By Carole Cadwalladr
Oh Dear. What was I thinking? I wish I could remember. There must
have been a moment when I decided that writing a novel with an 'I'
character was a good idea. I spent two years at it, after all. Long
enough to have considered certain issues.
Such as: what will my family make of the fact that I've written a
novel about a family? This 'I' person - won't everyone assume that
she's me? And given these first two facts, might not certain sentences
prove problematic? To take and entirely non-random example here: 'I
reached over and took his penis in my hand.' When did I decide that
was a good idea?
Actually, I don't think I ever did although it's a bit hazy now.
But that's the thing about being a first -time novelist: It's your
first time. You haven't got a clue what you're doing. It's not as
if anybody has asked you to write a novel. Or, at least, they didn't
ask me.
I gave up my job, lived off my savings and simply wrote what I wanted
to write. And this, it turned out, was the story of a messy, complicated,
contradictory family, the Monroes. They took up residence in my head
and for two years embroiled me in their affairs, illnesses, neuroses,
divorces, jealousies, crack-ups and nervous breakdowns. Man About
the House and Dallas crept in, and, later, genetic studies,
theories of relativity and Diana haircuts I'm still not sure how any
of this came about.
What I am sure about is this: it's not about me. Although I can't
help wishing that I'd left out the rude bits. That I'd written: Heave
ho! All men to the rigging!' Or: 'The Benedictine monk smiled enigmatically.'
That kind of thing.
I blame it on Anne Lamott. She's an American writer and at the top
of my computer screen, I kept a quote from her: 'The only way I can
get anything written at all is to write really, really shitty first
drafts. If one of your characters wants to say, "Well, so what, Mr
Poopy Pants?", you let them.'
I let all my characters say: 'So what, Mr Poopy Pants?' or versions
thereof. And when the day came that I finally sent my manuscript off
to an agent, Mr Poopy Pants was still there.
I could always change it later, I thought. But from her on in, my
story becomes the Publishing Dream. Within a fortnight of receiving
my final draft, the agent had sold it. It's more than I could have
hoped for. But I'm stuck with Mr Poopy Pants. With a mother who kills
herself. With a fictional family who implode.
Which wouldn't be so bad. If it was just me. But nobody asks to have
a novelist in the family. In particular, nobody asks to have a novelist
who writes about dysfunctional families in the family. (And I wont
even being to describe what its like having your dad read your novel
- your dad who, according to family legend, or at least my mother,
last read a novel in 1962 and therefore doesn't understand the concept
of made-up things being printed in books.)
But they've been champs. (My dad's verdict? 'Very enjoyable. I mean
I don't think its going to win the Booker…') and they've defended
my decision to have written it. But then, since the central question
to the book is whether you are the way you are because of your genes,
your upbringing, your subsequent experiences or because you spent
too many childhood hours watching serial American dramas, I put it
in some way down to them. Or not. I can't say. It's the question of
the book and it does relate to me, relates, I hope, to anyone. Because
I have no answer. I don't know why I am the way I am. Or why I wrote
the book I wrote. Why I wrote a book at all.
But the Monroes are not my family. I am not 'I'. It's not my hand
on the penis. Or, at least, it is my hand. But, yes, there is a difference.
The Observer, 27th February 2005
