From fantasy to reality

Many people have thought of writing a kids’ book, but Vincent Heeringa actually did it, published it and lived to tell the tale.

Like many ideas, it began over lunch. I was sitting in the garden with my wife speculating on just how much we’d spent on sci-fi and adventure novels for our kids. Mortal Engines, Eragon, Harry Potter, Alex Rider, Percy Jackson – the list went on.

“We could save some money by writing one ourselves. I mean, how hard would it be?” I said.

“I don’t know, Vince, how hard?”

Well, the challenge was laid. I had been a magazine publisher for years. I’d published 11 books for a university press. I’m a fan of sci-fi. And I reckon I had done the requisite 10,000 hours to be a writer.

After a decade of struggle, I’m finally holding the book in my hands. Handsome, fat and (hopefully) a ripping yarn, Road to Abaddon has been a triumph of grind. It’s just been published on Amazon and has sold 350 copies. Hardly a blockbuster, but a credible number. And I’ve learnt a lot about self-publishing.

The primary lesson: writing a novel is hard. Much harder than I expected.

At first, my writing was dreadful. I found the clichés kept coming. My dialogue was clunky. The action sequences were overly full of adverbs.

Worse, I was lazy. I would start to write. Hate what I’d written. Switch to YouTube. Clean the fridge. Do my day job. Go to bed early. Sleep in. Watch Netflix. Reread last week’s writing. Hate it. And tweak what I’d written instead of pushing on with the new stuff.

I’d moan about how hard it was. Bore my family with readings. Be crushed by their lack of adulation.

I dropped it for months, years.

It sat on my computer, judging me. My friends would ask when it was likely to be finished. “Oh,” I’d laugh, “how about never?”

Curiously, I don’t act like this at work. Sure, I struggle with copy, like any selfrespecting writer. But for a decade? I think there were a few things going on.

First, a novel is long. Really long – 86,000 words long. It was a never-ending nightmare of obligation. Instead of eating the elephant one bite at a time, I was overwhelmed by the portion size.

Second, writing fiction was new for me. As a journalist, I was reporting other people’s opinions. This time it was me and only me. Doing anything new is hard. You make mistakes. You feel stupid. You’re learning on the job. Writing fiction was like throwing a ball with my left hand.

It took the coaxing of family and friends to steel myself to just get it done.

Which is the third lesson. At work I have deadlines and budgets. I live in the real world of imperfections and compromise. I get the best possible done in the time I have available. In creative endeavours, the deceit is to believe we must be perfect before we can be seen.

There’s a sign hanging in our laundry: If you want to be a writer, write. So, that’s what I’m doing. I’m writing. Like I do at work. Breaking it into chunks. Setting realistic deadlines. And shutting down that perfectionist inner critic. The second novel is now expected by my small (but growing!) group of fans. So, if I want be a writer, I need to write. Only a whole lot faster this time; 10 years for the first novel, one year for the sequel.

Just see if I don’t.

Vincent Heeringa is the author of

Road to Abaddon, a sci-fi novel self-published on Amazon. By day he is a communications consultant and fridge cleaner.