A while back I did an interview with Historical Novels Review. The journalist and I live in different cities, so the interview was conducted via email. This happens sometimes and it’s actually my preferred mode of Q&A, not because I’m anti-social (well, maybe just a little bit), but because I always feel more comfortable expressing myself in writing than I do out loud.
The list of questions when they arrived excited me. This isn’t always the case with Q&As, and the reasons were twofold: first, they were things I hadn’t been asked before (always a good start); and second, they were about the process of writing, which is far more interesting to talk about than myself. In particular, they were about how much – or little – my own experience of writing compares with that of my characters in The Distant Hours.
The first question was about notebooks, a subject dear to my heart.
HNR: Whether in a muniment room with dead man’s notebooks; taking a sneaky read of a sister’s journal; finding the courage to write on the crisp new pages of a new journal; or while sitting in a quiet place with writing materials and a strong cup of tea, the notebook is a strong feature of all your writer’s lives. Can you tell me now this works for you? Are you a notebook person? If yes, what do you write in your notebook? Information? ‘Everything you see and think and feel?’ Or do you carefully craft scenes, ‘reading aloud and relishing the pleasure of bringing your heroine’s world to life?’
KM: I am absolutely a notebook person. To imagine being without one fills me with dread. (I only keep notebooks for story-writing though, and I’ve never been able to stick to keeping a diary.) By the time I finish writing a novel, I’ve usually gathered around ten notebooks of story ideas, random images, plot schematics, scene details, graphs, snatches of overheard conversation. . . you name it, it’s in there. Scribbled, crossed-out, connected with arrows, stapled in on top of other bits and pieces. Quite a mess, but a somehow lovely one. I’m a visual person and to see them sketched out in my notebook helps me to clarify my thoughts and pin down my ideas. Also, the pen in hand forces me to focus.
I have a great fondness for stationery in general and I take enormous pleasure in selecting a new notebook at the beginning of each project. The feel of the paper, the thickness of the cover, the colour and spacing of the lines inside. (Although, I’ll work with whatever I’ve got when the ideas start coming, the backs of old envelopes included.)
When I was about a quarter of the way into House at Riverton I lost a notebook. I’d left it on the roof of my car when I strapped in my small person, and then forgotten to collect it and driven away. As soon as I arrived at my destination and couldn’t find it, I knew what must have happened. I drove back along the same route, heart in my mouth, but there was no sign. I letter-box dropped, door-knocked, walked the streets, offered a reward: all to no avail. I wonder sometimes, how different (or not) the story might have been had I found the old notebook with its chapters plotted out.
It was an awful experience, but it taught me that no matter how essential the notebook seems at the time, no matter how tightly I cling to it when I’m dreaming up a story, a novel is a living, breathing organism and will continue to grow – perhaps in even more propitious ways than those sketched out – without it. There are always more ideas and new ways of tying them together, and the unconscious mind is a powerful thing—it doesn’t need a notebook to keep hold of the really important ideas.