There are some things in life you should just never say.
“Yes, that dress makes you look fat.”
“Injecting disinfectant will cure you of COVID-19.”
“You know your dad? I think he’s really hot.”
Things of that ilk.
Well, one that I would almost add to the list is:
“Hey Book Club blokes. Want to critique my novel?”
Since returning to Australia in September last year, I have had the opportunity to join a book club, mostly comprised of teacher mates from my old school. And it’s been great: I’ve been exposed to literature I otherwise would not have read and have gotten to spend extra time with good mates discussing said literature.
Oh, and to watch them drinking beer. The boys like their craft beers.
Now, I would like to say that my proposition of the group reading my first novel in The Magicium Series, Discoveries, was made under the influence of said craft beers. However, as the token teetotaller in the group, I can’t even plead that relatively weak excuse. Nope, I took the risk – checking everyone was fine with reading my novel and that it wasn’t too gratuitous a move – and then waited anxiously for the six weeks until it was time for our next meeting.
That meeting was tonight.
I’m not going to lie, things got off to a rocky start. One guy cancelled this morning, while also admitting he hadn’t read the book. To my credit, I resisted the urge to let him know he was dead to me. (I saved that for another person who admitted he hadn’t read it during the meeting.) Then another guy said he was still coming, but he also hadn’t read it. A heavy, sinking ball of stress-consumed chocolate in my stomach got larger as the day wore on.
As you’d expect when your work is the topic of discussion, I started metaphorically banging on the door as soon as the Zoom conference room was open. Only the moderator (who doubles as my typographer and all-round top bloke – yes, he read the novel) was there. We chatted for a bit while my heart continued to thump a rhythm in my chest that most doctors would have been unable to describe beyond saying “irregular”.
Finally, a couple more of the boys got on – including yet another who had not read the book. I began to wonder if the group had transmogrified into a bunch of guys who just consume craft beer and had forgotten to tell me.
Eventually, of our usual eight, we had the six gentleman whose faces you see on the image above meeting to discuss my novel. Aside from me, three of them had read the book and the other two had at least started. And…
We talked about COVID-19 and renovations and what people had done over the Easter holidays.
I’d never experienced apoplexy but I wonder if I got somewhere close to that tonight.
After I moved into territory that could be best described as “one chocolate away from needing a quadruple bypass”, one of the men politely brought up the topic of my novel. By this point my ears were experiencing this weird humming noise and my hands could not have scratched my nose without poking out an eye.
And we discussed it. And to be honest, it was pretty great.
I mean, no novel will ever receive universal acclaim, not even one like mine that most neutral pundits would agree probably deserves it. But on the whole, they liked it. There were a few criticisms, mostly from the bloke in the top right corner of the picture – judge him as you will – but it was a unique experience, being questioned as an author about process, characters, plans for future novels and the successes with writing.
As I suggested before, I would almost add offering your novel as a defenceless sacrifice to the Masters of Craft Beer and Book Club as one of those things you should never say – or do.
But that’s the beauty of this craft. You won’t please everyone with your writing – but if you don’t take that risk and put your work out there, you can guarantee your writing will never please anyone.