What’s in a book?

Finishing lap of the manuscript bootcamp (i.e. last panel)!

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of taking part in one of the more invigorating rituals of the Singapore lit scene – the manuscript bootcamp – at which first-time authors put their unpublished manuscripts through rounds of rigorous critique from invited mentors, fellow participants, and most importantly, themselves. There’s a reason why the official webpage says “Welcome to Hell”: first organised by Sing Lit Station back in 2015, the bootcamp has since expanded in scope and resources to afford writers a healthy dose of “perspective” (and yes, also some encouragement).

In the lead-up to bootcamp, I got to read and comment on three of the six participants’ manuscripts, which were all refreshingly different. I also got to meet the rest of the participants and shortlistees in a Zoom discussion at bootcamp itself (pictured above!), where we talked about everything from how long the ‘ideal’ poetry collection should be, to the politics of italics. Needless to say, I would have killed for the chance to attend something like this when putting together my first book a decade ago, but I also see that the book world (even our little corner of it!) has changed quite a bit in that time. Happily, we have more independent bookshops and presses today, and a much wider (and more urgent) range of voices and concerns. Debates about local vs ‘international’ publishing, as well as the usefulness of ‘SingLit’ as a category, are also being revived in important ways – as my friend Ruby does in her excellent newsletter here. All of this means that there’s more to navigate: not a bad thing, but it can certainly seem overwhelming to the first-time author. Also, the world is actually burning.

Which brings me to one of the questions we didn’t actually address during the panel: why do we even write books? I’m not being facetious. First, there’s the fact that e-books and audiobooks, as well as online zines and pamphlets, digital anthologies, and a wild assortment of multimedia literary experiences, are no longer fringe experiments but daily experiences for lots of readers. Personally, I’m fairly old-school in my reading tastes, especially since I’ve stopped being able to read from phone/laptop screens on moving vehicles without feeling queasy (definitely an age thing). But no writer should expect their audience to share all their habits and quirks. If the people I want to reach are more used to toggling tabs than flipping pages, wouldn’t these new formats actually put my work in the most accessible light?

There’s also the bigger question, though, of why books – at all. There’s something about making one’s way slowly through a book, cover to cover, that seems somehow at odds with the sheer nowness of everything that’s coming at us, all the time. As I shared on the panel, sometimes I ask younger writers what the last book is that they’ve read from start to finish, and draw a blank. It seems that lots of readers today are more used to finding (and sharing) the poems online that speak directly to a moment or experience, than following a printed sequence. We’ve all done this, even the hardback luddites among us: come across an aha! moment in a book, snap a photo, and upload it sans context to the ‘gram. As a writer, why shouldn’t I then simply aim to maximise the standalone salience of each piece of writing: wouldn’t a linktree be more powerful than a book? (See here, if that’s your thing).

These questions bring me to what, I guess, lies at the heart of putting books out into the world: the desire not only to connect with a reader but sustain that connection; to craft an experience, or narrative, that is more than the sum of its pages. Beyond the craft and balance of each individual poem, the book should take its reader on a journey that explores a process or set of themes from multiple angles; the reader should be made to question the assumptions of earlier poems, enter both safe and uncomfortable spaces, and, ultimately, grow. The act of reading a book cover to cover demands that you put aside the expectation of a singular answer and spend time gnawing through a question, with room for taking a step back or changing your mind. The best poetry collections lead you down this path without having you feel like you’re being dragged along. And you won’t be able to stop checking out the view.

Thinking about books in this way also means that writers are almost never the ‘lonely genius’ behind the whole experience, and we should stop seeing them as such. Crafting each book takes a village, starting from the editors (or interns/slushpile readers) who are the first to read a manuscript cover to cover – even before it has covers – to the designers who ensure that fonts and layouts give poems enough space on the page to breathe, and distributors who get the books into the right hands (see also: Olivia Waite’s essay on Invisible Labour in the Publishing World). Lots of younger writers (including my younger self) are concerned about authorial voice and control; in hindsight, I realise, it’s really not (just) about me. We authors rarely have the best view of whether a particular sequence or layout is the most effective, especially to someone leafing through your poems for the first time while browsing at Kinokuniya. Publishing is a collaborative process, and we need to give credit where it’s due.

All of this is stuff that I wish I’d thought about, or known, when working on my earlier books, but I guess (and hope) it isn’t too late! I wish every new writer the good fortune that I’ve had in working with wonderful publishers, who are themselves also committed to doing better with every book. If there’s anything to mirror the magic of reading, it must surely be the magic of putting a book together. Both are journeys quite worth their own reward.

Afternote: This post also marks a year since I launched this website (and blog), and you can read all the posts thus far at the bottom of the homepage. While most of the writing here is about - well - my writing life, I’ve also taken the chance to reflect on my work, volunteering, and other adventures. I’ve tried to write on a monthly basis (almost! I did take a break last month), and I’d love to hear about what else I can do with this space. Please feel free to connect via social media or by email at hello@theophiluskwek.com!