The Contemporary Nomad is where five authors talk with you, dear reader, about the important subjects of the day. Whatever we decide they might be. Read more 
S T E I N H A U E R
Over at Bookforum there’s an interesting piece called “The First Novel” by Craig Seligman, looking at first novels by such luminaries as Faulkner, Burroughs, George Eliot, and more, with personal reflections on the idea of the “first novel” by John Banville, William Gass, and others. While most prefer the definition that points at one’s first published novel, I prefer Jonathan Lethem’s recounting of the one he wrote when he was fifteen. Now, that’s a first novel.
I was 19 when I decided, wholeheartedly, to become a writer. A bit of luck, that, and it was spurred by my reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. (I know, a little too appropriate to be believable, but it’s true.) I’d written stories and poems at younger ages, but never with the aim of becoming professional. Now, it was different. Though I immediately set to writing, starting with a (terrible) Waiting For Godot rip-off play, I didn’t write my first novel until I was 21.
Fifteen years later, I’m trying to remember it. The overblown title was The Elementals And Their Dreams. (Yeah, I know…I was 21, okay?) It concerned a friend-triangle, a straight couple and their gay artist friend, and a book that, when read, drives people insane. (Or was it a movie? I’m honestly not sure anymore…I don’t recall where the manuscript is.)
Though it’s a slim book–probably less than 40,000 words–it was full of dream sequences and set pieces. At some point, the artist, having gone insane by reading (or watching) the dangerous art, commits suicide by self-crucifixion in a gallery. (Something that, at 21, struck me as a shocking and powerful statement, but now seems childish.) And though I can’t be sure, I have a feeling all the characters except the woman end up dead. (I really need to track it down.)
Oh yeah, it also includes flashbacks to the Holocaust.
I did try to submit the novel for publication, and received (if memory serves) three rejections before deciding that it probably wasn’t worth publishing anyway. I’d typed it up on a Brother word processor, which had a detachable keyboard and a four-inch screen and printed everything like a typewriter. I took those pages, went to the Kinko’s of the day, and had it bound with gray covers. Two copies. One, I signed and gave away to an ex-girlfriend who admitted to liking the book. The other, perhaps, is in some box around here.
Though it wasn’t a published first (thank God), it was a “first”, and it made the second (a horrible book I wrote one grad school summer, years later) easier to do, and the third (the unpublished opus on the Romanian Revolution) easier as well. Once I’d finished Elementals, I knew I could write something of some length, and it freed me up to stop being amazed by mounting page-counts, and to think instead of story. It was a start, and in that way it was a very good first.
Any interesting “first” stories out there?
September 2nd, 2006 at 6:55 pm
I didn’t get the urge until middle age. Up until then I thought I might me a painter, or designer (clothes and interiors), or a gardener. Silly, of course, when you realize that I had read everything I could lay my hands on (that actually led to a degree in literature) and spent a lot of time making up stories. I just didn’t think I had what it takes. When I did begin, it was because I wanted out of my job and figured I could make lots of money by turning out some amusing crap very quickly. There were three firsts. All written under a pseudonym. All destroyed.
September 2nd, 2006 at 9:56 pm
Oh dear. The first attempt, which like yours was actually a novella (sub-40k words) was called “Pilgrimage”. It was a modern retelling of Byron’s “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” (Lord help us), which basically came down to a travelogue of someone suspiciously like me travelling across Europe. Friends who read it said the drunk scenes were particularly realistic. I also remember that there was an occult subtext and all of the major tarot cards were represented at some point. Clever, I suppose. The uber-agent of the time, Pat Kavanagh, told me it was “almost there” which I took as a “no” and I abandoned it. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have reworked it and been published by the age of 24. And by now I would have completely disappeared up my own arse.
I didn’t try again for about seven years because my mind was elsewhere. Then I wrote a futuristic retelling of “Heart of Darkness” which was called “Get Hodister”. That was good enough to attract a few agents, including Jonny, and then I finally got around to writing my own story (rather than a retelling of someone else’s) with “People Die”. I still think of that as my first book, in that it was the one I first poured myself into, no holds barred. It was the first one that was true.
September 2nd, 2006 at 10:36 pm
I wrote something terrible when I was about 19 or 20 but used it as my honor’s thesis for graduating from university, so it did have some positive function.
I once told an old lady that I had written a bad novel. She tried to console me with “Every good writer has a bad first novel.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but so does every bad writer.”
But to get back to good writers … Olen, I’ve finished reading and have blogged on your first published novel, The Bridge of Sighs, in case you’re interested.
I also borrowed an image from your website but will delete it if you object.
Jeffery Hodges
* * *
September 3rd, 2006 at 10:46 pm
Thanks for the write-up, Jeffery. I used to answer all pie-in-the-sky comments the same way as you did that old lady. Surprising how many people can tell one that thing.
It’s reassuring to hear how many people have so many “firsts” before the first published.
September 4th, 2006 at 12:09 am
Well … I’ve not even made a second attempt at a novel, so my first is still really my first, unfortunately.
Jeffery Hodges
* * *