Dear Michael,
Thanks for this. I’m sure that showing your work to someone before it’s finished must be a terrifying experience, but you needn’t have worried, the writing is fine. In fact it’s better than fine, it’s good. You appear to have found a story of interest to yourself and, I’m pleased to say, readers as well. You also seem to have reached that point where you can begin to relax and enjoy the experience of writing. I usually have to wrestle my way inside a book, but once I’m there and I’m sure it’s alive I start to breathe easy and allow it to grow under its own momentum. Be careful though. Such a pleasure is fleeting. So enjoy it while it lasts because soon enough you’ll need to wrestle your way out again. But while all of that is still ahead of you I thought I might offer a little advice. Not hard and fast rules, as I’m sure you know that no such things exist. Just an understanding, which after years of writing I hold to be true. A writer can only use the voice he or she was born with. And if it makes them a success or not is simply luck. In fact, to be honest, whether you get published or not is down to luck as well. Your voice is your voice and it’s the one you’re stuck with. Unfortunately, choice is not a factor. Popular fiction writers can’t understand why they never win literary prizes. Literary writers are frustrated that they can’t achieve the big sales. Yet it’s all because neither of them can escape their voice. And those that try tend to fail miserably. Also, don’t worry so much about being neat and correct. Awkwardness is fine. Rough edges are good. Think of the millions of novels that have been published. It’s rarely the smooth and palatable ones that endure. It’s the books that get stuck in my throat that I tend to remember. Be yourself. Let your personality seep into the work. Be true to what’s inside your head. How else will you uncover the things you never knew existed? Write the book you would want to read. That way whether it sells or not becomes irrelevant. Publishers will always insist that this is a business. And for them it is. But for you it can never be. Writing has to be an artistic pursuit otherwise you’re just wasting trees and distracting yourself until death. And believe me, you are going to die. We all are. So why not make your own mark. State what you think is real. More than likely it will be real for others as well. And in the process you’ll furnish yourself with a purpose in life that billionaires will envy.
Lucian leaned away from the typewriter to scan his letter. His back was sore, his ankle throbbed, and he was actually more interested in what might be for lunch than composing platitudes. Did Michael really need to hear this? Did he not already know it all instinctively? So what was the point of blathering on like this? Encouragement? What real writer needed that? You either had to write or you didn’t. And if you did then good or bad was beside the point. Lucian had no recollection of a time when he had sought someone else’s validation of his work. He just wrote and hoped for the best. Consequences be damned. What other choice was there? And wasn’t that the measure of a real artist? It had certainly always seemed that way to Lucian.
He reached forward and yanked the paper out the typewriter. The machine rattled in protest at being treated so roughly, but Lucian assumed he would not need it for much longer, so what did it matter if it broke. He screwed up the letter and threw it to the floor for Sadie to chew on. The dog raised her head, sniffed the paper ball once, then grabbed it between her slobbering jaws. Michael, however, would be expecting some kind of response to his writing. On a fresh sheet of paper Lucian wrote in an untidy hand, ‘Good work. Keep going.’ And placed it on top of the manuscript. Really, what else did he need to hear?