As my novel pours out of my brain like molasses through a pinhole, I find myself spending as much time thinking about the metaphorical pen as much as what the pen is writing. This could very well be a cop-out, procrastination with really nice window dressing. I’ll accept the charge and to whatever time’s required.
Am I really in a position to write about writing? Have the qualifications been met? Have I sold enough books? If not, then you can stop here and go about your day, chuckling at my thinking that I have something worthwhile to say.
After twenty years of reading and writing, I’ve come to feel that any great piece of fiction, and most other things work reading, must not only concern fundamental spiritual/philosophical/existential questions, but must also make a real attempt at answering them. And one might be able to make the argument that most writing does, but that smells a lot like post-hoc justification. Anything which follows an archetypal storyline can be claimed -after the fact- to be shooting at such capital Q Questions.
If a writer is going to earnestly tackle some grand philosophical point, then there must be an essay’s worth of thought about it somewhere - written and argued for - even if that essay does not make it into the final work. The effort must take place somewhere. Leaving the essay as a monolith in the final work can feel pedantic, annoying, like the writer is beating you over the head. In my opinion, among all that I’ve read, Dostoevsky does this best.
I frequently joke that the best twitter effortposts start out as essays, and are pruned little by little until they’re robust 240 character summaries of a larger work. Shiny swords from a fifty pound block of raw steel.
I think great works of fiction should follow a similar path.
And maybe you’re thinking “That seems like a bit much. I’m just a guy writing a book for fun.” Which is a fine sentiment to have. I’m not trying to knock anyone for treating writing like a casual hobby, but personally, the idea of spending several years and hundreds of hours writing without even the hope that it will be read fifty years from now seems a little depressing. Shoot for the stars, etc etc.
And now, if you’ve read The Cowboy Church, you might be laughing because you know it’s not Great and almost certainly won’t be read after I die. I am in agreement. But it was carved out of cheap pine, and I’m working with marble now. I believe some ego is required. I don’t think McCarthy would have told you he thought his own work was just “good.” And, if he had, he would have been a fool for doing so.
Some ego is absolutely required. If you don't think you even a shot at being great, go do something else, like spend time with your kids.
I think you had a marble deposit somewhere in The Fall. It might just take another round of digging to get it out of the ground.