If You Wannabe a Writer...

The plan, ten years ago!

I was having a root around some old laptop files recently, when I stumbled across an interesting bit of info. Ready? Nice one. This week it'll be ten years since I became a writer.  Yep. Ten. At the time I didn't consider myself an actual writer. I saw myself as a wannabe. In fact my first stab at blogging had the word wannabe in the title. I soon gave up that blog, as well as using such a belittling word to describe something I'd started to take pretty seriously. But taking it seriously and being a writer were not quite the same thing. Not back then. That took a while.

The folder I stumbled across was entitled Plans For September 2011. That was when I was going to start my first novel. I knew this because in July 2011 - ten years ago on Thursday, in fact - I left my last proper job. And because I'd planned to do that for the year before, there was time to give it some proper thought. So much so, the assortment of planning documents got its own folder, saved inside another folder, inside another, deep in the bowels of my laptop. Finding it again recently was - and I believe this is the technical term - piss funny.

A real life excerpt of a To-Do List.
Archive material from 2011.
(Not sure what Vitamin Water even is.)

I had such good ideas back then. Not in terms of narrative structure or plot ideas. Not detailed character studies or opening paragraphs to grab the reader by the throat and make them read. Oh no, my plans were much less literary. I was going to wake at 7am every day and drink green tea. (Not sure why. I don't really like it.) I was going to go swimming on Wednesday afternoons (never done that once) and I was going to read one book a week about the art of writing. (I had a lengthy reading list ready to go. In the past ten years, I've read two of the eleven titles on it.) I'd even planned the things I needed on my desk. I'm not even joking when I say that list includes desk tidy for pens and pencils. Not. Even. Joking.

It seems back in the summer of 2011, I had no real clue about what writing entailed. No real idea what I'd need, practically or personally, in order to crack on with the dream. Perhaps if I'd known, I'd have run a mile. Because despite having thought of lots of peripheral, superficial stuff, the reality was very different. Much less wannabe. Once reality hit, I found none of that stuff mattered. None of it was necessary to write stories. I just had to write. That was all. Newsflash: Writers have to write. Their Paperchase-stocked desks and green tea morning rituals don't mean a thing if nothing gets written. And that's the part that's really tricky. The bit writers have to power through when they can't think of any ideas. When they want to give up. They have to keep going and just do it. I had to keep going and just do it.

I spent the first year pretending. I looked the part. I jotted notes in a pad now and then. I even got the odd chapter written. It wasn't for real. It was all wannabe. I was playing a role. Eventually I managed to finish the first draft of a novel. I still have it somewhere, but I know without looking, it's shit. Necessary to get out during the wannabe phase, absolutely, but not something to worry about now. Because once I'd done the writing cosplay, it was time to get serious.

Ten years have passed and I've no idea what happened to the tidy, organised desk. I mostly write in the kitchen. I never got round to going swimming on a Wednesday, or starting the day with a green tea. My morning begins with a pint of builders. But - and I write this with enormous pride and happiness - I have three books with my name on the cover. It got real once I ditched the playing and put in some proper effort. Writing even when I thought it was crap. Writing even when I knew I'd delete those 2000 words at a later date. Writing even when I wasn't sure I'd ever get to the end.

Snuggled next to E.M
Forster. Just how I like it.

I'm in the sweet spot right now. Book Number Three (Assembling the Wingpeople, pre-orderable from all good bookshops) is out in three months. I'm feeling the glow of completion, the satisfaction of creation. It's the upside to the downsides of actually getting it done. But when I look back over the past ten years, every part of it was essential. The novelist cosplay and the plans that turned out to be irrelevant. They were an essential stage along the way. The wannabe phase had to be worked through because it led to the real thing. And now? I'm so happy my random gamble paid off. (Not literally, obvs. The money's terrible!) Working at something even when it's tricky and gruelling wasn't something I could put up with in my last job. But now I've learnt how to do that. Personal growth AND three books. It's been a great ten years. 

Have a lovely week, folks.