The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins

A cleverly crafted suspense thriller, all the more interesting because the characterization is painstakingly convincing. Have you ever sat on a train at a standstill, and stared into the houses by the track? It feels both legitimate, and like prying. Paula Hawkins has taken this feeling and woven it into the basis of her novel, ‘The Girl of the Train’.

Thirty something Rachel Watson travels every day on a commuter train, from which she idly takes an interest in the occupants of houses that back on to the line, weaving stories about them to pass the time. Or so we think. But as the narrative draws you in, the reader begins to realise that Rachel is not a reliable narrator. She has a connection with these people, and she’s not being honest with anyone – least of all herself. And she has other problems.

We follow divorced and lonely Rachel as she stumbles through the ruins of her life in an alcoholic haze. We should despise her but we don’t, which is testament to the sensitive way that Paula Hawkins has handled this character. Rachel vows to herself many times that she won’t be taking another drink, but the next chapter sees her dropping by the off-licence once again, to our frustration. Rachel is trying to cope with many of the usual traumas of life – divorce and loss, the lack of friends that a break-up can cause, childlessness, career disappointment. But her troubles are all magnified by her illness, and her frightening alcoholic blackouts. Which leaves the reader uncertain what the truth of the matter is.

Hawkins has captured perfectly the guilt and torment, but also the defiance, of someone struggling with alcoholism, and crucially the way that others are drawn into their dependency.  Which makes her careful plot, weaving of characters, and the ending when it comes, richly plausible. Worth a read.

Does your mind mistake talking for doing?

I’ve just finished writing a book – it’s quite a whopper clocking in at 130,000 words. Who knew? Well, clearly me, and just my partner. I can tell I’ve offended some people. ‘Oh they say, you kept that quiet,’ and quickly change the subject. My children said, ‘What you, you’ve written a book, a real one?’

They feel left out, but this was not my intention. My purpose in keeping shtum was to make sure I finished. For me, the only way to achieve something difficult, long-term, and which eats up creative energy, is to tell no one. This isn’t out of fear of failure, it isn’t even about people messing inside my head and muddying my ideas. It’s about channelling energy.

If I talk about an idea, then I dissipate that energy, in discussing or explaining or simply receiving support. It’s great to have cheerleaders, but if I talk about something enough then I almost feel that I have done the work, the actual writing becomes expected, almost a chore.

If on the other hand I tell no-one, I’m forced to respond to friends asking me what I’ve been up to, with ‘Oh, nothing much.’ Which makes me seem like a wet weekend. But that’s the point. The pressure builds up precisely because I can’t tell anyone, like an old pressure cooker rattling away, the steam is desperate to escape: and all that drive, energy, ideas and enthusiasm gets fed straight back into the work until you can see it bursting from the page.

I thought I was alone in this peculiarity. Now I find there has been a century’s worth of research on the subject. In 1926 American social psychologist Kurt Lewin, called this ‘substitution’. You tell people about your goal, they affirm your intentions and then the mind feels it to be real. You’ve already had the gratification, ‘Wow, sounds great…’ so now you feel less driven to do the hard work. Your mind mistakes the talking for doing.

In 2010 motivational speaker Derek Sivers gave a talk on keeping your goals to yourself. His advice? If you need to talk, state it in a way that gives you no satisfaction, such as “I really want to run this marathon, so I need to train five times a week and kick my ass if I don’t, okay?”

Likewise, the exception to my rule was my Faber Academy writing group. A meeting of like-minded would-be writers all struggling with the same problems. Competitive, critical but constructive, it was at least a space to let off steam. The danger, of course, is to become a writing course junkie, where praise within the group is enough, and finishing your book becomes secondary.

Keep working, keep silent and keep the pressure building. Before you know it you are gunning along toward the finish. And then, finally, you get the satisfaction of saying ‘Guess what? I’ve written a book…’