Chapter One:

Chapter One:

On the Essence of a Book and This Book in Particular.

The first thing people do after you tell them that you are writing a book, is ask; ‘what is it about? To which the answer given must always be a lie, a misunderstanding or a partial truth. This is an inevitable result of ‘what is it about?’ being a bad question. Were somebody to ask me that question, I could try and answer in a number of ways. 

Firstly, I could simply state the plot. Some would say that although this is the most common way to describe a book, it is the least useful. They would claim that the actions of a plot are nothing more than mere mechanics, a coat hanger for the smart jacket of tailored writing. 

Nonsense. If a novel cannot fulfil the basic obligation of interesting things happening to engaging people, then it is a failure. I consider it a direct and deep insult to be given a book where nondescript characters do nothing. Forget style, forget propriety, forget clever - Story is All.

In the case of this book, the story is about a deluded poet who moves into the Big City to seek his fortune. He is constantly under threat; of starvation, of brutal crime or of equally brutal justice. In the seedy underbelly of London, our poet needs as many true friends as he can get and needs to avoid the attention of powerful enemies. All he has in his favour is a dopey smile and fecklessness, his is not going to be an easy time. 

However, for those who do fancy a little bit more of a warning as to the main theme of this coming work, I can explain it in one sentence. ‘Odes to the Big City’ is about the complicated relationship between an author, his writing and the time and place in which he does it.

In the book we see our hero, inspired by his own poetic vision of the Big City and oblivious to the chaotic and messy truth of it. His poetic vision obscures all, giving him an immunity from disappointment but not from danger or pain. We see other writers, living the high lives and dealing with the lowlifes; writing for money or for prestige, using writing to secure their places in the world and knock a few others off their perches. We also see the people who couldn’t give the slightest fig for the spats of writers, nor have any time for writing in itself. They couldn’t care what a writer writes or what readers read, they just want to stay warm and full.

This theme is given greater resonance through the attempt at writing this book as if it were an eighteenth century novel, and not just one set then. This raises the question of how a writer, writing about a completely different time (though pretty much the same place) can use that work to make sense of their own time and place?  Originally I planned this first chapter to tell the story of how I ‘found’ the manuscript after rummaging through the second hand bookshops near Charing Cross. I was going to praise the ‘anonymous’ author and pretend that ‘Odes to the Big City’ was a relic. This would have fit in perfectly with one way of starting an eighteenth century novel; ‘The Man of Feeling’ starts with a man saving the manuscript from a parson who is using it for gun wadding. Novels later in the century, such as the gothic and sentimental often had a ‘frame’ for their story and the found manuscript is not an unusual one. To use this frame would also excuse me from having to talk about the awkward fact that this is an eighteenth century novel written by a twenty-first century man, leaving the question unasked, which seemed to not only avoid a question very relevant to the theme of the book but also the act of a coward.

As I write this book, I  intend to follow as close as possible the quirks and features of the mid-eighteenth century novel; from the idiosyncratic capitalisation and short chapters with long titles, to the types of stock characters and scenes an eighteenth century reader would expect. I have read many eighteenth century texts, with textual analyses of them. I have my trusty Oxford English Dictionary next to me to aid against anachronistic words sneaking in. I have Johnson’s Dictionary and an early slang dictionary called ‘The Canter’s Crew’ to guide my word choices. I have researched up to and beyond my eyeballs on eighteenth-century London life, dialect and literature but as much as I try and make this book an eighteenth century one, I can’t forget that I am typing it on a computer and listening to mp3s. 

Even were I to lock myself in some rural hellhole, wear nothing but heavy duty re-enactor’s clothing, use nothing but period implements and a library consisting only of books available at the time, I’d still not be able to write an eighteenth century book. Even if I were rich enough for a classical Eton education, instead of my ordinary state kind, I’d Still not be able to write one. It is simply Impossible. There is no way I can think and act in a way completely eighteenth century, and even if I could, I couldn’t interact with others who could, or in a manner appropriate to the period. 

Which brings me back to the theme, of the author’s relationship to his time and place. Although I cannot fully recreate the past, in trying to do just that, I am having a conversation with it,  a living engagement between the past and the present through which I can look at both the story, and the writing of the story in different ways. 

Which brings me back further when I said, ‘Story is All’. There hasn’t been much yet. This is because convention demands, if I follow the mid-eighteenth century example, that I begin the book by providing the reader a context for the work. Henry Fielding in ‘Joseph Andrews’ describes his idea of the ‘comic-epic in prose’. Johnson in his work on Shakespeare, contextualises debates on the celebrated playwright before we see his works. Samuel Richardson explains the morals of his characters before we are thrust in their heads, and so with this book, I try to explain what it is I am setting out to do. As it is traditional for writers of the time to write a chapter like this, so it is traditional for the readers to skip it. 

Personally, these chapters are my favourite in those eighteenth century books, similarly to the way that the prefatory chapters are my favourite parts of a Kurt Vonnegut novel, there is something about the author putting their mask down for a moment that I find delicious. Although, I plan to be a rather intrusive narrator as the story progresses, it will only be in the prefatory chapter of each ‘book’ that I will completely drop my eighteenth century mask and let my full twenty-first century self be exposed. Of course, you may skip those if you wish.

I started this chapter by asking the question, ‘what is the book about?’ and declaring it a bad one. This is because a novel is only ever about anything when it is read. There are entertainments, like the theatre, where the audiences’s imaginations are limited by the physical presence and performance of the actors. We may wish to imagine Iago a thousand ways when we read ‘Othello’ but when we see it performed, Iago is the man standing on the stage, dressed in the costume he has been put in, saying the lines in the manner that the director and the actor have agreed already. The audience cannot affect what is in front of them. A novel is different altogether.

If this page is a stage, the writer and reader meet here as equals. The reader is not like an audience at a play consuming the entertainment, but like the actor is a vital participant, a performer. Where I as the writer need to provide clear direction and an engaging script, it is the reader’s job to act that script. To add breath to it and give it life. I may be able to describe with great clarity the dress of a character, the gait, the tone of their voice, but the performance of such can only be achieved by the reader. In this sense, a novel is not created by a writer, but an act of co-creation by writer and reader.

It is for this reason that the essence of a book, what it is about, can never be truly answered by anyone but the individual. Perhaps, when the book is finished, you might be able to tell me. However, at this early stage, as we enter the unknown hand in hand, I hope we can develop the rapport and trust that good relationships are built on; for just as you trust that I tell the tale well, I trust you to read it well also.

Onwards in trust then.

Adam Stevenson

Author's Note

I know this is a strange way to start a novel, but does it hold the reader's attention?

Reviews

[Emma Berman]

This is very well done. Your conversational style of narration is difficult to pull off, but you pull it off with your well-organized writing and your interesting ideas.

Awesome job.

[Sujash I. Purna]

A sage one! I've learned a lot of things! The paragraph with the "if this page is a stage, the writer and reader meet here as equals." is like a reservoir of great thoughts!

Thank you so much for writing such a great prefatory chapter no matter how strange you think it is!

I'm downloading Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle and have started reading Slaughterhouse Five just now! Thanks for sharing!

[Alicia Beavis]

You've piqued my interest with this. Some lines in here were just cracking! Especially ones like about the reader and writer meeting as equals. That paragraph hit me enough to make me WANT to read on, let alone the fact the rest of this opening was interesting and engaging.

I can't wait to see where you go with this. I've always had an interest in history so this should be right up my street.

NICE!

[Jason van Dongen]

Yes, it held my attention, Adam. This preface has introduced a project that has engaged me on multiple levels. I will outline three of them for you.

First, as a reader, I sometimes like to sit in the nosebleed seats at a professional wrestling show, as it were: grand, over-the-top characters, an emphasis on showmanship rather than substance, and a basic storyline to carry the action, rather than the other way around. From my reading of the preface, I think I can expect to be entertained on that level.

Second, I am sold when an author gives me the best of their wit and their perceptions in cunningly crafted sentences. We have all read work that was hastily written and poorly turned out. Hard work shows. There is simply no substitution for it, and my impression from this preface is that you are a hard-working writer.

Third, before philosophy won me over, I was a history major. I am keen to see how well you are able to translate the historical knowledge you have accumulated into prose.

If there is anything in this passage that may warrant a little thought, it is that at times it seems you are downplaying the importance of a plot. I am not sure whether that will intrigue your readers or concern them.

I am aware this is another long review, but a well-considered project deserves a well-considered response. Good luck, Adam.

[cartera]

O.K. I am with you Tristan of Grub Street. Let's go.
ATB
Alex.