Great v good books

it is the season of literary prizes; more specifically, the Nobel and the Booker. The Times has also published this week the titles of the first batch of its ' 60 best books of the past 60 years' survey. Among the top 20 are Harry Potter, Doctor Zhivago and The Time Traveller's Wife, and this set me thinking: what is the difference between a great book and a good book? There are books which have kept me riveted (Sandra Brown's thrillers spring to mind) but which I know are not great, and books which I recognise as being great literature (eg some Trollope (Anthony), much of Iris Murdoch), but which may not have been quite so un-put-downable. There is certainly room for both - in fact, both kinds are essential - and yet I find it hard to explain what it is that makes me feel that a book is great rather than just good. What does anyone else think? And what are, say, your top five books (published in the last 60 years) for whatever reason? Mine, for what it's worth, would be Brothers (Bernice Rubens), A Fine Balance (Rohanton Mistry), The Secret history (Donna Tartt), The Diary of Jane Somers (Doris Lessing) and The Tin Can Tree (Anne Tyler). The Tin Can Tree is a compromise as I couldn't quite make up my mind, but the delicacy of the writing in this quite slight novel, which describes beautifully a family's reactions to the death of a little girl, and takes place over just a few days, shows a mastery which I find quite breathtaking.

Crime and P D James

There was an interesting interview with P D James on the radio this morning, in the course of which she said that she created her setting and characters some time before deciding on her plot. I found this very heartening, as while I shall never be a P D James (shame, that) I have done the same in my current (crime) novel, even to the point of not deciding 'who dunnit' until a third of the way through. Hitherto, I thought that maybe this wasn't the way to go about things - ie that crime novels should be plot rather than character-driven - but maybe I haven't got it all wrong after all. A nice beginning to the week.

Better to travel than to arrive?

Several Macmillan New Writers - myself included - have had disappointing news this year in that our second or third novels have been rejected for publication. Most of us will have spent at least a year on each of these novels; a year of writing, of thinking, of planning, of ups and downs, and of hope. But thinking back over my own year, I have to conlude that it's the journey that really counts, not the arriving. Yes, it's wonderful to be accepted and published; great to hold in my hand the first copy of a new novel; fun to attend a book launch and book signings, and to see my book in a shop window. The money's nice, too. But nothing quite compares with the exhilaration I feel when a piece of writing is going well; when the story take over, and flows as though coming from a source of its own; the moment when another (brilliant, of course) idea strikes, and I can't wait to get it down on paper. So, yes. It's deeply disappointing to be rejected and to have to put the novel and all its well-loved characters away in their virtual drawer, and turn to something else. But regrets? None. A waste of time? Absolutely not. Speaking for myself, it was worth every minute. And that, presumably, is why we keep on writing.

Police checks and paedophiles. A rant

Have you had a police check? Because if you haven't you're pretty sure to need one sooner or later. I had to have one for teaching adults in an evening class. Big strong adults. There were twelve of them and one of me. But never mind. If police checks protect children, they're worth it, aren't they?

Well, maybe not. I have a friend who's a single mother. She's a brilliant mother and adores her five-year-old son. A year ago, she discovered that her estranged partner - her sons's father - had been systematically sexually abusing their child for a year, threatening him with his mother's death if he were to tell anyone. Eventually, the child spoke out. His account was detailed and graphic, and included details that no 4-year-old could possibly know, and although he convinced his mother, his GP, his teachers and his extended family, my friend was told that his evidence didn't count because he was so young.

A year on, after striving tirelessly and heroically for justice, my friend has managed to ensure that this man is on a sex register, and will never be allowed near her son again. But that is all. He is already involved in a club for young sportsmen and has formed a relationship with a woman with two small children. Meanwhile, her little boy is still trying to come to terms with his appalling ordeal, and she is still angry, frustrated and appalled that she should have entrusted her child to someone who would perpetrate such terrible acts against him.

Scary? You bet it is. Police checks? Forget them. They're not worth the paper they're written on.

Returning to the WIP

I've always thought that writing is a bit like, say, trying to draw a horse. You know what a horse looks like, you can see it in your mind's eye. But get a pencil and try to draw it, and unless you're a consummate artist, the drawing is nothing like what's in your head. So it is with the WIP. I see what I want to create, I have the shape and the characters and much of the plot in my head, and it's all oh-so beautiful. But get down to it, and the reality is a far cry from what I planned.

So - I've given myself a few weeks to recuperate (after all, the muse isn't going to work after major surgery, is it? Of course it isn't), but now it's time to face the novel again, especially now I have an almost-agent. Displacement activity abounds, including, as now, blogging. Meanwhile, I can feel myself circling the WIP warily, like a bird of prey which isn't quite sure whether or not the prey might bite back; wondering whether to take the plunge, or wait a little longer; until tomorrow, or next week, or next year...

A question of genre

Earlier this week, I had a long chat on the phone with my (possible) agent. She was very nice, very encouraging, very approachable. Exactly the sort of person I was looking for. But it seems I have a problem. Hitherto, my books have been genre-free. They don't really belong in a particular pigeonhole, and I wasn't thinking genre when I wrote them. They were the novels I wanted to write. Period. But the agent sees a problem, because the WIP is a murder story, and I am not a crime writer. Well, not yet, anyway. And so there is a problem with labelling and marketing the novel when (or if) it comes to publication. I had no idea that this mattered so much, but apparently it does. Crossing genres is, aparently, a risky thing to do. She mentioned a very well-known novelist who did just this, with disastrous results.

So what do I do? Do I persevere with my crime, or do I go back to the type of novel I've written before (more relationship-orientated), although the murder is really crying out to be written? Our conversation has dented my confidence, not least because my editor feels much the same. Advice, please.

Of hips and ops

I contemplated (breifly) writing a horribly introspective diary of the hip operation, but decided it would be even more boring to read than to write. But since receiving my new hip (16 days ago), I have learnt several things.
1. I am a much worse patient than I had hoped to be.
2. Never, never, never let your nearest and dearest help you on with your elastic stockings.
3. Your bones do not belong to you. No, really, I asked to be able to keep my old hip (feeling suddenly and nostalgically fond or it) and was told firmly no. Why? Health and safety. Health and bloody safety. What harm can I possibly do with a small severed hip joint? I feel ridiculously angry about this.
4. It is impossible to write anything useful while trying to convalesce. Will I ever write again?
5. Blogging is a good solution to 4, even if it does nothing to further the progress of the WIP.