Today when I woke up, I didn’t feel like a writer.

I felt like a pretender. Just one more in a long list of wannabes, all pretending that they know something. But the sinister truth is that they know nothing!

In an attempt to make myself feel worse (because I am a bully) the goblin in my brain decided I should write down all the titles of the books I have ghostwritten. Books written by me, for someone else.

I could then sit in front of this list, point at a book and say out loud: “That book is rubbish.”

Then I could point at the next book on the list and say: “That book is even worse.”

I made the list. The little goblin in my brain rubbed its hands in glee and giggled.

I first realised something was wrong when I couldn’t even remember all the names of the novels I have written. I have written too many over the last few years.

At final count, I have written nineteen novels for children.


That’s as many novels as I have fingers and toes (if I chopped off one of my toes – probably a little one)!

The brain goblin got a bit quiet. It glanced at its wrist and mumbled: “Oh is that the time? I have to dash for that thing at the place where… you know… stuff… okay bye!”

So why do I believe that I am not a writer? Why do I think I am not qualified? How does that work?

I’m drawing a line.

There it is.

No more talk about not being a writer beyond that line.

I’m getting serious now. It’s serious time. Serious o’clock. All signs point to one place, and that place is serious.

Prepare for more writerly content, blog readers. It’s coming your way. I am a professional writer and I have something to show this world. Nothing is going to stop me. Not even me!

A serious writer wearing a fez.
Serious writer. Right here.

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