Writing Against the Echoes
'How do you expect to become a writer when you don't know what a paragraph is?' These few words have sprawled before me like the scattered pages of an unwritten novel for years. The years wasted enduring the idea that I was a talentless imposter. How many novels did I not write? How many ideas did I send to an early grave, hundreds? Thousands? Could I have made it as a writer then, when I was at the ripe age of thirty-four before I listened to those words?
It's peculiar how a single sentence, likely delivered without much thought by the speaker, can become the architect of decades of self-doubt. Those words weren't just criticism; they became the foundation of a mental prison I constructed brick by brick, reinforcing it with every idea I dismissed as not good enough, every story I abandoned before it found its voice. The damage wasn't just in what was said but in how I allowed it to redefine my relationship with writing. I became the architect of my prison, allowing those words to live rent free in my construction, giving them a power they didn’t deserve. The true cunning of creative doubt is that it doesn't announce itself with fanfare. It whispers. It suggests. It gently steers you away from your passion with excuses that, at the time, sound rational. I’m too busy today. Not inspired enough. Maybe tomorrow. Before you realise it, 30 years have vanished. Dreams are filed away in dusty mental cabinets or moth-eaten writing pads, labelled ‘someday.’
The fact is, I have started back on this journey, as difficult as it is. I’m juggling family life (I started having children again when I was fifty-two), keeping a full-time job as CEO of a children's charity, and factoring in that everyone I speak to, except my editor, tells me that this writing business is a young person's game, that nobody gets published over the age of Fifty-Five. Sometimes, I do wonder what I'm doing.
Then the words of someone else call out within me, 'There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.' My youngest is named Maya.
The irony doesn't escape me, naming my child after Maya Angelou, allowing the weight of her wisdom to press upon me, yet refusing to answer its call. Each bedtime story I read to my children, I would bring another writer’s words to life with my voice, while my own were imprisoned in the silent confines of possibility. As their small eyelids grew heavy with sleep each night, those abandoned pages stirred with increasing restlessness within me. I have so many untold stories of who I was, who I am and who I want to be. So many dreams of stardom and fame, like seeing my words being spoken or sung by famous people. Being invited to the premiere of a film that I wrote in Cannes or Hollywood. My mentors say, ‘if it's possible for them, it's possible for you.’ The little voice in my head has an answer for this, though, they're different, better connected, younger, slimmer, more handsome, and more bloody talented.
This argument has become a daily ritual: the mentor on one shoulder, the critic on the other. The critic has statistics, apparent logic, and the comfort of inaction. It points to my responsibilities, age, and the industry’s prejudices. It reminds me of the rejection letters that might come, the blank stares when I mention my aspirations at my age. It takes particular delight in highlighting successful writers who began in their twenties, who didn't have the responsibilities of children and careers weighing them down.
Then I get that 'Aha' moment. You know, that moment when the light comes on in your head. You make sense of all the bullshit you've told yourself and the stuff that other people have said to you, and when that light goes off, you realise that even the greatest, those that are lorded with BAFTAS and Oscars and Tony Award ceremonies, they once had a dream too.
These moments of clarity feel like oxygen rushing into lungs that have been holding their breath underwater. Suddenly, the critic's voice fades, and I can see through the disguise of my excuses. Every writer, every single one, began with nothing but a blank page and the courage to fill it. To be a writer, you have to thicken your skin because, with the best will in the world, you cannot be everyone's cup of tea. But as long as you have that hunger, you owe it to yourself to keep going. You may not see your name on the cover of your first, second, or sixth novel, but I guarantee that if you don't write anything, you won't see your name on the cover of that first, second or sixth novel. You have to have a dream to have a dream come true. I'm sure that was also said by somebody famous, but I didn’t name my child after them, so you'll have to do the research.
The mathematics of creativity is straightforward: zero words written equals zero chance of success. One word turns the handle. A sentence opens the door a crack. A page pushes it wider and suddenly, impossibility transforms into possibility, however distant. I do love the art of writing, but not the pain. Sometimes, the words don't make sense to me, and, like driving along in a dark tunnel, it’s difficult to see where I’m going. But when I get into the 'flow state,' the pen—or computer, in this instance, feels light to the touch, and every word becomes melodic. Oh, what a feeling that is.
That flow state, that divine connection between mind and expression, makes everything worthwhile. It's the reason writers continue despite rejection, despite criticism, despite the voices that question our right to create. In those moments, time dissolves, and the critic falls silent. Only the story unfolds, the characters breathe, and the worlds form. I can write my novel and scribe my short stories and when all is said and done, and the pen or keys are laid to rest, the words on the page whisper to me and say, ‘there is meaning in your words: they have impact, even if it is only for yourself.’
And therein lies the ultimate truth: we write for others and for ourselves. To silence those echoes of doubt. To answer the call of our stories. To fulfil our contract with our younger selves who dreamed without the weight of other people's opinions. Each word is an act of defiance against that voice that once told me I didn't know what a paragraph was. Each completed story proves that voice wrong. And maybe, just maybe, that's even more satisfying than seeing my name on a book cover—though probably not. I wouldn't mind both.
