To what extent is Shock and Awe a political novel?
Shock and Awe wasn’t conceived as a political novel, but it certainly turned into one. I find it hard to write unless I am grappling with issues that engage me, and a great deal of my anger and confusion over the so-called War on Terror found their way into the book.
Although the premise relates to international terrorism, in hindsight I understand that the book is really about America and American attitudes.
How has working in the Middle East influenced the writing of Shock and Awe?
The Middle East is a fascinating place. Some of the people are so friendly and filled with an infectious vitality. They can be extraordinarily hospitable to strangers without any expectation of a return. And, despite the region’s reputation for intrigue and double-dealing, in business affairs you can still sign an agreement with nothing more than a handshake, and expect it will be honoured.
But the Middle East is a frightening place, too. It is tribal and clannish and sexist without apology, and much of the observance of Islam is appallingly hypocritical. It didn’t surprise me a bit when I found that the 9/11 suicide pilots had spent some of their last days in strip bars—it’s exactly what I would have expected.
To someone raised in the Western humanistic tradition, it’s startling and disturbing the extent to which ancient hatreds are nurtured and even cherished in the Middle East. You can understand people who hold grudges about things that happened in their lifetimes, or even their father’s or grandfather’s lifetime. But I’ve met Iranians who can still get into a Greek-hating fury over Alexander the Great. Plus they don’t seem to realize Alexander was actually Macedonian.
I haven’t really answered your question, have I? As well as offering a great backdrop for stories, my time in the Middle East taught me the truth of the cliché that things aren’t black or white, but only shades of grey—and made me see that most of the grey tends to be on the dark end of the spectrum. It also probably made a female protagonist inevitable for this story.
Would you describe Carla as a heroine or an anti-heroine? Tell us about how she evolved as a character.
Oh, Carla is most definitely a heroine, but in the classical, tragic style. Her fatal flaw is her inability to deal with ambiguity. She is constitutionally unable to sit still and wrestle with uncertainty. Carla wants to take action, now, and prefers to let someone else do her thinking for her.
In some ways, she is the mirror image of the other protagonist of the book, Boyce Hammond. He’s generally disillusioned and emotionally conflicted, and finds it hard to take action because there are so many factors to balance. Hammond is a good example of WB Yeat’s line about “The best lack all conviction…” Whereas uncertainty galvanizes Carla, it tends to paralyse Hammond. That makes it all sound quite conscious and deliberate, doesn’t it? The truth is, this clarity about their natures is only something that I see in retrospect.
As far as her evolution as a character, all I can say is that I feel blessed. The idea of the wounded warrior is an old one, and I’d toyed, in the vaguest fashion, with the idea of a female counterpart to that archetype. But when I wrote the opening pages of Shock and Awe (which remain basically unaltered from the first draft), Carla just strode into the story. All I had to do was follow along, writing down what she said and did. She sometimes surprised me—she’s not as tough as she pretends to be—but I was always pleased by the surprises.
What started you writing?
I’ve always wanted to write. I suppose a better question might be: What stopped me writing all those years I didn’t? There’s the usual litany of job pressure and other commitments, but who hasn’t had to cope with those? The real answer is probably that I was afraid of failing at something I held to be so important.
Which writers do you feel have influenced you most?
John Gardner and William Faulkner for the understanding that the rhythm in the mind’s ear is central. Roger Zelazny for the idea that a diction drop can be a tool rather than a mistake. JMG Le Clezio for proving that small things can be magnified to whatever size is needed. Joseph Conrad and Philip Caputo for showing that unflinching, straight-ahead storytelling can deal with deep philosophical matters. Patrick O’Brian for demonstrating how tone, pacing, and perspective can all be slyly bent, no matter how disciplined the format. And, of course, Graham Greene and John Le Carre, who mapped out the terrain.
Oddly enough, many writers whom I love have had little obvious influence on my writing. I like to assume, though, that they’re back there somewhere near my brainstem, cheering me on. Or at least paying enough attention to make cutting comments.
Which book do you wish you had written and why?
I wish I’d written Gregory Maguire’s Wicked. Why? Because it’s an obvious idea, once you see it—the book was just begging to be written. But Maguire does it with immense skill and humour, turning every element of the original to his own purpose. It’s subversive and touching at the same time.
Which book would you take to a desert island, and why?
Oh, how I fear and detest this question! I’m always afraid the gods are listening, and I’ll end up with nothing but that one book, regretting my decision.
Realistically, I’d have to cheat and go for something like the Collected Shakespeare—that’s just one book, isn’t it?—where I’d have a wide array of stories and brilliant language. Either that, or something philosophically dense in a language I don’t really have command of yet could puzzle out—maybe Labyrinths by Borges, in the original. Or perhaps Finnegan’s Wake; with nothing else to read, perhaps it would become crystal clear.
What are your favourite and least favourite things about being a writer?
For me, starting a new piece is glory made manifest. There’s no better feeling. But the stage where you’re searching for agents, publishers, and all that…that’s dismal.
You run a very active blog (www.davidisaak.blogspot.com) where you often discuss the process of publication. Tell us about your experiences of being published.
I completed this book in late 2004, and had offers of representation from good US agents by February 2005. I chose a solid New York agent at a famous, long-established agency, and the book started making the rounds of editors at a level where they could have given us the green light. They mostly said kind things, even enthusiastic things. But there were three objections that were raised. First, there was no real ‘hero’ to root for. Second, some felt that the multiple points-of-view and the shifts in pace and tone were more appropriate to a literary novel than a thriller. And, finally and most damning, as one editor wrote to me, “The fact that the bad guys are Americans makes this a tough sell for us…”
My agent wrote me, suggesting that we get on with marketing another book. “It isn’t the writing,” she said, “it’s the subject matter.” I suggested that this might not be such a sticking point if she were to market it in the UK. She replied that it was far “too American” a book. I countered with stories of writers, like Raymond Chandler or Chester Himes, whose talents were first recognized in Britain, or others, like John Knowles or James Purdy (or, more recently, Carol O’Connell), who had to go to the UK to get published at all. She answered that she simply didn’t believe it was worth the effort.
I was in an agony of indecision. As anyone who has played this game in the last decade can tell you, agents are the gatekeepers to the citadel, and walking away from a good agent who is willing to keep you on is wrenching. Nonetheless, I decided to try and push the book in the UK, where I felt its supposed flaws would be seen as virtues. My agent, to her credit, wished me well and told me it really was a good book that deserved to be published.
After buying international airmail stamps I began setting up to harass British agents, but in the meantime, I sent my manuscript off to Macmillan New Writing. I’d been watching the MNW experiment for some time, and had even bought their first six releases—and thoroughly enjoyed all of them. It seemed like a long shot, but there wasn’t any risk I could see.
I was still licking stamps and addressing envelopes to British agents when Will Atkins at MNW wrote back saying they’d like to publish my book. After that, everything about the story changes tone. Will not only liked the novel, he understood the narrative strategy and why I had told the story in the way I did. To simplify, this guy really got it.
After that, things went better than I could ever have imagined. Writing is a lonely process. Having someone on your side, someone who understands what the book is trying to do, and is doing their best to help make the book better…well, there’s no finer feeling for a writer.
After that it was mostly a smooth process. The copyeditor raised some excellent points. There was a little quibble over how exclamation marks ought to be used (seldom, in my opinion). Then the booksellers suggested that the title ought to be changed. I had no problem with this in principle—after all, they’re the ones who have to flog the thing to readers—but my imagination had run dry. The only serviceable title I could come up with (and even that was stolen from my girlfriend) turned out to be a title already taken by a book slated for publication about one month before mine. The final title, Shock and Awe, was suggested by Will Atkins, and it’s one that everyone seems to like.
What advice would you give to someone who wants to be a writer?
In all seriousness, if you can be happy doing something else, do something else. Getting rich, or even being able to support yourself, is unlikely. For every JK Rowling, there are a thousand John Kennedy Tooles—and most of them will never win a posthumous Pulitzer. As a job, writing is lousy: Low (and unpredictable) pay, no benefits, zero job security. And you have to buy your own desk chair, which doesn’t come cheap.
On the other hand, if you can’t live without writing, then throw yourself into it and love it for itself. Expect to work at the craft; many, if not most, published writers have three or more unpublished novels in their desk drawers. Hemingway suggested that the best way to learn to write is to write a million words. That’s five or ten novels-worth. Meanwhile, try to have fun through the first 999,999 words.
