Paul Ford writes this about his first book, Gary Benchley, Rockstar: "It is my first child and I raised it as best I could but what did I know? I was so young; we were so poor; there was so much mercury in the tuna." In addition to making me laugh, he got me thinking about the fact that this is his first novel (not his first published novel, though it is) but just his first novel, in general. His second one, he says, "is shaping itself into a monstrosity, a collection of interlocking stories at war with one another . . ." So I'm assuming he hasn't got, oh, three or four more under the bed somewhere, the false starts that may see publication somewhere down the line when readers are importuning Sheds & Commoner or Bounder's info desks for the next Paul Ford novel.
Then there's Miss Snark, and many others, who insist that those two or three molding, curling, musty, yellowing fire hazards manuscripts are prerequisites for entry into the sacred halls of print. First novels hardly ever, if ever, get published. Well, that must be pure bullshit, although I can't, off the top of my head, think of writers whose first novel was their first publication. Uh, Donna Tartt? Jay McInerney? That guy who wrote A Confederacy of Dunces? Bret Easton Ellis? Paul Ford?
I suppose, in the end, it depends on how brilliant a writer you are. Or
How well your prospective agent likes your first book. Or
How well your prospective editor likes your first book. Or
Er, how long you've been writing, anyway.
I suspect that more 17-23 year-old guys get their first novels published than women the same age, mostly because they're so sure they have something to say, and women, I suspect, like to take a little more seasoning time. But maybe I'm just projecting to make my almost 46-year-old self feel better.
But it's all very confusing. Should I just shove this thing under the bed and get on with number 2? Consider it "practice," like all that fanfic? Or should I keep plodding on with the revision, polishing it up to make it shiny and new-looking and send it off with a "Go, Little Book!"? Dunno. It all depends, I guess. How brilliant a writer am I? Which side of the bed did my prospective agent get up on on the day she/he picks my submission out of the slush pile? Is the moon in the seventh house? Is time ripe? And who do I know?
Oh, hell. I'm going back to bed. The one without the manuscripts under it.
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