Blog 66 - Sell Your Soul

Blog 66 - Sell Your Soul

September 2025

You know, I often wonder if there's a secret, rarely-sighted clause tucked deep within the mythical Writer's Contract – the one you sign in blood (or maybe just cold coffee) before you’re allowed into the exclusive club of 'successful authors.' A clause that states, quite unequivocally: "Thou Shalt Sell Thine Soul." Because honestly, folks, I think I’ve tried just about everything else.

Every guru, every hack, every whisper on the literary wind, promising the elusive key to unlocking the bestseller list. I’ve ventured down so many rabbit holes of advice that I suspect I now have a permanent burrow under my desk. My search history reads like the ramblings of a caffeine-addled mad scientist: "best time to write for optimal brainwave activity," "ancient rituals for summoning the muse," the list is endless and a little disturbing if I’m honest.
Let's break down my extensive, mostly unscientific, and largely unsuccessful research into what "everything else" entails. First, there's what I call the Environmental Manipulation Phase. This involved transforming my back bedroom into a ‘writing space’ this was supposed to be a sanctuary of creativity. A place where the outside world feared to tread, my own hideaway complete with dragon shaped clock. I stripped everything away then filled every surface with inspiring trinkets, crystals, and the trappings of a serious writer, Quill, Ink, reams of paper and of course the trusty computer. I bought an adjustable desk, ergonomic chair, and installed a shredder (I know, but I have confidence issues okay). Result: My posture improved dramatically, but my word count remained stubbornly stagnant. My spine was happy; my soul was still searching for a story.
The other major problem is that I work nights, so when I'm home, I'm sleeping, and the other half has decided that this new room would make a perfect dressing room. My carefully selected trinkets have been replaced with lotions and potions for feet, hands, and God knows what else. Hair and make-up brushes have replaced the quills, and the reams of paper now have lipstick 'Kisses' all over them. My ‘sanctuary’ now smells faintly of rosewater, and something called ‘Radiant Glow Foot Balm’. My dragon clock still ticks, but it's often obscured by a towering stack of hairspray cans. When I sit down amongst the sartorial chaos, trying to craft a dark, brooding scene, the faint scent of banana eye mask tends to undermine the gravitas. I’ve tried writing at 3 AM to reclaim the space, only to find myself accidentally spritzing my face with setting spray instead of my trusty water bottle. The ergonomics are still good, though – I can pivot easily to avoid the avalanche of scarves.
Beaten back by the aromatic takeover, I moved onto Phase Two: The ‘Write at Work Club’. The only thing I achieved was a profound bollocking from my boss and the IT guy closing my internet access. My word count remained zero, but my caffeine intake soared. So, it was back to the boudoir as I like to call it now. Then came the Focus Technique. I set my timer for 25 minutes of focused writing, followed by a 5-minute break. Unfortunately, in practice, this meant 25 minutes of staring blankly at the screen, occasionally typing 'T-H-E' and then deleting it, followed by a frantic 5 minutes of scrolling social media, eating a biscuit, and contemplating the fleeting nature of my existence. My longest streak was three sessions, ending abruptly when I realised I'd spent the entire 75 minutes trying to decide what kind of biscuit I wanted.
Next on the roster was the "Inspiration Quest" phase. Gurus whispered about 'filling your creative well.' So, I hiked mountains (Okay so I walked to the shops, what’s the difference really?), hoping for an epiphany at Tesco express. I mostly got blisters and an intense desire for a lie-down. I visited art galleries (on the internet), seeking abstract muses in splashes of paint. All I found was an overwhelming urge to watch cat videos. I even attempted "method writing" – one particularly ill-advised week saw me trying to live like my struggling protagonist, which mostly involved eating take-aways and feeling sorry for myself, neither of which fueled my creativity or my bank account.
I’ve bought every flavour of ‘Writer’s Block’ tea, downloaded inspirational sounds for ‘optimal creative flow’ (which mostly just gave me a headache), and invested in a ‘mood lamp’ that cycles through colours to purportedly stimulate different brainwaves. The only thing that got stimulated was my electricity bill. I’ve tried writing in cafes, libraries, and once, almost, in a public toilet (don’t ask).
So, here I am, amidst the lotions and potions, surrounded by evidence of a thousand failed attempts to write something vaguely resembling something an agent might like. My search history has now moved on to "how to write with no natural light and the scent of lavender," and "can you deduct foot cream from your writing expenses?" I still haven't sold my soul, mostly because I don't know who would buy it or what the going rate is. Is it a flat fee? A percentage of future earnings? Do I get a cool demon sidekick?
Perhaps the secret isn't on a guru's podcast or in a crystal grid. Maybe it’s not in the perfect ergonomic chair or the absence of perfumed lotions. Maybe it’s just showing up, day after day, even when your writing desk is also a vanity table, even when your Muse is whispering bad plot ideas through a haze of dry shampoo. Maybe the true Writer's Contract simply states: "Thou Shalt Write, Come Hell or High Water (and a whole lot of hairsprays)." And honestly, after all this, that sounds like a much better deal. Perhaps the "soul-selling clause" isn't a literal contract with a shadowy literary demon, but a metaphor. Maybe it's about pouring every ounce of your authentic self – your raw emotions, your deepest fears, your most absurd observations – onto the page. It's not about giving your soul away but infusing it into the very fabric of your work. It’s about those fleeting, magical moments when the words align, when a character speaks in your head, when a scene unfolds with an almost supernatural clarity. It’s those precious instances that make all the weird rituals, the late nights, the rejections, and the imposter syndrome feel… worth it. It’s the inexplicable pull to create, even when it feels like trying to sculpt smoke.
So, no, I haven’t signed that nefarious soul-selling clause. And I probably never will. Instead, I’ll keep pouring my soul into every sentence, every paragraph, every story. It might be messy, it might take a ridiculous amount of single-origin coffee, and I might look a bit disheveled in the process, but at least I know it'll be truly mine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm out of my favourite ink, but I spy a perfectly black liquid eyeliner that might just do the trick…