into space a lot, trying to figure it out. I want to get inside the story so the way forward becomes organic and natural. But it’s not always as obvious as that.

Sometimes, I’ll hook something I’ve written out to someone for feedback. What do you think? Does this work? How about x and y? It’s so choked in your mind you feel you can’t see clearly for yourself.

I reckon I must have rewritten this chapter five or six times. I’m tempted to go on to the next chapter sometimes and return to it later, but that doesn’t work. To start with, one chapter informs the next. It’s like trying to build a house without all the framework. And I’m pigheaded, too. I get so pissed with it I won’t move on until I’ve got it beat. I’ve always been like that.

It’s important though. It’s got to be authentic and move the story in the right direction. If I get the shape right now, it’s easier the next time. (By shape, I mean the basic plot and events of the chapter, the pacing and balance and, most importantly, the motivations that influence behaviour and action. It has to feel legit and make sense in the overall context.) If I get to the third draft without getting it right, I might find the story forks in a different direction from what I thought.

Finally, I’m nearing the end of the chapter and am satisfied with it – I think. It has the right balance now, which often equates to less is more. There’s been a lot of trial and error, a bit of experimentation, and everything short of mind-altering drugs. In the end, it’s a tried and true method that seems to have worked. I’ll write about that another day, but basically, it’s using the greats to inspire you to look at things differently.

Magical writing

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There are many things in writing that appear pretty random but almost certainly aren’t. I’ve taken a stab at trying to figure out where stories come from, but I don’t really know. One day, they’re just there, though you can bet they’ve probably been a long time coming.

That’s how it was with the story I’m working on now. One day, I woke up, and it was in my head. It came pretty complete. I didn’t have all the details, but the frame was all there.

I remember I wandered into work pretty much like any other day. I got my coffee and mentioned it to my offsider. He looked at me, his head tilted, figuring out the story in his head as I told him of it. Then he nodded his head. “That’s a good story,” he said.

I was still working on my first book then, so I shoved the idea into the stories to write part of my brain.

Generally, when I have a novel like this in my head, I’ll have the beginning and the end and bits and pieces in between. I’ll know what the story is about and what I want to say, but there will be a lot of gaps in the storyline. It’s like planning a trip from Melbourne to Sydney and knowing you’ve got to go via Upper Kumbucta West or somesuch, but otherwise, you don’t know what route you’ll be taking until you’re in the car driving; what stops you’ll be making, and what’ll happen along the way.

I started writing this one about seven months ago. The first few chapters were clear, and I was happy to let them guide me the rest of the way. There’ve been times occasionally when I’ve felt uninspired and struggling. On one occasion, I had to return to a previous fork in the road and try the other way. Once or twice, I’ve felt so outside the story I felt like shoving it in the bottom drawer as well, come a better day. Naturally, there’ve been moments I’ve doubted the whole enterprise, including my skill as a writer. Who’re you kidding, Peter? You’re just a plodder, mate, get over it…

The thing is, with the sort of writing I do, while it’s important to have a good plot, it’s really about the ideas. I’m not motivated by seeing my name in lights or my book in every store. I’d love to make a fortune, but, yeah, nah, it’s the ideas I really want to explore. The story is the vehicle for that.

So it was with this story. I started with ideas – themes if you like – but they’re pretty general initially. While the plot was clear to me, many deeper, underlying themes only became evident as I began to write.

That’s the difference between being inside the story and outside it. Outside, you see the outline of what you figure is a cool idea, but once you get inside the story, it begins to take on its own life. You advance carefully, feeling your way. Many times, you retreat, knowing it’s not quite right. That’s when you sit in front of your screen looking blank while your mind goes a million miles an hour. You feel it, then. It’s heavy and complex, just like people are. While you search your mind – there’s a lot of sheer figuring things out – you can feel it in your gut, too, and your gut doesn’t lie.

You’re searching for truth, but the truth comes from the story, the text, and not anything you impose upon it. By now, the story has its own life. It’s your job to understand and to chart it. I know that sounds a bit of a toss, but that’s how it is. Quite often, I start off writing, thinking it’s about one thing before discovering there’s more to it than that, and my job is to listen well and get it right. There’s a different, more intimate truth you’re after – and there are multitudes in it.

Halfway through writing this, I had a small epiphany. In my spare time, I was reading of Homer, and specifically, of Achilles, the mighty Greek warrior. As I read, I began to discern reflections of my character’s journey in Achilles. It was a surprise, but it excited me too.

In the Iliad, Achilles is nearly invincible. By myth, he was held by the heel as an infant and dipped in a magical pool that made him immune to injury. As an adult, he becomes a proud, somewhat arrogant character, though capable of great complexity. Ultimately – beyond the pages of the Iliad, he will perish victim of his only flaw – an arrow to the heel left unprotected.

But what Achilles doesn’t perish? What if he lives on well after the sacking of Troy and the death of so many mighty? What if he passes into middle age, a warrior of legend but creaking and aching and grey now? His days of might have passed. He has defeated thousands in battle, but in middle age, he has settled into an existence where he wonders what it all means. Looking back, he knows it was real, but it feels distant now as if then he was a different man. It is this he must reconcile.

That’s what my story is, in a way, though inadvertent. It’s modernised, and instead of being a warrior, the protagonist is a once great sportsman.

I’m not far off finishing this novel, though there will likely be a couple of rewrites before I’m happy. The point is I started with an idea, which still holds true, but as I’ve gone along, I’ve found unexpected complexity in it. It’s like the act of writing reveals truths that were always there but hidden from the eye.

In itself, that’s not surprising. Like I say, to write is to go on a journey. What surprises me every time is that I learn from my own words. I sit back and read what I have written and wonder where it came from. There’s depth and knowledge and even a kind of wisdom, or so it appears – and I wonder if I am that man. It feels almost like a form of automatic writing, but I know the effort that has gone into producing it – there’s nothing automatic about it. But it is magical.

I don’t know what it’s like for other writers – I can only ever speak for myself. I know the satisfaction of having written something pretty good and look forward to the day when it is more generally acclaimed. That’s pretty conventional, I think. No one would be surprised at that. But there’s a deeply personal aspect that is just as satisfying, if not more so.

Writing is a form of self-discovery. You go into the depths of yourself and, from the darkness inside, drag up nuggets of truth you didn’t know existed. And while it looks good on the page, you can’t help but reflect on what it says about you. The meaning of us, I suspect, is more profound and complex than we understand. We get few opportunities to see more deeply within, but in writing, I catch a glimpse of that self inside me, both mysterious and somehow holy.

That’s as good as any reason to write that I can think of.