The First Red Pen - The Writing Process

My dad is incredibly well read. I grew up with the fantasy and science fiction bookshelves of most kids’ dreams, and this collection of books followed us all over the world, from Malaysia to Middlesbrough. It was the kind of collection that spanned decades, so I was spoiled for choice and encouraged to read whatever I wanted; whether that was graphic novels like Clive Barker’s The Yattering and Jack, or the much-loved family copy of Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game.

My Yatterling Sketch

It was in fact this very collection that first got me into writing at seventeen, when I finished a series by the wonderful Trudi Canavan and hated the ending (sorry, Trudi). I wouldn’t stop talking about it for weeks, and eventually my dad had had enough. He declared that if I was that bothered about it, I should write my own version of the ending but “for the love of God shut up about it.”

So that’s exactly what I did.

And he was right; I shut up about it.

Not because I’d processed the ending better, or even that I preferred my own. It was that I realised how much I enjoyed the writing itself.

With that in mind, it should come as no surprise to anyone who follows my journey that my dad’s feedback is instrumental to my writing process. Recently I ran the entire three-book plotline of the Covet series past him because something wasn’t working. I knew that, I could sense it; and I needed a fantasy expert, even if I knew it might be torturous.

If I’m honest, I should definitely have done it sooner. My dad has this talent for asking all the right questions, but in a way that makes you question your own process and really think about what you’re doing. It was, however, a massive mistake to give him the three-book plot arc so late in the process (while I was already editing book one) because now I have a hell of a lot of work to do off the back of our chat.

It was akin to those moments in childhood when I’d take my essays to him and he’d produce a red pen from some hidden pocket of time and space to mark them up. It was always gutting, but it was always worth it for the better grade.

This really was no different. I hadn’t asked for help of this kind since uni, so I was unprepared for the writing feedback. That old dread, the “fuck, I have so much work to do” feeling, came rushing back in an instant.

Questions I’d not had to face before like “explain your political structure to me” and “explain your magic system to me” were suddenly on the table. Big questions that needed asking, and that I’d never had to justify out loud before.

Anyone else who had given me their ear wouldn’t have thought to frame questions in a way that got through to me, but he knows me. He shaped this fantasy brain, so he knows how to push it to produce sharper work. He also knows everything I’ve read, so he was quick to point out any similarities or clichés that gave echoes of absorption rather than production.

And so now I spend this weekend on the first (and probably not the last) of my major structural rewrites. I write this blog now because I’m procrastinating, and I’m sure when he reads this, he’ll call me out on it.

So, I’d better crack on before he expects an update at Sunday breakfast. But, before I do, here’s to all the dads (and other homework checkers) out there with their red pens. Even if your kid is rolling their eyes at you now, the process will stay with them for life. As kids we might under-appreciate your input. As adults, we hope to pass it forward.

Cheers to all the red pens. May you continue to frustrate us into being better writers.