Quantum Embarrassment

Recently my latest book reached the exciting stage of being ready to be read by a select group of test readers. This is a huge milestone as up until that point the book may have seemed like a figment of my imagination to my friends. The writer, director, actress and all-round super-talent Alice Lowe asked on Twitter last year whether anyone experienced a terrible sense of embarrassment at having created something. Many sympathised with her. I felt it in my bones. I don't like to bring the subject of my writing up, and whenever I do it's invariably apologetically. I stumble over my words and undermine any possibility of sounding like the sort of person capable of writing a book. Or more to the point, capable of writing a good book.

Every writer likes to think their books are good, or they wouldn't bother writing them. Up until the point that someone else reads them, they remain as good as you believe them to be. After that, however, whatever potential you believe they have will be tested in the real world. It will become apparent how well you have assessed your own work, for better or worse. It's a bit like quantum mechanics, where particles can exist in a state of superposition until observed, at which point the superposition collapses to a single readable position. Also, much like quantum mechanics, the more you learn about how your book does or doesn't work, the more your sense of unease increases. Surely, you think, this cannot possibly be how the world works? Can my readers really not understand how my protagonist made the rocket launcher work, and that's how the penguin got stuck up Elon Musk's bumhole? It is a reckoning, but sharing a book with others is usually the goal of writing one and test readers are a vital first step to getting it ready for that.

I only use a handful of test readers. They are all people whose opinions I trust and whose tastes in fiction vary. They also give feedback in different ways. Some with detailed notes, others mostly verbally. I appreciate all of their input and know that I am lucky to be able to count on them to involve themselves in this sordid and embarrassing business of writing a novel. I have to remind myself of this whenever I actually get their feedback because until they do, as mentioned earlier, my book is perfect. I wouldn't have let anyone read it if it weren't, so to have that superpositional perfection collapsed into something that still needs some work is quite disappointing while it is happening to me. It's a peculiar kind of disappointment though. I'm not so conceited that I really think my book is perfect. I've read a lot of books, and there are very few of those I would call perfect. It's more that I hope it's perfect. It's the same kind of hope you have when buying a lottery ticket. You know that the odds of winning the jackpot are astronomical, but nonetheless you hope you'll win. You wouldn't have bought the ticket otherwise.

The prospects for a book are much better than those of a lottery ticket however. When you lose the lottery, to play again you will face exactly the same odds as you did before. There's no way to improve them. With a book your test readers have hopefully given you some insight into what needs changing to make improvements. Before that can happen, there comes that most agonising of literary purgatories – waiting to accept that yes, you are going to have to do some editing.

There are lots of very convincing reasons for resisting the editing process:

• Your writing isn't unclear, it's just these particular readers that couldn't understand it.
• You like the plot just the way it is.
• It's a Monday. What sort of madman edits on a Monday?
• Actually you can't possibly edit this week.
• The flat really needs a thorough hoovering.
• You don't want to.
• Fine. Okay. Maybe the week after next?

The truth is that once I've had all my readers' feedback I definitely will have to do some editing. I know this so keenly that I'm writing it here, and yet I will work my way all the way through the above bullet points like the stages of grief until I finally sit down with my manuscript and get to work. This time isn't completely wasted. In truth I tend to work out what needs to change in my head before I actually physically edit the thing. In broad strokes of course. I'm not walking around with my manuscript memorised like some sort of idiot savant. You can take the idiot part for granted.

As to the embarrassment of having written a book? Maybe embarrassment is a natural response. Writing a book is a ridiculous thing to do. It takes a lot of time and effort and for that reason not many people attempt it. Add to that the chances of writing a good book, one that people actually want to read? I've already said I've read very few perfect books, but as much as I might wish to write a perfect book, I would be very happy with one that is an entertaining read. That's all. I'm not trying to make high art, but then again I suspect the sort of people who do try to make high art feel no embarrassment at telling people so. And if you are aiming for such lofty literary heights, what on earth are you doing reading this? You've probably slipped one place down the Booker longlist with every paragraph of my drivel that you've read!

Knackerback

The title of this post isn't the upsetting echo of a poorly remembered children's TV programme. Instead, more upsettingly, it's an abridged summary of my current physical health. I have knackered my back. To be more specific, its ongoing state of knackeredness has entered a new period of further belligerence. It's getting better, so don't feel too sorry for me. Also save your sympathies because it's sort of my own fault. The problem, as I explained to a doctor, was that being a software engineer, my day job involves a lot of sitting down. And in the evenings? Well yes, that's more sitting down I'm afraid.

A standing desk was suggested. I've actually tried this before, and it turns out that standing up also hurts my back. At this point I'm not sure whether there's anything that doesn't make it hurt. Just writing this sentence is probably going to throw it further out of whack. The standing desk wasn't a terrible idea, but both writing code and writing fiction require a certain amount of concentration that I can't achieve without wondering how much more comfortable I'd be in a chair. Perhaps I just don't like standing up? It doesn't seem an unreasonable prejudice. I once had a Saturday job working in Bacons shoes in Coalville, every minute of which I had to spend on my feet. In those days my back was yet to start grumbling, but my feet certainly had a lot to say. Although perhaps they'd have been happier if I hadn't been wearing shoes from the same shop.

This has all taken its toll on my writing. The day job takes precedence as it's the only one making me any money. So I try to limit my extracurricular sitting. I try to keep myself moving. I stretch. I do Pilates. It's not like I'm sitting on my arse all day, but well, I'm also 55 and this apparently is just what happens sometimes. I don't imagine I'm alone. In fact I imagine this is a common affliction amongst writers, unless it weeds them all out in their middle age. Don't worry though, I'm not here to seek advice either. Instead I'm going to use this situation as an excuse to list my top five narrative fiction back moments, starting with…

#5 - Quasimodo, from Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Let's just get the grandaddy of back problems out of the way quickly, before there's any time to dwell on whether or not the character has enabled the mocking of physical disabilities. "The Bells! The Bells!" cried Winston Churchill as he tried to gauge his hangover against last night's Luftwaffe raid.

#4 - William Shakespeare's Richard III. "Harp not on that string…" and yet, here I am, harping on about not just my back but another hunchback. I once had my back ruined by a four-hour ride on a Megabus, so I can only imagine what 527 years under a car park must have done to an already thoroughly wonky set of vertebrae.

#3 - F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby concludes with the phrase "borne back ceaselessly into the past". It's commonly understood to be about the futility of trying to escape ourselves, but my back's fucked from sitting on a fancy Herman Miller chair and tappy-typing on a laptop. God knows what state Frankie boy's spine was in after hammering out the great American novel on a mechanical typewriter. It was clearly very much on his mind as he finished his work and looked forward to sprawling on the sofa.

#2 - Back in the USSR, from The Beatles' The Beatles. The Beatles were all about backbeat so it was only appropriate that this was recorded while Ringo was on a sabbacktical in the Soviet Union. An early attempt at playing Octopus's Garden as an eight-limbed drummer had left him in dire need of spinal surgery so specific that he had to travel beyond the Iron Curtain to get the band back together.

#1 - The Empire Strikes Back, from George Lucas via Irving Kershner. Everyone who has yet to realise that Star Wars is the best Star Wars film says that this is the best Star Wars film. This isn't a terrible opinion to have, but the problem is that it's only half a film, ending as it does with an injured Luke healing while the rebels lick their own wounds. This is of course a metaphor for doing your back in. Yes, things are bad, and it hurts, but bide your time and Jesus Christ what now? Fucking Ewoks? It's never quite the resolution you were hoping for. Keep popping the painkillers, you've still got Episode One to look forward to.