My Reverse Reading List

A quirk of my teaching

Every year when the tutors at Oxford are asked for a reading list, I offer a single title, a volume so obscure it’s a wonder the students can even find it. When asked why I list only one book I tell the truth: I’d rather have no reading list at all, but that isn’t allowed.

I get away with this idiosyncrasy because the other tutors at Oxford supply huge lists of very nice books. I am aware that our students are probably already working at a clip to get through those, and there is a difference in reading for class and reading for pleasure. It’s the same difference as between eating and dining. I want writers to dine on good books, and for that they need time. My minimal reading list may help provide those vital hours.

For my private students, things are ever weirder. I let them give me the reading list.

Here’s how it works. When a writer comes to me with a manuscript, I try first to determine if I am the right person to help. There is already so much advice out there – some very good – and I want to know that the writer has been through what is freely available. It isn’t that I mind teaching the basics. In fact, I enjoy doing so, but it seems to me that there are many good, even excellent, writing teachers offering sound advice in blog posts and the like. It is worth reading these, as well as the many good books about writing, even though they will at times contradict.

However, an internet education has its limits. Writers often come to me with a good chunk of a novel, if not a complete manuscript. These people have already learned a great deal and are trying to move from being competent novelists to those whose work is distinguished by a sophistication that sets them apart. They may just need an injection of confidence. They may need to reorganise the structure or add a character (who then needs to be threaded through the entire work), or tighten the plot. Sometimes they feel desperate. They’ve run aground; the novel is slipping away. Other times, they are sure they are on the brink of a breakthrough, but just can’t quite reach where they want to go.

There is another reason they come to me (or any writing teacher): the very human need to connect with another person over matters of importance. Maybe they’ve reached a place in which the task of the novel has simply become too solitary. They wish to share their vision now, to open a conversation in which the novel can be held between them and another. Together we can examine the manuscript as it stands, honouring whatever form it currently takes, and imagining all the possibilities that it offers.

This sort of relationship cannot be found on the internet. It isn’t always found in a writing programme either. I don’t ask them to try out exercises in order to learn how to avoid common writing errors or to improve their technical skills, both of which I ask of my students new to fiction at Oxford. Instead, I aim to determine what they want to achieve, and to construct a way of attaining that.

Here is exactly what I do: on day 1, I invite them to send me the first chapter. Then we meet and have a chat about the novel. Finally, I set them a homework assignment. Find me at least one novel that has something about it that inspires, informs, or influences your approach to your work in progress. It doesn’t have to be all that similar but something about it makes it feel related to or informative about your book.

Off they go on the treasure hunt.

They come back with a book or a few books. I call these “models” but that isn’t the right word. These models aren’t necessarily all that similar to the manuscript being worked on. They are similar in some ways, perhaps, but very different in others. They tend to be in the same genre, or have a similar tone, or share some plot traits. They may use time in the same way or follow the same basic structure.

If the writer I’m working with is writing in first person, I suggest the model is also in first person, but it is really up to them. The model serves as a point of reference, that’s all. But I get a good sense of what the writer is trying to achieve when they tell me about a work that has meaning to them.

My request to be given a reading list by my “student” is apparently unconventional. The writer says, “You mean, I tell you a book that is a little like what I want to write and then you read it? Read the whole book?”

“Yes, give me a reading list, one or two books.”

I’m not a book snob. I believe that there are excellent examples of fiction in every genre. I may love Clare Keegan, but give me a good romantic comedy, a thriller, a YA fantasy novel and I’m happy as long as the tea is hot and the chair is comfortable.

When a student writer and I look at the examples together, we abandon abstract notions about what is “good” or “bad” anyway, and focus instead on what has worked for other authors. We share the experience as readers together. We feel inspired.

Through this method, I’ve been introduced to many different works I might have never met. I’ve gained respect for writers I would have overlooked. And I think (I hope!) I’ve helped some new writers with their manuscripts. My latest student has given me quite an exciting model, the Elena Ferrante novel, The Days of Abandonment. I read it over a few days and I’m still reeling from it.

Have you read the book? It’s been described with every electrifying word: Visceral, dizzying, terrifying, fever-dream, shocking, intense. It’s full of rage, the narrator devoured by her own anger and grief. It is admirable. It is so rich with emotions I have had to clear my palate between chapters by reading recipes.

But it’s thrilling to be working with someone who uses this particular novel as a reference point to compare her own efforts. I’ll tell you what — it won’t be boring.