Blog 110 - Will I ever be a Writer?

Blog 110 - Will I ever be a writer?

February 2026

I keep hearing the same question in my head, over and over, like it’s a broken record that the universe refuses to stop playing: Will I ever be a writer? it's like my self-conscious is demanding an answer I can't give it. I know exactly what it means, it's not talking about the sort of writer who lives in a tiny cabin on a mist shrouded mountain, hunched over a quill while a raven perches on the windowsill, muttering ominous poetry. No, it's talking about the real deal, coffee stained hands, deadline driven, mortgage paying writer. The one whose inbox starts to look like a frantic game of “Who Wants to Be My Agent?” and whose bank account finally shows a line that reads “royalties” instead of “Bills due.”

So, I've decided to sit down (on a couch that’s seen better days but still has a decent cushion) and talk about that dream. Tag along it might be fun. I’ll keep it light; I’ll keep it honest, and I’ll try not to make this sound like a self help pamphlet written by a motivational speaker who still lives in a loft with a perpetual “open mic” sign on the door.
First things first: the whole “raven watching from the window” thing is pure cinematic fluff. I once watched Dead Poets Society— (the movie, not the actual dead poets)- and thought, “That’s it! I’ll get my muse to appear in a cape, whispering verses into my ear while I type on a typewriter that sounds like a diesel engine.” Spoiler alert: the muse never showed up, and the typewriter was a borrowed laptop with a cracked screen that kept asking for updates at 2 a.m. I'm sure that the truth is most writers (the ones who actually make a living) have a very ordinary relationship with inspiration. My muse a law unto itself, it's more like a neighbour who pops in unannounced, brings a casserole, and then stays for three hours talking about the weather. Sometimes the casserole is delicious, sometimes it’s burnt, and sometimes the neighbour just wants to borrow a cup of sugar and then sod off. Inspiration rarely shows up when you’re sipping cheap coffee at 3 p.m., it arrives when your cat decides your keyboard is the perfect nap spot, or more often than not whenever the hell it wants to.
I tend to use the biggest tool in the modern writer’s kit: the internet. It’s the place where you can read a 3 minute article on query letters and then instantly apply that knowledge to the manuscript you’ve been polishing for months. I still believe you need a literary agent to get a foot in the door but now that the publishing world is guarded by a massive crowd of self publishers, indie platforms, podcasts, and a whole legion of readers who’ll buy a book because they liked a tweet about it, it has made an agent's life damn near impossible. They are so swamped with the clients they already have, trying to get them to even consider taking on a debut author is like trying to pull out your own nasal hair, painful at the best of times...
However, I must say that my own journey has been a montage of tiny victories. I posted a micro fiction piece in a writing competition, got a single up vote (which felt like a standing ovation), and then was invited to contribute to an anthology that paid a modest royalty. Although whilst there have been some 'wins', I've also sent countless queries to agents, all of whom responded with a polite “Thanks, but no.” Undaunted, I used those “no” replies as a reason to rewrite my novel, the revised version of which is now going through the whole process again. It's a numbers game, forum's keep telling me, unfortunately so's the lottery and after 30 odd years of playing that with not so much as a single win, I don't hold out much hope.
Okay, let’s address the elephant in the room: money. The myth that writers magically print cash from the page is as false as the idea that you can write a bestseller while lounging on a beach with a coconut drink in hand (unless you’re writing a bestseller about that exact scenario—then, go for it). Real writers have to juggle bills, taxes, and the occasional “why did I spend £50 on a novelty pen?” moment.
My first 'paycheck' from a short story was a crisp £150. It didn’t cover my mortgage, but it bought me a cheap pizza and the satisfaction of seeing my name on a published piece. I celebrated by buying a new notebook and pen, because nothing says “I’m finally a writer” like a fresh pad of lined paper waiting to be filled with the next chapter of my life. What’s crucial here is expectation management. I'd like to think that my first real contract will be a six figure deal, but I know the reality is that I'll be lucky if I get a modest check and a request for a marketing plan. You have to learn to walk before you can fly. If I treat each small win, each positive review, each “your manuscript is interesting” email as a stepping stone, I can make the journey feel less like a gamble and more like a climb—slow, sometimes wobbly, but always moving upward.
Hopefully when I do get an agent who believes in my work, they will be a tireless champion of persuasion. They’ll pitch my work to editors who might otherwise never see my name. They’ll help me navigate the dreaded “contractual obligations” and the even more dreaded “marketing plan” (yes, you have to market your own book, even if you have an agent). And when I finally get that invitation to a literary event I can say, “I’m represented by X Agency,” that in itself will feel like a badge of honour—like a secret handshake among those who have survived the query letter jungle.
Will I ever be a writer? The answer is as simple as it is complicated: Yes, but only if I keep writing. Not just the “let’s write that novel tomorrow” kind of writing, but the daily, messy, coffee spilled habit of putting words on a page, regardless of how they look. Success, in the sense of paying the mortgage, getting an agent, or hearing a fan shout “I loved that chapter!” isn’t a single, dramatic event; it’s a series of tiny, often unnoticed moments that stack up.
So, if you’re reading this while your cat is perched on the keyboard and you’re wondering whether your dream is too lofty, remember: the real deal writer isn’t a hermit with a raven; they’re a regular person who writes in the morning, answers emails in the afternoon, and maybe, just maybe, signs a contract that says “royalties payable” in the evening. They’re the ones who laugh at their own drafts, who get rejected and still send another query, who celebrate a £50 royalty check with a slice of pizza, and who—above all—keep showing up at the desk.
And who knows? One day I might be the one answering an email that says, “We’d love to represent you,” while a raven (or at least a very opinionated house cat) watches from the windowsill. Until then, I'll keep the coffee flowing, the sentences coming, and the humour intact. After all, if I can write a blog about a simple question, I'd like to think that I'm already part-way to being that honest to goodness writer who makes a living on the page!