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.
