Why didn't I write that?

It’s a question that pops up often in the privacy of my own head after having read a masterpiece of someone else’s devising.

Why didn’t I write that?

I only know two answers to that question, and they are both very short: ‘You didn’t write that book because someone else wrote it first,’ and: ‘If you had written it, it would not have been the same book.’

Both sad but true facts. Because, although since Barthes took the unilateral decision to get rid of the author, we all know that our books – everything that we write – contains some part of us. How important the part is debatable, but it’s presence is not. We will make different word choices, move the plot in another direction, focus on different characters and storylines and all this because we are different people, trailing our own threads in Barthes tissue of intertexts and spaces.

And that’s the fun part, really. That’s why you didn’t write that book. Because if you had written it, then you wouldn’t get quite the same yearning in your chest to write something just as good (or three times better, as the case might be!) How many times can I say a great author inspired me to write something of my own? For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a writer. I can’t give you the name of the book that inspired me to start writing, because I probably couldn’t even read when I first started telling stories. I was a talker long before I was a reader, and I remain a talker to this day. Every other sentence is an anecdote.

But the books I get round to reading, when I keep my mouth shut for long enough, make me think. What do I like so much about this, and how can I incorporate this into my own writing? I like otherworlds and magic realism, and I learnt beautiful tricks from Julio Cortazar and Neil Gaiman. I like books that can make me cry, and I can rely on Louisa May Alcott to give me a nudge and Arundhati Roy to give me a shove. Jane Austen teaches me subtle social satire, and Antoine de Saint-Exupery taught me how to deliver the most difficult truths.

And the other books? The ones that push me to continue writing when I feel like an ant trying to climb this wall of greatness? The ones that I read and say I would have done this differently. I would have done this better.

I’m not going to lie, there’s a lot that I read that makes me think that – more than the ‘why didn’t I write these’ books. And they’re great too, for me. Because then, after I’ve boasted to myself about how much better I would have done, I can give myself a stern talking to.

Well, why haven’t you? It’s not easy, you know. Don’t just say you can do better –do it.

For all intents and purposes, these books are a swift kick up the bum and (in the worst cases) an example of What Not to Do.

And that’s why I didn’t write that book. Because I have my own threads inside of me, waiting to be spun out and added to the rich fabric, waiting to teach others how and how not to write. I am a product of everything that I’ve read so far, and I can build on that.

And I’m proud of that.