You think, oh yeah, I could be a writer. I know how to write. That sounds romantic. I could do it sitting down. I could do it lying down in bed, even. I could express my innermost thoughts and feelings. I have innermost thoughts and feelings, I’m sure I do. You could come up with a few new ways of saying things. That cloud is like a… not, ‘marshmallow’, obviously, uh… ‘dead sheep’? ‘Dead sheep lying on its side’? Mmm, or… well, anyway, I’m sure, given a little thought and time, I could do it, you think. You could be read by others. You could be celebrated, revered! You could become famous. Properly famous, not silly, flash-in-the-pan famous. Everyone you’ve ever known, all those people who didn’t think you were up to much, they’d know, were you to become a writer, how wrong they’d been. They’d know that you weren’t dull or a bit annoying after all. That you were deep and penetrating and full of those pent up – almost torturous, really – innermost thoughts and feelings.
You think, writers look like they’re living it up. Sure, they complain a lot, but really, it can’t be that bad. Look at those literary prizes! Look at the grants they get! And for what? Typing? Making things up? Look at JK, look at Colleen Hoover, Richard Osman. Not that you’d write like them, of course. You’d write something a bit more ‘literary’. No offence to them, but popular fiction just wouldn’t fit with your prick and poke tattoos, nor your scruffy blue artists’ jacket, let alone your fisherman’s hat. If your work happened to sell and be literary – well, yes, that’s what you’re aiming for. To be accidentally wildly popular. And you think, I could be photographed looking serious yet stunning for a magazine cover. I could talk about how it was all so unexpected. How I really just hate the attention – you could say that in the interview. That would be divine. Once success hits, after the first or, maybe, the second novel (so, in around three to four years), you could start writing little opinion pieces for the New York Times or the LRB or the Guardian. Just little thoughts about whatever. They’d seek you out, and you’d think, well, I might as well oblige. I am becoming one of the great thinkers, it’s my duty to represent my generation.
You think, I know it’s considered cool to turn down the Nobel, but honestly, since Dylan took it and didn’t even bother turning up to the ceremony, I think a gracious acceptance is all that’ll be expected of me. You think, even Beckett took it, whatever his misgivings. And I’d have better things to spend the money on than socks and teeth. There’s that beach house you’ve always dreamt of. There, you could write your final semi-fictional, memoir masterpiece. Get revenge on all those people who’ve died before you – but subtly, with artistry. Looking out over the ocean, the cat / dog at your feet, with your spouse cooking all the meals.
You think, yes, that sounds alright. Yes, I think I could be a writer.
If you think any of the above (even secretly), well. Think again. The trajectory you are dreaming of, of which most people dream (very, very secretly) at some early stage of their writing career, plays out for, at best, 1%, maybe 0.1%, of those who go into writing.
In truth, if you want to write something literary, you’ll probably always need to have another source of income. Be this, for the lucky few, inheritance, family money, spousal money, or, like the rest of us, the pot luck of grants combined with other work.
My first piece of advice, therefore, is not to fall into the trap of trying to find work that ‘relates’ to writing. In other words, don’t work in a bookshop. Everyone coming in buys the same few things (children’s books by celebrities, memoirs of celebrities, self-help books, preferably by celebrities, popular fiction in which violence happens to women, or anything by the aforementioned Richard Osman). It’s depressing, and will put you off writing.
Another tip, from someone who has made every mistake going. Never think you’ll gain any recognition. At all. In my experience, even your family won’t read your work, and actually, you’ll be glad they don’t. It would be terrible to talk politely to a distant cousin at a wedding who suddenly launches into a critique of your detailed description of fellatio. Once you have a book published, nothing will happen. There will be a brief flurry of activity, you’ll see it in a bookshop, you’ll be excited. And then… nothing. Prepare for this. Book a holiday. Have other sources of pleasure and self-worth to draw on in the aftermath. Don’t think your worth is tied up with its success. Most good books get ignored. The problem is that there are simply too many being published for every worthwhile book to be recognised as such.
Which brings me to my third tip (I could go on, but let’s be honest, who’d want me to?); don’t make writing everything. Don’t think of Larkin or Kafka or all those romantic figures who chose writing over life. Life is the thing. Joy in your days, a home, personal relationships, love, pets, galleries, movies, dusk at the seaside – whatever floats your boat, really. Writing must come second. It can be a close second, but second nonetheless. Writing will take everything and, potentially, give you nothing back. This, too, you must be prepared for.
And if after this you still want to write. Then write. And adore it. And feel lucky to have the opportunity. After all, how else are you supposed to express all those magnificent, idiosyncratic, fascinating (as you’re absolutely positive they’ll prove to be, once you find the right metaphors), innermost thoughts and feelings?
Lucy Sweeney Byrne's first short story collection Paris Syndrome (2019, Banshee Press), was met with critical acclaim and shortlisted for a number of awards. Her second collection, Let's Dance (2024, Banshee Press), was published in October 2024. Lucy’s short fiction, essays and poetry have appeared in The Dublin Review, The Stinging Fly, Southword, AGNI, Litro, Grist, 3:AM magazine, and numerous other literary outlets. She also writes book reviews for The Irish Times.
Comments