The Afterparty

What is a gimmick? It is a thing that gets attention, yes, but that’s not all it is. Tooth-broccoli is not a gimmick. Nor are undone flies. (Though, buttoning them, one might gamely try to claim so.) No, a gimmick is deliberate, a thing that tries to get attention. It is the trying that’s despised.

Much of my first novel, The Afterparty, is made of gimmicks. This is strenuous to admit because, artistically, the gimmick is considered worse than worthless. It suggests a writer whose desire to be noticed overpowers his desire to write; somebody who hones books for the market, not for love. This calculation tends to make the reader feel manipulated when they spot it. Consequently, gimmicks are also thought to be markers of inadequacy. If the book itself were noticeable, it is presumed, then the writer never stoop to them. They make the pages smell of advertising.

But what else has storytelling ever been? Novels, unavoidably, are long and linear, which gives them an unparalleled propensity to bore. The solution to this is not not manipulating readers; it is doing it invisibly. Attention must be seized by whatever means necessary, and then fastened to the story. This is why good writers cut paragraphs they love for speed. And why they also, generally, have trashy taste. From reading history’s great novels, one would struggle to believe that death and love affairs take up such a small proportion of our lives. The obsessions of the tabloids, so often mocked for shallowness, are the obsessions of the syllabus as well.

And just as every book cries “Look at me! Keep looking!”, so does every author. To write a novel is to seek fame, always. Even if, like Salinger’s or Pynchon’s, it is not the kind of fame where people take your picture. There is a prevailing drift against this notion in our literary culture, which exalts the ersatz modesty of underwriting, and which is wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Gimmickry – in style, form or subject – is what makes stories live. If a novel is not impure, it is incompetent. We should revel in this.

I have tried to. The Afterparty is a novel about people who want attention. By writing it, I have admitted that I am one of them, and I invite you to do the same thing by writing yourself into next year’s paperback. If you use Twitter, or can bring yourself to start, tweet any message of your choice along with #afterpartybook and we promise we will publish it in the new edition. Tweet as many messages as you like. Tweet a whole story. Unless things get out of hand, I would be happy to publish them all.

Instead, or additionally, you can email a 200-word description of a new character, with your name if you choose, to theafterparty@randomhouse.co.uk. I will write the best one into the party scene at the beginning of the novel. And if you decide to buy and read The Afterparty (that you should is another desire I will admit to) then email your opinion on it to the same address and we will print a quotation from the best two on the paperback’s jacket.

If you enter these competitions, please tell your friends about them too. (Here are some very thorough terms and conditions) Besides seeking it, they also offer some attention – to everybody – as their prize. My hope is that many people will contribute something, showing that the desire to be noticed, though Britain leads the world in being ashamed of it, is a basic part of being human. We witness it on X-Factor, in counsellors’ consulting rooms, in churches, on Facebook, and in every single poem, play and novel ever written. Being noticed makes us feel that an aspect of us matters. How terrible the opposite would be.

Leo Benedictus is an award-winning Guardian features writer. He was born in London in 1975, and studied English at Oxford University. In 1999, he was fired from his job in advertising. The Afterparty is his first novel.