It’s been a difficult choice, picking a moment to reveal to my friends and colleagues that I’ve made a lifestyle choice that they might not understand. It was hard to guess what the reaction would be like. Reassurance? Congratulations? Derision?
I have now come out. I have admitted to all my friends that I am, in fact, a writer.
It all started with a little lie. My first attempt at writing a novel was a bit of a half-hearted affair. Not something to make too much of a fuss about, at least until I had more than a couple of thousand words written. So I didn’t mention it. The novel was a terrible false-start that barely made it out of the first chapter.
So when I made my next attempt, I was hardly going to announce to the world I was writing a novel. I knew how easily such an enterprise could end in a crumpled heap. And I was right, this one too tailed off before it had really started. More re-inforcement of the idea of not telling.
After a few more attempts, I finally finished a novel. Should I have said something then? No, I decided I’d wait until it got published. That never happened.
No surprise then that when I started again and wrote Walkers Creek that I kept to myself that I was stealing a few hours a week to write. I finished it. I said nothing. I published it. I still said very little. A handful of people knew. Most of my friends were oblivious.
I’ve now decided to come out and admit to my perversion with a pencil. So many people that I don’t know have bought the book already that it just seemed daft to pretend that it was still a secret. I’m still not sure how my revelation has been received. People are definitely looking at me differently. Maybe they’re wondering what other secrets I’m keeping? Or perhaps they’re just wondering if the book is any good or not? They’ll probably never know, after all, none of the buggers have actually bought a copy!