Western Book Roundup

First Novels Belong in the Basement: Against Self-Publishing

By Jenny Shank, 4-08-09

A few months ago, my parents got a letter in the mail from the Center of the American West that said I was invited to a banquet and the organizers wanted to give me some more money for a writing prize I’d won ten years ago.  Back then, I was in grad school in Boulder and I was working on my first novel, which I entered in the Center’s first annual Thompson Awards for Western American Writing competition.  There was no page limit, so instead of selecting a few chapters, I actually sent the entire manuscript I had at the time, and some poor souls apparently read 250 of my pages and gave me one of the prizes, perhaps as a nod to my audacity. 

The Thompson family increased the awards over the last decade and they want to give us early winners more money to make up for the difference, bless them.  Extra money for no additional work?  Sure, I’ll take it.  But I have already earned my reward, because my first novel is sitting in my basement, where it should be.

In fact, let’s make that a rule:

1) Every house should have a first novel in its basement.

It gives the home ballast.  It lends the basement the appropriate air of mystery, history, and parental dreams deferred that all basements should have.  The longer the book, the better.  Epic works of over 400 pages, like mine, really serve to anchor a house.

That’s why the proliferation of self-publishing makes me uneasy.  It robs future basements of their unbound novels, hastily stuffed into over-sized manila envelopes.  There are lots of options for people looking to self-publish these days—CreateSpace, BookSurge, Lulu.  It couldn’t be easier or more convenient.  But I suggest that if you can’t find a publisher for your novel, instead of self-publishing, give it to a neighbor who doesn’t have a novel in his basement. 

Whatever you do, don’t self-publish and then send the book to me for review. 

Blogs are great vehicles for unedited self-expression, as are newsy Christmas letters, and even self-published nonfiction books on overly specific topics, such as the mating habits of Red-winged Blackbirds in Northern Colorado, about which I know a little.

But first novels belong in the basement.  There’s got to be something frightening for the children to discover, some reason for them to dare each other to go down there.

I was 21 when I started writing my first novel.  Just a kid.  I should have been out drinking, but I had grand ambitions.  I gave it some awful title derived from a phrase in the Bible.  Let’s make that a rule, too:

2) All first novels should have titles derived from the Bible and/or Shakespeare.

The manuscript should be placed in a spot of the basement that’s prone to flooding, because a flood hitting the manuscript on which you wasted your youth is kind of biblical, which goes along with the title.  And using a title from the Bible or Shakespeare is also Faulknerian.  Everyone starting out of the blocks thinks they’re going to be Faulkner.  You’ve got to, or you wouldn’t start at all.

My novel concerned a girl’s high school basketball team in Denver.  But it didn’t stop there.  I decided to cram the entire modern history of Denver into it, for good measure.  I did a lot of research.  I went to libraries and looked at newspaper articles on microfilm or microfiche—I get those ancient technologies confused.  I ordered dissertations through inter-library loan.  There was one dissertation about Denver’s history of busing for racial integration that was so fine I had planned to thank its author on my acknowledgments page.  (Don’t mock: you’ve planned out your acknowledgment page, too, or your Oscar acceptance speech or your post-game interview with ESPN or the heartfelt way you’ll thank Terry Gross or Oprah for finally having you on the show.)

I would thank the author of that dissertation here if all of my notes for my first novel hadn’t been lost in the transfer three computers ago.  They might be on some ancient storage device that I can no longer access, like a floppy disk, the very name of which brings me a rush of nostalgic glee.  Technology’s relentless march is yet another reason why you should print out your first novel, once, and place it in the basement.

Every so often, you’ll be struck by idea that maybe your novel isn’t as bad as you remember.  That’s why you’ve got to keep it in the basement, so you can go down there, read a few pages, and disabuse yourself of that notion.

Some first novels are great, and they sail right through the publishing process, into bookstores and touch the hearts of millions.  But most first novels belong in the basement.  Most of us have to keep writing past the point where we’ve lost all hope to make something happen, to keep writing when you no longer have any time or any reasonable reason to continue doing what you’re doing.  The more broken and hopeless you become, the more cynical you get, and cynicism can be funny.  Because first novels are written before you’ve really started to fail, they often take themselves too seriously.  I say, marinate in your failure until you’re properly cynical because, here comes rule three:

3) Cynicism can be funny.  And that will make your second novel better.

Let’s move right along to rule four:

4) If you value your marriage, don’t make your spouse read your first novel.

No good can come of that.  If he says, “It’s great, Honey,” you’ll know he’s lying just to avoid upsetting you.  If he says, “It needs some work,” you’ll agree with him but silently, you’ll seethe, remembering that one great metaphor you had on page 67. 

One last rule:

5) Just because you might have won a prize for your first novel or had a chapter of it published in some journal, that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t stay in the basement.

It’ll feel more comfortable down there in the basement with a few laurels to rest on.

So with my first novel lodged happily in my basement, near the window well that might run over with spring thaw at any moment, I’ll head to the Thompson Award banquet later this month and enjoy myself as I reminisce about the novel of my youth.

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