YER A WRITER, HARRIET

So here you are. You’ve managed to stop crying and get out of the foetal position

you adopted when your novel/story/poem/memoir was rejected, or ripped apart at

your critique group, or insisted on glaring at you, unfinished, from your screen or

notepad.

“Not a writer,” you mumble. “Never will be. Can’t be. It’s just a [insert profanity of

choice] waste of time.”

But you kind of have to face it, you’re addicted to words.

Folk come to writing, like they come to anything else, in all sorts of different ways.

Some of us have been scribbling since we could hold a pencil. Some of us never

thought it would be the thing for us, or were told it wasn’t the thing for us, and came

to it later in life. Some of us wanted to record a particular experience, or remember a

special person, and started trying to find the words.

Most of us, when we did find the words, didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do

with them.

Conventional wisdom states that the best preparation for being a writer, is to be a

reader. It is enormously helpful if you already have an idea, through reading, of how

words can be manipulated to make you feel happy, sad, scared or nauseous. It also

helps to know what works for you, what fires your imagination, or leaves you cold. If

you get the chance, read widely, read all sorts, don’t be put off by categories.

Categories are a marketing ploy. It’s nice to know where, in the library or bookshop,

you can find your favourite authors, but categories are basically the analogue

equivalent of those annoying pop-ups on Netflix or Amazon Prime: You Watched

This So You’re Going To Love This, Look No Further.

Also, one book does not a genre make. If you hated Isaac Asimov, it doesn’t mean

you don’t like science fiction. It means you don’t like Isaac Asimov. Try China

Mieville. Do yourself a favour and try China Mieville. You’ll thank me.

Not everyone gets the chance to read a lot of books. Lots of us don’t get the

chance to read much at all. We may not want to. It never occurs to us. But we speak.

We watch TV, or go to the cinema. We see all sorts of stuff on social media. We

observe people around us. We are interested in stories.

That’s the most important thing for any writer. An interest in stories. Your own,

other people’s, the history of that cat over there, doesn’t matter what it is.

So there you are, there’s this story you’re interested in, and into your head pop the

two most important words in any writer’s vocabulary: What If…

What if the cat is an alien? What if the grumpy old bloke on the bus is grumpy for

a very good and heart-rending reason? What if your great-grandmother had the

chance to tell her story to the world, how would she do it? What if you fancy telling

any of these stories?

Pick up a pencil, or fire up your laptop, or unleash whatever other device you have

about your person (I’m seventy, I text with one finger, I have no idea what wizardry

came out last week). Write a few words. Just a few words. Doesn’t matter if it’s the

start of the story, or the end of the story, or somewhere in the middle, or just a few

jottings about what you want to do. If you have the time and inclination, write a bit

more. If you enjoy it, set aside a bit of time to do it again.

If you don’t enjoy it, think about why you don’t. What if…you tried doing it at

another time of day? In another place? In mirror-writing? (Trust me, that one’s a

doozy. Rediscover your inner child.)

Maybe writing really isn’t your thing. Maybe it’s something you’ll enjoy doing now

and again. Or maybe you’ll find you’re addicted to words.

If you write stuff, you’re a writer. If someone has a brilliant voice, they’re a singer.

No-one says no, you’re not a singer because you haven’t done it in public. No-one

says you’re not a painter if you haven’t had something in the Royal Academy. You

can work towards becoming a published writer, if that’s what you want to do, but it’s

not a club you have to join. These days, you can be a self-published writer for

minimal cost, and then you can work on your marketing and try to make a living out

of it, or you can print off a few copies for your family. Or for yourself.

I was twelve when my first story was published, in The Brownie Annual of 1966,

‘Brownies Own Stories’ section. It was decades before I had anything else published.

For years I didn’t write anything much at all, and when I did I had no confidence in it.

But somehow those words wouldn’t stop coming, niggling away, and I couldn’t stop

my writerly habits: eavesdropping on other people’s conversations in cafes, peering

into people’s windows in that magic time when the lights are on but the curtains

aren’t drawn, having conversations, either in my head or out loud, with people who

didn’t exist anywhere outside my imagination. And always the What If… What if I

wrote this story, and what if I sent it off somewhere, and what if they accepted it…or

what if they rejected it and I learned what not to do next time…and what if I joined a

Writers’ Group and got some helpful feedback…and what if I felt it was OK to spend

quite a lot of my time doing something I really loved?

If you love doing it, or even if you just quite like it, never be put off by others. If

you’re arranging words, on a page, into some sort of tale — yer a writer, Harriet.