How One New Writer Became a Best-Selling Author

There’s a PBS program called Well Read that comes on before six in the morning in my neck of the woods. The program starts with host, Terry Taziolli, interviewing an author about his or her latest book, with some discussion about any prior books, as well as the author’s process. After the interview segment, Mary Ann Gwinn and Taziolli discuss several books selected by Gwinn, which are based on a theme inspired by the interviewed author’s book. If you’ve never watched Well Read, it’s certainly worth it for book lovers. You learn about favorite and unknown-to-you authors and discover books you can hardly wait to read.

One morning the guest author was Tom Rachman, who despite his huge success with his first novel, I’d never heard of. His second novel was being featured, but his best-selling first novel was also discussed, as well as his process that led him to best-seller status with that book. I decided to start with his first novel, The Imperfectionists—and ordered it, which is how I found his comments I’ve shared below.

  

Tom Rachman on The Imperfectionists

I grew up in peaceful Vancouver with two psychologists for parents, a sister with whom I squabbled in the obligatory ways, and an adorably dim-witted spaniel whose leg waggled when I tickled his belly. Not the stuff of literature, it seemed to me.

During university, I had developed a passion for reading: essays by George Orwell, short stories by Isaac Bashevis Singer, novels by Tolstoy. By graduation, books had shoved aside all other contenders. A writer—perhaps I could become one of those.

There was a slight problem: my life to date.

By 22, I hadn't engaged in a bullfight. I'd not kept a mistress or been kept by one. I'd never been stabbed in a street brawl. I'd not been mistreated by my parents, or addicted to anything sordid. I'd never fought a duel to the death with anyone.

It was time to remedy this. Or parts of it, anyway. I would see the world, read, write, and pay my bills in the process. My plan was to join the press corps, to become a foreign correspondent, to emerge on the other side with handsome scars, mussed hair, and a novel.

Years passed. I worked as an editor at the Associated Press in New York, venturing briefly to South Asia to report on war (from a very safe distance; I was never brave). Next, I was dispatched to Rome, where I wrote about the Italian government, the Mafia, the Vatican, and other reliable sources of scandal.

Suddenly—too soon for my liking—I was turning thirty. My research, I realized, had become alarmingly similar to a career. To imagine a future in journalism, a trade that I had never loved, terrified me.

So, with a fluttery stomach, I handed in my resignation, exchanging a promising job for an improbable hope. I took my life savings and moved to Paris, where I knew not a soul and whose language I spoke only haltingly. Solitude was what I sought: a cozy apartment, a cup of tea, my laptop. I switched it on. One year later, I had a novel.

And it was terrible.

My plan—all those years in journalism—had been a blunder, it seemed. The writing I had aspired to do was beyond me. I lacked talent. And I was broke.

Dejected, I nursed myself with a little white wine, goat cheese and baguette then took the subway to the International Herald Tribune on the outskirts of Paris to apply for a job. Weeks later, I was seated at the copy desk, composing headlines and photo captions, aching over my failure. I had bungled my twenties. I was abroad, lonely, stuck.

But after many dark months, I found myself imagining again. I strolled through Parisian streets, and characters strolled through my mind, sat themselves down, folded their arms before me, declaring, "So, do you have a story for me?"

I switched on my computer and tried once more.

This time, it was different. My previous attempt hadn't produced a book, but it had honed my technique. And I stopped fretting about whether I possessed the skill to become a writer, and focused instead on the hard work of writing. Before, I had winced at every flawed passage. Now, I toiled with my head down, rarely peeking at the words flowing across the screen.

I revised, I refined, I tweaked, I polished. Not until exhaustion—not until the novel that I had aspired to write was very nearly the one I had produced—did I allow myself to assess it.

To my amazement, a book emerged. I remain nearly incredulous that my plan, hatched over a decade ago, came together. At times, I walk to the bookshelf at my home in Italy, take down a copy of The Imperfectionists, double-check the name on the spine: Tom Rachman. Yes, I think that's me.

In the end, my travels included neither bullfights nor duels. And the book doesn't, either. Instead, it contains views over Paris, cocktails in Rome, street markets in Cairo; the ruckus of an old-style newsroom and the shuddering rise of technology; a foreign correspondent faking a news story, a media executive falling for the man she just fired. And did I mention a rather adorable if slobbery dog?

***

Many who decide to be authors would have given up had they been in Rachman’s shoes. A true writer—who must write as much as breathe—demonstrates what it can sometimes take. What it takes is what Rachman said: “I stopped fretting about whether I possessed the skill to become a writer, and focused instead on the hard work of writing.”

Writing is an art and a craft. Sometimes new writers forget that latter part. They figure all they need to do is put down whatever they’re thinking and voila!—they have the next best-selling novel that leads to movie rights. There’s a bit more to it than that. It’s a great dream, and there’s nothing wrong with having that dream, but for the dream to have the potential to be realized, it needs substance, a strong foundation, to be built upon.

Writing fiction or non-fiction requires creative and technical skills, not just one or the other. If you’re a master at punctuation and subject-verb agreement but can’t tell a story in a cohesive and engaging fashion, your technical skills don’t matter. If you can tell a story well, but don’t have any or enough technical skills, your work will be difficult to read, because it won’t flow as a movie in the minds of readers. No agent will represent (and may not even read) a manuscript filled with obvious, and especially egregious, creative and technical issues. If you self-publish, a book with these issues will not endear you to readers.

Never hesitate to learn more about the art and craft of writing. Yes, you can hire a developmental editor to help you polish it, but why not gain confidence as a writer. If you want more confidence, hone your skills.

I wish you the best with your writing and progress.

Need a Book Doctor or an incentive to write or complete your manuscript? Let Joyce L. Shafer be your writing coach, developmental editor, or provide a critique. Details about her services at http://editmybookandmore.weebly.com/