There’s something heart-rendingly sad about my statement, that novels are like good friends. It begs the question: but what about real friends, real people, not ones who are imagined and made up? The life of a writer is essentially solitary, so the idea has developed that we are a lonely  bunch of individuals who have no-one to turn to in the long silent hours while we’re typing away. We are friendless, forced to seek solace in fabricated characters. The only excitement in our lives is found at in a new placid character we control ourselves; happiness is at the bottom of a plot. Or a glass. Such is the stereotypical image of a writer’s existence, a singular single person, focused entirely on the process and then the product we are desperate to complete before we begin the next novel.

There is some truth in the idea. There is not a great deal of instant cameraderie when you write alone at the desk each day; there’s  no office culture, no management structure, (thank goodness!) no banter. No one to share lunch breaks and jokes with at coffee time. In that sense, writers are solitary people who must seek their social lives away from the computer screen.

But when I suggest that our novels become our good friends, I am talking about the warm fuzzy feeling felt through constant interaction, through increasing familiarity. We go through a lot together, we writers and our novels. It is sometimes love at first sight, but we know pretty quickly whether we will get on together, whether we have a future, or whether early separation is inevitable. I’ve started novel number five twice, after delaying it as long as possible. The first time, I liked the new idea. I threw it away. It wasn’t good enough. The second idea clicked, started to rev like a formula 1 engine and I’m now up to 12,000 words, which is the point where I know I will write it all.

Our novels are our friends because we get to know them slowly but we will eventually know them completely. We know their flaws and their strong points. We know where the relationship will lead but we don’t know every twist and turn. That’s an exciting part of the journey, discovering the bits we don’t know yet but we know they’ll fall into place in time and surprise us.

We know we will have disagreements with our novels, but we’ll work it out. Our friendship will survive. We will cut and paste and delete chunks, chapters, whole characters. The novel will keep us up at night, arguing with us whle we scratch our heads for a pact, a solution which won’t pop in until dawn, just before we fall asleep smiling. It will cause us headaches, researching, changing, editing, aiming for the perfect phrase, the exciting plot moment, the thrilling and unexpected dénouement.

In all my novels, the main characters are people I like. I meet them in my imagination and I respect and admire them; I know their flaws, I believe in the honesty of their thoughts and actions. It’s indulgent, because I have written them, created them. But it’s also about finding out bout who they are, growing together, bonding, love: I am often at their mercy, as I have no choice but to follow their impetus. They make me laugh out loud. They make me cry. I feel sorry for their  sadnesses and I cheer when things go right for them. I root for their triumphs and I fear for their safety from page one until the end of the novel. And that’s what friends do.

But I don’t want to keep them to myself. It’s not a secret relationship, forged between brain, keyboard and blank screen. It doesn’t exist without a ménage à trois. The third person. The reader. In fact, I’m aiming for the biggest friendship group I can muster. I want lots of people to love my protagonists, and to enjoy their journey within the pages of a novel.

The important thing is that, although I write chartacters from imagination and don’t base them on real people, I’d love them if I met them. They’d be good friends. They are plucky, feisty, mischievous, women who deserve the good things which happen to them in the novel. And they don’t deserve the tragedies. I love them because of their stories, their backstories, for what happens to them and how they survive and are resilient, quirky, funny, strong.

But it’s not just the characters who are my friends. It’s the novels themselves. It is as if each one has forged itself into my subconscious, metamorphosed into a being, become real and I feel loyal. I owe each novel thanks for existing, for allowing me to work it so hard and dsipte my constant nagging, it still comes out the other end valid and credible and worthwhile.

Perhaps then, going back to my opening statement, we writers are a sorry solitary lot with only flying fingers, whirling words and made up people for comfort.

But that is only during working hours. The rest of the time, we’re all scintillating social creatures. Party animals. Table dancers. Exciting conversationalists. Midnight movers. Our lives are full, fecund, fruitful and our friends are real people we value, trust and hold close to our hearts. Writers are just like every one else.

Of course, the problem would arise if the world we created and then inhabited became more tantalising than the real world. What if our characters, our imaginary literary friends, became more important and vital to our existence than our real friends? Then what would we do?

At this point I go back to the stereotype, the lonely writer focused on the screen. She’s  blocked, frustrated, waiting for inspiration, seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle, alone and tortured and friendless. Perhaps that’s what makes a genius. Or maybe that’s just a myth…

I recently read an interchange on social media, a discussion by writers about who they believe they write their novels for. A gifted writer who I’ve met, for whom I have much respect, said he always wrote for the reader. That’s another reason why I respect him. Someone else disagreed strongly. This person wrote for himself. If he was happy with his writing, then so would his readers be. He suggested that it follows that people who liked his writing would be like him, sharing his tastes, and anyway his enthusiasm would shine through in his novel. He has a point. I  went away and thought about this one. It’s not the first time I’ve comnsidered this dilemma, nor will it be the last, but I have a strong idea where I stand in the discussion.

I’ve read many books. I used to read each one to the end, even if it was a challenge, mainly because I always thought I could perhaps change my mind: I mightn’t like the book at first, but I might like it later. I’ve stopped doing that, especially now I write so much myself. I don’t expect my reader to persevere beyond chapter three if he or she isn’t engaged with the story. If I want my own writing to leap off the page, then I’d like to be at least interested in what someone else writes. If I’m inwardly groaning or, more likely, bored by the fifth chapter, I put the book down and read something else. In fairness, that doesn’t happen often. But I live and read by the principle that there are so many more books out there to be read.

I don’t like indulgent writing. Writers who write purely for themselves in an egocentric, self- pleasing way. I don’t mean ridiculously intelligent writers, novelists who are genius word-spinners and weavers of incredible ideas, the Martin Amises of this world. I’m referring to writers who create characters who are themselves but in another parallel universe. A vicarious creation of heroes. Characters who resemble the writer a little bit too much but are perfect, or flawed in admirable ways and then invariably have greatness thrust upon them. Usually, writing is weighed down with so much cumbersome and overblown description that nothing is left to the reader’s imagination. As I read, I feel controlled and  force-fed by someone indulging their own ego. I can sniff it out at any distance and it’s pungent and not pleasing. It stinks of self-satisfaction.

I now pick up books from genres I don’t usually naturally gravitate towards. It keeps me open minded. There was a time I read books by writers I liked, choosing subject matter I knew would suit my tastes. But it’s humbling to read YA novels, graphic novels, non-fiction, historical or crime stories and think Whew! How well written was that! I want to be aware of good writing, whatever form it takes. I can still return loyally to my favourite writers at any point.

I also read books that are recommended to me. I have friends who read a lot and one friend in particular, who is erudite, critical and a skilful wordsmith herself, will say ‘Have you read…?’ and I know that whatever she recommends will be brilliant. I have another friend, a crazy ex-dancer  who is completely opposite to me in terms of literary experience and taste, and without her, I’d never have read Neil Gaiman or Robin Hobb.

I write for the reader first. There. I’ve said it. I remember an incident in the second novel where I wrote something and burst out laughing. I had entertained myself – I thought I was hilariously funny. But, seconds later,  I reminded myself that my sense of humour isn’t everyone’s and I made a mental note to check it with my reading group. If faces remained straight or perplexed when I read it back, it would be edited out without a second thought. It wasn’t, but I was ready to raze it for ever if it didn’t work for others.

Working with good editors is so beneficial. When I write, I try to be cinematic, to create something visual, so that my reader can imagine what I’m trying to evoke really clearly without telling them everything, leaving them space to make it their own picture. I also try to focus on detail, emotions, moments of impact. But when an editor says ‘tell the reader more at this point…’ ‘explain…’ ‘The reader needs to understand…’ then I know there are gaps to fill and I’m only too happy to embellish. Working with an astute editor is an education in itself and, as writers, that’s part of how we develop our craft. We continue to learn, to reconsider, to improve.

I treat my readers with respect. First of all, I know some of them won’t like what I write. They won’t like the genre, the subject matter, the characters. That’s fine. Subjectivity and variety of taste are a reader’s prerogative. But what I do expect of myself at the first hurdle is to write well, to be lucid, accurate and to offer an interesting journey. If nothing more, my writing should be clear and readable.

I know there are readers who won’t think as I do. Readers who might not understand why I write about characters who are quirky, eccentric, mischievous. Readers who want flailing heroines and masterful heroes who snatch them from the jaws of danger probably won’t like my feisty independent women and responsive sensitive men. But that’s ok; there are plenty of other novels out there which those readers will enjoy. And, even if my whacky lively characters are not for them, then at least they might read the book and enjoy it for the langauge, the wit or the descriptions.

I write for readers who want to come on a journey: a physical journey or a journey of self- discovery. Sometimes both. Readers who like strong characters who are properly flawed, real, funny and eventually resilient. My readers want to believe in a character, an interesting place, powerful action. They want words that jump off the page, a story that intrigues. They want surprises along the way. They want well-written, evocative language. They want to smile, to be entertained, to be sad sometimes, to be asked to think a little about life, love, luck. They want to put the book down on the final page, after not wanting to put it down on the previous pages, and then breathe out and smile.

Someone who read my first novel in an earlier stage said it made them laugh and cry. Can I ask for better engagement with a reader? A reader of my second novel liked a male protagnist so much she said ‘I could do with meeting a man like that.’ I was happy that I’d created someone with traits she could fall in love with. A reader of my third novel said ‘I admire the main character. I like her. I feel like she is a close friend.’ I’m delighted. My character is credible, likeable, empathic, warm and funny. A reader of the fourth novel said ‘I was totally shocked when… happened.’ As a writer, I am so pleased that I can create twists and turns which my reader won’t see coming and then I can generate a powerful, emotional reaction. That’s what I’m after.

My quest is to continue to learn what readers want and then to provide it for them in an entartaining and innovative form, if I can. I’m a conduit to others’ enjoyment, not simply a reveller in my own craft. To some extent, I do believe if I write what I like, with enthusiasm and relish and it entertains me, then it’s possible my reader will be entertained too. But that, by itself, isn’t nearly enough. As I write, I have to be aware of a perpetually moving periscope which swivels to view my readers’ thoughts, tastes, needs. I have to consider their reactions to each sentence that I write and to continue to find new and exciting ways to supply more thrills and spills. That’s all.

But each novel is another chance to provide something which will come closer to what I aim to achieve. After all, who doesn’t relish a challenge and the opportunity to progress?

On a recent Radio 4 programme, Marlon James was asked if he’d listened to reggae as he wrote A Brief History of Seven Killings. He suggested that reggae was the last music he’d have listened to: the novel was set mostly in Jamaica around the ‘Bob Marley era’ and of course he didn’t listen to reggae: his head was probably full of it already. As if Agatha Christie would have listened to the Elvis Costello’s Watching the Detectives and Douglas Adams had The Planet Suite set to replay.

Of course, the most fascinating aspect is what writers choose to listen to while they are writing that brilliant novel, not what they don’t listen to, and even more interestingly, why do they choose to listen to a particular type of music? Do writers need serene music, to clear their minds of all other thoughts, or do they want something fast and energetic to get the fingers typing fast?

Then there’s the question of what is intrusive. When you’re working on that precise edit, do you really need AC/DC belting out Girls Got Rhythm or Aerosmith’s Dude (Looks Like a Lady)? Do you need anything at all, or is silence worse, that incessant emptiness which offers no pace or energy, no distraction, no clarity or inspiration?

A friend of mine has just published a fabulous book of poems called Pillars of a Dateable Man. I guessed he’d been listening to Leonard Cohen’s Thin Green Candle, as his writing is deeply sensitive, often iconoclastic, sometimes morose and always insightful. But no. He listens to jazz, always music without lyrics. It makes sense – jazz epitomises the jangling of powerful emotions but each note has the precision of poetry. He adds his own clever words to the abstract canvas, using the motivating musical energy of jazz as inspiration.

Of course, each author will have a personal preference. Impressively, Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaid’s Tale and The Blind Assassin, listens to a Canadian Band called Arrogant Worms. J. K. Rowling listens to The Beatles. When Vladimir Nabokov wrote Lolita, he insisted on a sound proof flat, his rationale being that he had ‘no ear for music… I am perfectly aware of the many parallels between the art forms of music and those of literature, especially in matters of structure, but what can I do if ear and brain refuse to cooperate?’

Most of us choose to listen to music when we write. Whether it inspires us or promotes a feeling of wellbeing and calm is debatable. Lyrics can be important, inspiring writers to achieve their best subliminally, by channeling the feeling that success is possible and achievable. Best to avoid the wonderful songs of The Smiths  then when writing a lively bestseller. I Know It’s Over, with lyrics like ‘Oh, Mother / I can feel / the soil falling over my head,’ are not going to inspire a greatly needed feeling of increased fluency, positivity and power flowing from the brain to the fingers to the keyboard.

Writers constantly peer into others’ heads and reach out to empathise with characters’ emotions in order to write successfully. Mozart’s Lacrymosa would be perfect to help someone write a tragic scene and Pink Floyd’s Breathe in the Air might inspire pages of pastoral beauty. But many writers suggest that they can’t concentrate when music is playing. Some are even irritated by the purr of the cat or the hum of the fridge.

This leads me to wonder whether Creative Writing courses ever use music to support and improve writing. Certainly, during my MA, there was no delving into the use of music to promote better outcomes and no investigation of the psychology or rationale between using music  compared to the need for silence to promote concentration. (At the moment of writing, I’m listening to Planet Rock playing Black Sabbath’s War Pigs, and I’m perfectly capable of erasing Ozzy from my ears completely if I need to.)

But it’s an interesting and perhaps under-investigated subject. Do writers write better with music or not, and why do some choose background noise and others shun it? As I finish my fourth novel and complete the edit of my first, I have to admit that I’m better off with Spotify than without it. My moods dictate which playlist to select, as does the type of writing I’m doing. The beginning of a novel demands something very different from the final chapters; focusing on the rigour of an edit would suggest a totally different choice to the music I’d pick when I’m on a roll and smashing out 2500 words in a sitting.

It’s at this point that I’ll invite others’ opinions. Who’s a writer who needs background music and who isn’t, and why? I wonder whether it affects outcome – what we write, how we write and how we feel as we do it? Fascinating. I hope someone will think about it, take it further and let me know. At the moment, I’m too busy writing and listening.