Monday, 4 February 2008

How I Write - Conn Iggulden

A former English teacher, Conn Iggulden is now a prolific and immensely successful historical novelist. Along with his Emperor series about Julius Caesar and his Conqueror novels on the life of Genghis Khan he also co-author (with brother Hal) of the publishing sensation The Dangerous Book For Boys. So what's his secret?

When I was younger, I was convinced that writing was something you did in a sort of white heat of inspiration. Great unplanned tracts would issue from my pen, or an early word processor, with nothing but cigarettes to keep me going. Part of me still thinks that. The problem is that it’s quite difficult to get into that kind of mood, especially if you are tired.

About 12 years ago, I wrote a poem in that blur of creativity, then another one on the same topic, but as coldly and as skilfully as I could. One was art and the other, craft. When I’d finished, I couldn’t decide which I liked best, so put them in a drawer for a long time. I found them again years later and couldn’t remember which was which. I’d discovered, almost by accident, that it is possible to match the creative impulse with sheer graft – or that my poetry wasn’t that good, one or the other.

As a result, I plan my books. I resisted the idea for a long time, even when I read a quote from Dickens saying that another man was ‘still enough of an amateur to believe you don’t have to plan.’ The creativity is still there, of course, but I like to know the last line before I begin the first. It is the difference between rambling and structure. For me, it may be the difference between being published and not being published.

I tend to write in the small hours and I smoke more when I’m writing than at any other time. I do give up smoking occasionally and I can live without them, but not write without them, which is a bit of a problem. I also inhale espressos, usually in the form of about sixteen to a large mug. It isn’t healthy, but there’s still a part of me that thinks any form of creativity should be at the expense of your health. If it doesn’t hurt you, it probably isn’t any good. Ludicrous, I know.

Writing historical fiction, I do have some of the plot laid out for me. I can hardly omit Julius Caesar’s great battles, or the fact that Genghis Khan killed his own brother. Given that skeleton of events, I can concentrate on characters – the acid test of fiction. If the reader doesn’t care about the characters, the book is worthless. It can be a difficult task with ruthless devils like Genghis, but that’s the job. I write the sort of books I enjoy reading and so far, others seem to like them as well. I’ve always enjoyed a good story and thankfully, history is a collection of good ones.

Finally, I’d like to thank (and annoy) all the history teachers out there. Thank you for losing sight of the great tales, the glory and the magic of history. While you earnestly discuss the difference between tertiary and secondary sources, I have a career.

13 comments:

Lexi said...

Fascinating.

I agree that inspiration happens while you are slogging away, and you shouldn't wait for it. (I'm worried about Conn Iggulden's heart and lungs, though. He doesn't want to slump over his keyboard overcome by smoke and caffeine with books still to write).

Another thought - did he make up that splendid name to pop up alone in Google?

ZeBeDee said...

Hmmm...

Interesting...

And what news about authonomy.com?

And I thought this was a development blog.

ZeBeDee said...

Bit of a con really, this authonomy dev blog. Owt to say an' allus yaar to say it.

Microsoft's dev blogs are slightly more reveiling. Everynow and then, someone lets the cat out of the bag and we get to see the mind of God, aka BG, b as in Bill.

Anyway, Conn, I've heard this one before, and it goes like this:

Writing ain't easy. It is open heart surgery that you perform on yourself, so if you need anaesthetics then you are probably getting the job done.

I agree with Lexi, great name, but I once knew a man who went one better. Or rather, his dad did.

He was called Con Justice. He was an Irishman, and the number plate on his UK registered Range Rover was CON 2, so someone else had got there first. When he told me his name I didn't believe a word. Silly me: turned out it was as real as his millions. He had gone to England as a teenager with one shilling in his pocket. He started selling lorries and turns out he was good at it, very good at it in fact. Turns out he was good at property development too. But that's not the lot, in'it? There is life and, well, life's a bitch, ain't it?

Poor Con, he came back to Ireland to retire in all his glory. He bought the big house by the river, restored it to its former glory and then he died.

So the moral is, there ain't no bloody moral. It's life, stupid, to paraphrase the other Big Bill of the Naughties generation.

You took one look at me and you said: A man has to do what he does best. I didn't listen. You see, you wanted me out of your life. Not because you didn't like me, but because the first thing you saw in the mornings when you looked out the window was me. And you hadn't made all those millions just for that.

A few years have gone by now, and I am still not listening.

I am a character driven plot.

Nemesis said...

Two million years ago, a hunter returned to his cave and brushed a wall with his injured shoulder. After a few unsavoury grunts, he set about lighting the communal fire. As light permeated the cave, someone noticed the strange blood mark had formed an image. Some feared it was an omen and cowered. Then someone else suggested the image looked like the sabre-toothed tiger that ate his uncle, causing some to laugh. They had never laughed before and enjoyed the sensation. Others soon became infected, and that night all the parents made more children.
News spread and soon every injured hunter made images on cave walls, adding merriment to the pleasures of sex and sleep. Then a caveographer embellished the images with rocks, hills and hedges, to communicate to others the areas to hunt, and which to avoid.

Many years later, relatives of those early impressionists left their warm offices at Harper Collins and returned to view the crude writings in those freezing caves.

"That, my friends, is what I call a slush pile," said the Editor.

"Ah, but you are forgetting something," said an accompanying archaeologist. "These were creative writers. They didn't have any documented history to provide all the characters and events for their stories. Not like some writers we know."


An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex:
Aldous Huxley.

ZeBeDee said...

Nemesis,

It might be your punctuation, but do you mean to say that not only is an intellectual someone who has discovered Aldous Huxley but also that Aldous Huxley is more interesting than sex?

Or do you mean what you meant to mean?

Spelling mistakes can also be as reveiling as wayward punctuation. Hmm. Reveiling. Reviling. A shadow has just passed me by. Am I beginning to revile my work in IT? How come? It was true love once upon a time, the sad thing is that I never knew it.

Does love last seven years or more?
Or is trust just a pact for the lazy?
What happened to sex outdoors,
Quickened breath and screaming crazy?

Chorus:
When your old you'll be ailing
In so many ways
When your old you'll be wailing
That life is all gone
All behind now
Been around too long
And find you were a loser
In so many ways

Ah, I am so lucky to be the Viagra generation.

Time for AndyPandy to go home... Oops, I'm ZeBeDee now. Boing, Boing...

My word verification is:

jyuupuq

jyuupuq?! I love it! ZeBeDee is boring! I shall mutate , rename again: jyuupuq is my name! To Metamorphose or not to Metamorphose, Spring is nigh, this vile worm that through the dull winter delights in dirt a wanton butterfly shall be.

jyuupuq, jyuupuq, I can fly, fly! I am a butterfly! Oops, I'm dead. Butterflies don't live long.

For frig's sake, ZeBeDee, shurrup!

Oh, awwite.

ZeBeDee said...
This post has been removed by a blog administrator.
ZeBeDee said...

Harrumph!

Sharia law applies it would seem. I am the first to have his comment chopped off by the blog administrator.

Was it obscene, provocative nasty? Did I insult the Gods, the heroes, the wot nots that you can't mention?

No, twas just a silly wee short story written in the dark of night for fun. Of all places, should censorship happen here?

Explanations please!

Why me, when others have done the same? I am a victim, a minority.

My rights, my rights, my kindom for my rights!

Anonymous said...

Revealing! Rev-ea-ling.

ZeBeDee said...

I no, I jarst mayd a froydian miss-steak and one-dad y.

CF said...

*L* Classic last paragraph!

pamela strange said...

My historical novel Daddy's Little Spy - is Isabella Rose's amazing story of how to survive witchcraft during World War Two and beyond.
Feedback has been -unputdownable.
I'm hoping to be picked up by a traditional publisher/or literary agent to take the book world wide.
isbn 9781844264728
And what a hoot at the ripe old age of 73 I've been sponsored by the Arts Council England site for publication of my second novel -mystery romance To Catch a Thief which will be available in bookshops or from legend press in the new year.
Anyone out there -searching for talent. www.PamelaStrange.com

Cliff Burns said...

Sorry you're associated with a site in the midst of blowing itself up, Mr. Iggulden. Authors here were led to believe Authonomy was a venue for seeking exciting new authors but now it's been revealed that it's more like a front for print-on-demand (author pays publisher rather than vice versa).

Love your work, my sons and I treasure your DANGEROUS BOOK FOR BOYS and join with me in wishing you all the best.

Frances Courtenay said...

Hi Conn, really enjoying all your books and thought you might enjoy this poem (written before I read the Genghis Khan series):
THE SECRET HISTORY OF GENGHIS KHAN
The burial place of Genghis Khan
Remains unknown to any man
Great mongol ‘Ruler of all men’
He lies entombed beneath the plain
A tribal leader of warrior bands
Who ruthlessly conquered foreign lands
The dowry brought by his beautiful wife
Was a sable fur of immense price
Worth a thousand horses, so they say,
The price he paid to fight another day
When given in tribute to an old warlord
The tribes were merged and alliances forged
A shaman foretold he would rule the world
Yet he died with his destiny unfulfilled
His empire vaster than Alexander’s
Still greater than any that came after
Born gripping a blood clot in his hand
Came Temujen, scourge of every land
Betrayed by Jamuka, his blood brother,
He vowed he would never trust another
Life’s hardships forged his iron will
His merciless slaughtering infamous still
From steppes to mountains and beyond
His ruthless ambition drove him on
Chinese mercenaries joined his forces
Swelling the ranks of men and horses
Besieging 13th century Beijing
Bombarding their walls with war machines
From China to Persia, then Russia, they came
Those marauding hordes that bore his name
From Karakorum his empire reigned
Not even his death has dulled his fame