One of the many things that encouraged me when I first got into writing seriously was reading books and thinking ‘I could do better than that’. It wasn’t that the books I read were bad—many of them were fantastic, far better than anything I could’ve written overall. It was more that I’d spot a plot hole, or come up with a different (and, to my mind, better) solution to a problem the characters faced. Or I’d read a clunky paragraph, or a section of dialogue that didn’t sound right, or was too on-the-nose, and I’d see a different way of writing it. Little things, but because I not only spotted them but also saw how I’d ‘correct’ them, they inspired me to write for myself.
It still happens. I read widely, and some of the books I read aren’t great. I (usually) persevere to the end, seeing them as training exercises, as examples of what to avoid. But I also read books that leave me amazed, where the writing is incredible, where the world-building is incredibly immersive, where the characters come across as ‘real’.
Of course, books like this can be useful in my writing too. If I can figure out how another writer does things, I can learn from that, maybe incorporate those techniques into my own stories. But there are times when reading a great book drags me down.
It’s happened this week. I’ve been reading Arkady Martine’s A Desolation Called Peace, the follow-up to A Memory Called Empire. It won’t be to everyone’s tastes, but I was thoroughly impressed with the book. It still had the writing style of the first book (I suppose I’d call it ‘literary’, bordering on poetic—which is totally fitting for the plot), but what impressed me even more in …Desolation… was the interplay between the characters. Each character has motives, clear to themselves (sometimes) but hidden from others. There are all kinds of power-plays going on. Yes, the plot revolves around a war with aliens, but there’s far more tension in the inter-personal rivalries. And what struck me most was the subtlety of this, how it felt genuine rather than melodramatic.
This is something I’m aiming for with one of the story-arcs in Unity, and to see such a great example in Martine’s book left me feeling…despondent? I think that’s the word. There’s a mastery in Martine’s writing I can’t imagine myself achieving, or even coming close. To write something even half as good as this seems impossible.
If I hadn’t already written around twenty books—if Unity was my first serious writing project—I think I’d be tempted to give up. As it is, the doubts have risen—why would anyone read a book I’ve written when there are writers like Arkady Martine producing stories? And what about the other things I’m hoping to achieve in my story? How can my take on galaxy-wide civilisations infused with technology ever compare to Iain M Banks’ Culture books? And what about all those other great sci-fi writers—Hamilton, Baxter, Asimov, Herbert and so on? Am I a fool to even consider trying to write a large-scale space opera?
I have to believe that I’m not a fool. (Okay, I can be foolish, but you know what I mean.) So I have to do something about these doubts.
When I’m tempted to compare myself (severely inferiorly) to writers like Martine, there are a few things I need to remember
First, I’m currently in the first round of edits of a very messy first draft of Unity Book One, and I’ve read the final, published version of A Desolation Called Peace. At one time, Martine’s book was nothing but an idea. It became a first draft, and then that draft was edited. I don’t know any details, but I’d imagine it went through many revisions, with input from editors and others.
I recently read Stephen Baxter’s Creation Node (another book that impressed me to the point of nudging those doubts higher in my mind), and in the back he lists everyone who helped bring the book to publication. There are over fifty names on that list. Fifty. Yes, some of those people (possibly the majority) were involved with publication rather than preparing the final manuscript (marketing, design, admin and so on), but books like Creation Node and …Desolation… are team efforts. So far, I’m the only person who’s been involved in my new book.
It’s like comparing a rough sketch to a painted canvas. It’s like comparing home-recorded noodlings to released music, recorded in top studios on high-end equipment, performed by professionals and engineered and mastered by experts.
Will my finished version of Unity match …Desolation…? Probably not. But it’ll be closer than it is at the moment.
The next thing I need to remember is that I’m not Arkady Martine. I don’t write like her. And I need to see that as a good thing.
I’ll explain.
There’s a saying—give a hundred writers the same outline for a story, and you’ll end up with a hundred different stories. Every writer is different. Our personal experiences shape our writing, to varying degrees. Every writer has preferences, has strengths and weaknesses.
So, unless I’m trying to mimic her style, there’s no way I can write a book like Martine. And why would I? She writes stories in the way she writes them, and I write stories in the way I write them. And as I mentioned before, not everyone will enjoy …Desolation…. There are readers out there who prefer the way I tell a story. Maybe not many, but some.
Does this mean I can’t learn from Martine? Of course I can. But I can’t expect to be the same as her. Some writers can successfully mimic the style of others—an advantage for ghostwriters—but I don’t want to be someone else. I want to write the books I can write. And, as AI nudges closer and closer to being able to churn out readable—even good—stories, it’s important that, as a writer, I lean into what makes my writing unique.
What is my unique factor? I’m not sure, but it has to do with me, as a person—the way I write, the way I create stories, the language I use. It has to do with what I bring to my writing—my experiences, my thoughts, the way I see the world.
I want readers to enjoy my stories, but if they enjoy them because they were written by me, that’s even better.
And this leads to the next thing I need to remember—I’m not writing for Martine’s readers. We both write sci-fi, so there may well be (should be?) some cross-over. But sci-fi is an incredibly broad genre. Even in space opera there is breadth. Some readers are drawn to fast-paced stories, others to intertwined character arcs. Some go wild for world-building, others get a buzz from snappy dialogue. Some prefer hard science, others lean towards a more philosophical take on science, and others don’t care if the science makes real-life sense so long as it works for the story.
If every writer is different, then so too is every reader. And there are far more readers than writers out there.
So I shouldn’t fall into despondency when I read great sci-fi. I should remember these three lessons—it makes little sense to compare my early drafts with another’s finished manuscript, every writer is different, and readers have differing preferences. If every book was a masterpiece in exactly the same way, why would anyone read more than one? It’s the differences that make every book unique.
Then I should consider what I can learn from great writers, what I can pull from other stories and adapt for my writing. I’m reading more and more as a writer (which I find makes reading more enjoyable—I can experience stories on different levels now), and this is something I need to develop, learning to tease out the linguistic tricks other writers use to make their work shine.
And if a book draws me in like Martine’s book has, it should serve as a reminder of the power of fiction. It should be an encouragement—reading can be an incredible experience. I might not reach anywhere near as many readers as Martine, but if I can reach some, then I can call my writing a success.
Although there’s always room for improvement.
This post is the latest in a series I’m running on Substack, chronicling my work on this new project. If you’d like to read these posts as they appear, please consider subscribing for free.
TW Iain 