Some people scroll TikTok. Others play five-a-side or obsess over air fryers. Me? I write novels no one reads.
Not in a candlelit, tortured-artist kind of way. More in the “squeezing out 300 words before bed while the kettle boils for a second cuppa” kind of way. I’m a wannabe writer. A maybe-someday novelist. Someone who dreams in plot twists while washing the pots, forgets brilliant metaphors while cooking dinner, and tries to remember what my protagonist’s motivation was before the doorbell rang.
And still, I write.
Because there’s something magical about putting ideas to paper. That first spark, when a character shows up uninvited or a line of dialogue lands just right, is addictive. It’s like catching lightning in a jam jar. For a moment, it’s all possibility. You’re not tired. You’re not behind on deadlines. You’re just… in it.
Then comes the editing. Oh, the editing. Draft one is chaos. Draft two is slightly less embarrassing. By draft five, you’re questioning whether “the” is even a real word. You want it to be done. You want to slap “The End” on it and bask in the glow of completion. But novels don’t work like that. They’re needy. They demand time, attention, and emotional energy you barely have.
And just when you think you’ve nailed it, when you’ve finally typed the last word and hit save, you realise you’ve got another idea. Another story. Another mountain to climb.
So why do it? Why keep going when no one’s asking for it, when the rejections pile up, when your writing folder is a graveyard of half-finished dreams?
Because I love it. Because even when it’s hard, it’s mine. Because there’s joy in the struggle, in the shaping of something from nothing. Because sometimes, in the quiet hour between washing up and sleep, I get to be the version of myself that still dreams.
I may never be published. I may never be “successful”. But I’ll keep writing. Not for fame or followers, but for the sheer, stubborn love of it.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.