‘Emile,’ they would have said to him, ‘there’s not enough action in this book. Sometimes you go on for pages and pages about one little thing, examining the same thought or feeling from a hundred different angles. Your readers won’t stand for it.’
And Emile would, perhaps, have obliged by removing all that unnecessary atmosphere, all that superfluous guff about what was in Doctor Pascal’s heart, and Clotilde’s, and Martine’s, and upped the biffo quotient, or added a few spicy love scenes. Perhaps a body could be found under the rough stones of the threshing area. Or perhaps not. Maybe he would have said, ‘thanks for your input, but the story is what it is, and I don’t think it really requires jazzing up with more gratuitous activity.’
That’s the nub of my problem as a writer, dear reader. I understand that today, everything moves much more quickly than it did before. Generations of people brought up on 30 minute sitcoms and 60 minute crime shows don’t have time to sit around delving into the thoughts and feelings of the characters in the books they read.
God forbid that the author actually burdens them with lengthy descriptions of places, people, sunsets, non-pivotal actions and subtle observations. Hell no! What readers ‘need’ is a short, sharp progression from problem to solution. Preferably with a pile of killings, conflict, chases and sex, and maybe, just maybe, the odd wry aside that doesn’t get in the way of more action, action, action.
The more things happen in a book, the less the poor reader has to work to understand the characters’ motivations, or tax their imaginations by really trying to see what the author has created. It takes away the hard work of thinking, leaving the reader, much like the TV viewer, just watching. Breathlessly, with any luck.
Alas, my work may never achieve the success I had hoped to attain when I started writing novels. My unseemly attachment to wanting to immerse the reader in the story to the point where they don’t care so much if there isn’t some sort of massive eructation of physical activity every page or two, will be my undoing. I don’t have it in me to pander to the instant gratification requirements of today’s readers. Shame.
So rather than pursue my career as an author, maybe I should spend my time more profitably pretending to have been a beta reader for some of the greats.
‘Dear Fyodor,’ I would write. ‘I like the story, but why on earth does it take so long before Raskolnikov bops Altona and Lizaveta on the head? And what is with all that maudlin reflection? Good lord man, there needs to be at least one lengthy chase.’
‘Franz,’ I would also write. ‘People just won’t buy that your man Josef K doesn’t know what he’s being arrested for. They’re still trying to get their heads around the fact that his last name is a single letter. It would be much easier for the reader if you just had him go out and strangle a prostitute at the start.’