Today is Sunday, and I’m finding it difficult to find the motivation to do anything. Truth is, I’m tired and have fallen into slovenly habits of late: not writing, choosing instead to watch reruns of Taskmaster on Netflix. Is this what award-winning authors spend their time doing? Of course it isn’t. That’s why they’re more successful than you. 

Success. Let’s ponder that concept for a moment. It’s something that many of us thrive to achieve, yet it’s a tricky thing to define. It depends on how you measure it, for a start. For some of us, namely writers, it’s about holding our precious words in our hands, and sharing them with those we love best (or our sworn enemies, depending on the mood). For other writers, success is landing that regular writing gig in a newspaper column or magazine. The most dedicated writers, those who are decidedly disciplined, toss out a book or so every year, leaving me seething with jealousy. Jealousy is not a healthy emotion for a writer. In the past two years, especially since being on the Play It Forward programme, I’ve come to understand what being a writer truly means. 

One major shift in my thinking was how I define myself as a writer. While I must admit that publishing Conversations about Activism and Change was the most validating moment in my career, now I feel the pressure to brush myself off and ask, “What’s next?” Logically, that would be finishing my novel, having the courage to share Rachel’s story, but somehow, I still don’t feel qualified. When will I feel good enough? What will it take to be able to work through the relentless torture of imposter syndrome? 

When the public thinks about writers, they might think of the likes of Stephen King or JK Rowling, whose work has been quite successful commercially. The rest of us know that writing isn’t a lucrative career choice. Many of us, including yours truly, are constantly hustling for side gigs such as proofreading or teaching a creative writing course, just so we have enough money to live on. Others must take on work that is completely unrelated to their true passions.  

I started back writing in 2014 because, in my view at the time, it was the only way I could see of salvaging my fragile mental health. My mind swam with a thousand intrusive thoughts that I knew I could never have the courage to vocalise to anyone. Yet, if I didn’t find some way of getting those intrusive thoughts out of my head, they would eventually have destroyed me. As I typed out those first awkward words, I was reminded of my Leaving Cert English class, and how I felt a warm glow inside every time I wrote a personal essay. That feeling of accomplishment, of pride, was how I wanted to feel every day. (One of my many writing mentors, Maria McHale, has said that this feeling is fundamental to a writer’s mental health). 

When I decided to forge a career in writing, I had visions of several books, penned by me, piling up on my desk. I thought it was as easy as sitting down every morning and playing around with words on a screen. In truth, it’s that easy, and that hard. Joanne Harris says that the first thing you need to do as a writer is to give yourself the permission to be one. It’s a difficult thing for me, as I often feel guilty for my life choices. A few years ago, while in the midst of a midlife-crisis-type thing, I studied for the Certificate in Disability Studies, aiming to get a better job in the sector. Turns out, that wasn’t what I wanted. And after spending a few years in a job that made me miserable, my husband told me in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t do that to myself again. 

Writing is not a glamorous choice. It’s a hard old slog. It’s solitary, with only a keyboard or a pen and paper for company. At least, that’s how it must appear to people looking in from the outside. Those who understand know that it’s so much more than the desire to communicate. It’s about making a difference, touching your readers in ways that they never thought possible. Writing means always being true to your real self which sounds romantic. but in reality can be messy, painful and heartbreaking. For every one of these blogs that I’ve penned, there are another five or six attempts languishing on my hard drive, never to be seen by a soul. I’ve written two whole drafts of my novel. And, as much as I strongly believe in sharing my authentic self, my desktop folder is crammed with stories, musings and draft posts that I could never have the courage to share. 

Therefore, my view of success in writing is so much more than having my name on a byline or printed on the spine of my own book. It’s being able to write crap and accept that not every creation is destined to be a masterpiece. It’s having the courage to come back to the screen, stare at that blinking cursor and say with confidence, “You’re not getting the better of me.” It’s finding the strength to stare yourself down, to say that you are worthy of praise and respect, that you truly deserve the title of writer. I believe that any writer who doesn’t feel the need to do this every once in a while is either a robot, or a psychopath, or a liar. 

Finally, as I reflect on my career cholce, I must admit to feeling a little sad that I and other writers must suffer at the hands of this wretched imposter syndrome. Many of the ways in which we unwind (or procrastinate writing), from reading books and newspapers, to listening to ‘90s classics or bingeing on Derry Girls, simply wouldn’t be possible without the work and genius of the writers who created them. The Arts is the foundation of our very existence, and this has always been the case, from those early cavemen etchings to Ogham (a form of communication in Irish during the fourth century, chiselled on stones). During the pandemic, books and boxsets became our lifebuoys, offering us solace and respite from the relentless negativity of the media. There are so many options available that didn’t even exist twenty years ago: audiobooks, podcasts and of course, personal blogs (the best place to go to for a quick read in my unbiased opinion). 

In my darkest days, I cling to the fact that my words bring comfort, even if it’s only to one person. And if that is the case, then I think I’m as successful as I ever need to be.