The Novice Writer’s Conundrum

In my book there are two kinds of writers: the kind that produces record-breakers in publishing history, and the kind that tinkers away in quietude, far away from the limelight, the award shows, and public adulation. 

Generalisations are unavoidable in the categorising of writers. The first kind is rarely preoccupied with aesthetic matters or ideological revolutions, preferring to do it “straight” to widen public appeal. His aim is to entertain (a filthy, filthy word in Literature) and to thrill the reader, to provide – here comes another scatological term – escapism(!) from the awful ordinariness of everyday life. The second kind is rarely aware of the reader’s needs and wants. He is more interested in his own thought process, the “sound” of the authorial voice, and the mechanics of writing. The reader is an afterthought to him.

Every aspiring writer must at one point arrive at this crossroads and wonder which way to turn.  Either direction poses a series of obstacles, and making a choice, as with everything else in life, is not as straightforward as it appears. 

The first kind, the celeb-writer, has business savvy and knows what his readers want. He produces – often at breakneck speed – staples of books that sell like iPhones, easily digestible tomes that pose few challenges (and thus do not give rise to heartburn), spin out thrilling, “hip” plotlines, serve up cardboard characters (so as not to complicate things unnecessarily), and give his readers the instant satisfaction that they, after having devoured the entire series, belong to a universal cult that identifies Quidditch as a sport. The celeb-writer is the darling of publishers; like insipid Hollywood summer blockbusters, he is the one who generates the $$$ to sustain a whole catacomb of editors, proof-readers, and clerks. To be fair, he is also the one who makes it possible for publishers to sign on less commercially inclined writers (the second kind). He therefore belongs to the royalties of the publishing world; every sentence he churns out is worth somebody’s weekly wage in Pakistan. He also has a fiercely loyal fanbase – usually comprising middle-of-the-road types that see reading as a pastime.

What this celeb writer does not have, however, is critical reception.

In serious literary circles, his name is, for the sake of good taste, painstakingly avoided, as though the mere mention of him could lead to the fall of civilisation. But you do not have to get yourself into a literary circle to have good taste. Put the name Salman Rushdie next to Dan Brown, or Margaret Atwood next to Stephanie Meyer, stare at the equation for a few seconds, and ask yourself which way the weigh should tip. Why is it the name Haruki Murakami weighs a great deal more than, say, John Grisham? The answer seems self-evident and yet difficult to pin down. Some may say it is cultural snobbery (the PC crowd’s usual line of attack), but I say it has to do with literary sensitivities, love of diction and imagery, and philosophical Gordian knots. It is probably the fact that when you emerge from a Murakami you are left with more questions than answers, or once you have read a few pages of Paul Auster, you feel intellectually rattled. The answer seems to point in the direction of mental labour.

The second kind of writer, let us call him the artist-writer, does not believe in smoothness and transparency. He wants to rock your boat of complacency, to cure you of your somnambulant tendencies, to re-educate you by opening your eyes to new vistas. The irony here is, despite (or perhaps owing to) the labour he undergoes, he does not appeal to readers of fluff (who make up the majority of book-buyers), or secure film deals worth millions – unless his surname is Ishiguro or McEwan.

Where does the novice writer go from here? He must first ask himself the question that goes straight to the ethical heart: Do I want to seek fame and fortune, or do I want to take the high road and write art for art’s sake? In a perfect world, he could have it all (and some writers – and these are few and far between – do have it all); but in this world, choice is necessary.