How not to be a professional writer
Sometimes, I make really, really bad decisions
Back in 1990, not long after finishing university, I fell off a motorcycle. In a big way. I couldn’t work, could barely cook and dress myself, and was getting very depressed. So I decided to write a novel. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
All I had was an opening sentence: “Nobody told him the yellow flowers were for the princess.” I knew I wanted to do something in the style of Stephen King’s The Eyes of the Dragon, a YA fantasy he wrote for his kids. I loved the way he told the story, very much like a grandparent telling a bedtime story, where both the narrator and the listener are part of the narrative. Think Peter Falk in Princess Bride, and you’ve got it.
So every morning, I sat down at my trusty Amstrad 9512 word processor and hammered out a chapter of a book. And every afternoon, I went back and edited what I’d written the day before. It was slow going, typing with just one hand, and it hurt like hell, but The Yellow Flowers came together surprisingly quickly: 45,000 words in about two weeks.
It wasn’t a great book. It wasn’t even a good book. It was just bog standard cheesy fantasy, drawn from D&D and The Belgariad and a hundred run of the mill sword and sorcery adventures.
Of course, all my friends and family told me they loved it. Because that’s what people do when they’re being supportive, even if it’s your first faltering attempt at writing something. So, flushed with optimism, I sent the manuscript to a publisher…
… and Gollancz said they liked it and were potentially interested in publishing it…
… but only if I expanded it to a trilogy.
Back in 1990, fantasy trilogies were the Way It Was Done, because everything had to be “comparable to Tolkien at his best.” That was the formula, and you don’t mess with the formula. Nobody was interested in publishing standalone fantasy books. Publishers wanted series, sequels, and stories that would keep readers hooked for years. Three books was the absolute minimum.
So they asked me to write a synopsis for Books II and III.
And I said no.
What? Why the hell would you do that, Matt?
The problem was that the story was all wrapped up neatly at the end of the book, and I didn’t want to write any more about those characters. It wouldn’t have felt like a natural continuation of the story, but as a contrived Further Adventures Of…, and I had absolutely no interest in doing that.
To a large extent, I still think that way: I despise stories that drag on endlessly. Think of all those TV shows and movie franchises that started off great but should have ended after the first season. When a story reaches a satisfying conclusion, stop! A story should be as long as it needs to be, and no more. Leave the audience wanting more, instead of going on and on until they get bored. When I was writing my short stories, I kept getting asked if I was going to turn them into novels. Nope. They’re written as miniatures, and that’s the way they’re going to stay. They don’t need to be expanded.
So I got on my creative high horse, and at the age of 24, I turned down a three-book publishing deal and an advance from a major international publisher.
Because I was stupid.
These days, if someone made me an offer like that, I’d be on it like a shot. So would any sane author with even the slightest commercial sense and desire to be successful. Three books? Sure, no problem! I can probably expand this to a trilogy of trilogies. With spin-off series. And graphic novel adaptations. And merch. Just write my name on this check, with a suitably large number of dollars, and I’ll do whatever you want. And if I want to write something else, I’ll do it in my spare time.
As the blessed Harlan told us many times, it is about the money. That’s what being a professional is. Writing for money. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being an artist and writing whatever you want to write, but you need to be aware that that road is highly unlikely to lead to commercial success. Even if you’re self-publishing, you need to be aware of trends, follow what the market wants, and find ways to keep your loyal fans coming back for more. Once you’re successful and popular, then you can do just about anything.
So yeah, take the money. Take the deal. Put your misgivings aside, shut up and just write, because that’s your job. That’s how it works. It worked for Chandler, for Hammett, for Wyndham, for Dickens, for Howard, for literally thousands of authors who wrote hundreds of thousands of books and entertained millions of people.
Sigh
I often wonder what my life would have been like if I’d done the smart thing back then. Okay, Yellow Flowers was pretty bad and unoriginal, but so was most SF/F back then. Maybe it would have found an audience. I’d have got better. And maybe, just maybe, I could have spent the last thirty-odd years writing stories instead of corporate stuff.
Or maybe not. Who knows?
Never mind. I’m not bitter. After 34 years, I’ve just about forgiven myself for being a complete and utter dumbass back then.
Just about.
I’m currently in the process of revising Yellow Flowers. At heart, it’s a sweet little story, and, unlike everything else I wrote back then, I think it still has something going for it. But I’m still not going to expand it. It can stay as a novella. Unless, of course, there’s another advance on the table.