I picked up a novel to read whilst we were away for a few days this week in Dartmouth. Mythologically wet and unreliable weather encouraged staying inside and I wanted to read something different. I picked a novel that appeared to be about Dartmouth or some similar estuary small historical town. I normally tend to read non-fiction either research for my own writing or economics/politics tomes, my all time favourite academic area.
What I noticed was how hard to read another writers work is for me now. I wanted to rewrite everything. I didn’t like the school boy fantasist approach to the main character’s back story and the carboard cartoons of local characters. The repetitive opt-outs for describing the local scenery; the estuary is always “beautiful”, the sea “shiny”. It was a cacophony of cliches. I threw the book down twice in frustration and never got further than the second chapter in three attempts.
Walking round Dartmouth enjoying the variety of the Georgian and earlier architecture I thought about my reaction and recognised that unknowingly my voice has matured. Learning to choose words to ensure descriptions capture imagination leading the reader through their mind’s eye to see some idea of what I saw, has honed my sensitivity to the use of words. It was a rewarding thought. My next thought was if something that awful can get published I should too. However, I am still waiting for an agent to be hooked. Only one rejection so far but the calendar is turning daily away from the ‘six weeks windows’. Another round of submissions is going to have to be made.
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