John Dickinson

About a month ago (see “Stepping Back”) I finished the first draft of one novel and, to clear my mind a bit before revisiting it, I began another. Something completely different. Something funny, in fact.

I’ve always been a bit shy of writing humour. I think my first three books had about one joke between them. I’ve tried a bit more with Keys of Cleary (see “Comedy”). And what I’ve found is that if I set out to be funny- planning the scenes in advance, so he drops his trousers and she pours a bucket of custard over his head and they fall down the stairs – what I get is stuff that ought to be funny but isn’t. The really funny bits just come. From somewhere. Don’t ask me where. I don’t know until they hit me. I may think of a key line the day before I type it. Or it may just happen as I type. It’s like juggling blindfold.

But it is coming. Strangely. There’s something every couple of pages. It might be a play on words. It might be a character acting very much in character (slightly bizarre characters are a very rich source of comedy. And an easy one. You just keep them doing what they do.) It might be a dollop of good coarse lavatory humour, just delivered in a way that the reader doesn’t quite see coming, but when it comes – splat – it’s perfect.

And it’s fun. It’s fun to write stuff that makes you smile. It’s so much fun that I want to go on doing it. I want to write this novel to the finish. And never mind the poor, noble fantasy that I’ve put aside, now shouting at me from the document folder saying ‘hey – haven’t you stepped back for long enough already? What about me?’ There’s a trade-off between creativity and discipline. Right at the moment I just want to ditch the discipline and run off and have a wild fling with creativity.

One thing that nags at me as I write though is – am I trying too hard? Is all this comedy getting in the way of the story? What if, instead of making the reader laugh, I’m going to bamboozle them with so much madcap stuff that in the end they sigh and put the book down? How do I tell?

There’s only one way. Sooner or later I’m going to have to step back.

A fortnight ago we left our hero the author in the middle of a metaphorical car-chase. This week we find him struggling in a huge web. And it’s one of his own devising.

What we’re trying to do is to combine two characters into one. And this is in a novel that should be complete and in the last stages of editing before it goes to production. So we want to change as little as possible while we do it. It’s a bit like saying to an architect, as you watch the roof being put on his new cathedral –‘You know, I don’t think you should have those twin towers at the east end. Couldn’t it be a great big dome instead?’ And as his face falls, you add ‘…without redesigning the whole thing, of course.’ And you mean this to be reassuring.

Underlying every story there is – or should be – a web of supports and balances, a bit like the arches and buttresses of a cathedral. Each scene should be supported by the scenes preceding and following it, not simply in what is said and done but in mood, pace, variety, so that everything is given the right emphasis and the reader is carried through the story. Ideally this structure should go in naturally at the first writing , without too much labour or conscious thought on the part of the writer. (It’s always best when things happen naturally). After that, any time you go back and rewrite a scene or replace it with another, you have to look not only at the new scene but how it fits, consciously and subconsciously, with the others around it.

Now in this case we are not replacing any scenes. I can find ways of getting everything that needs to be said and done said and done with the new diminished cast of characters. If it’s no longer possible for the two-into-one character to take part in a scene with the hero (because she simply wouldn’t behave in the way that the scene calls for) I can bring on a supporting character to do that bit instead. Easy. Change a few words and turns of phrase, and the scene still works fine. What’s worrying me is what all this is doing to the subconscious structure of the novel. Every time I pull on a thread, other threads in the web get pulled too. I may be pulling things out of shape without knowing it. For example, this same supporting character appeared and did a scene with my same hero two scenes back. Now, even though everything she says is consistent, the set-up feels repetitive. Flabby. We’re losing momentum, here.

Or are we? Is it just that I’m losing confidence? I’m right in the thick of it at the moment, with web-thread wrapped round my arms and over my face. What I’m afraid of is that when I finally pull myself free and look back at what I’ve done I’ll find my once-trim structure all ripped and baggy. And at this stage in the process, that will not be good. Why don’t spiders get caught in their own webs? Because they know which threads not to touch. Why don’t architects redesign cathedrals? Because they brain the person who suggests it. But authors, it seems, are a different species. They are bent on self destruction.