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By doing it. Every day. For as long as it takes.
I have written more than thirty novels and a great many short stories, and the method has not changed in fifty years. I have a routine that has not changed in fifty years — four two-hour shifts a day, six days a week. The full routine is in What time of day should I write?
I write by hand. Lined A4 pads, black ink. The physical act of pushing a pen across paper — slower than typing, infinitely more deliberate — is, for me, the difference between writing and typing. I do not believe a great novel has ever been thumb-typed onto a phone. Perhaps one day I will be proved wrong.
I keep an hourglass on the desk. Mary gave it to me. When I sit down, I turn it. When the sand has run out, my shift is finished. There is no negotiation with the sand.
Every novel I have written has gone through fourteen drafts. The first three are about discovering what the book is. The middle four are about making the story work. The last seven are about making the prose work. I have, on occasion, written more — Kane and Abel went to eighteen, Adam and Eve, my final novel, to twenty.
I once went to see Sir Matthew Pritchard, Agatha Christie’s grandson, who was very kind to me. I told him I was on draft sixteen of a book. He looked at me and said: only sixteen, seventeen, eighteen?
What it taught me was simple. If you want to be Sir Matthew Pritchard, or indeed Charles Dickens, or Agatha Christie, you have got to work, you have got to work damn hard.
You will not become a novelist by reading about novel-writing. You become a novelist by sitting down and writing one. Then writing it again. Then writing it again. The sand does the rest.