You’ve never slept well. Me neither.

Maybe one evening, you try to be good. Switch all the screens off and chill the heck out, and commit yourself to a good early night. Maybe half past ten.

…And you’re wide awake by three.

Trying to get back to sleep? It’s like holding down a spring. A huge, powerful, very insistent spring, like the kind in a car suspension. Your mind knows all too well that there’s stuff you need to make. Like, right now. At three in the morning. Grunting, hateful, you crawl downstairs for coffee. And so it goes.

There’s a frantic mental energy in us. If you don’t get busy and make something, it’ll come knocking. It’ll knock harder, and harder, until you let it out. It tends to happen every day, and it tends to take over when it comes. Nothing else really matters all that much, until the words are down or the brush is in hand, or the statue’s peering out from that stone.

Strange? Of course it is. Most people really aren’t wired this way. From an outside perspective, it might look like madness. But what do you care? You’ve got things to create. And it really won’t wait until you feel like it.

My advice is: go with it. If you’re up all night to sift through your mind, so be it. It’s the day job that should suffer – not your ideas.

Write those words that are gnawing at you. Paint what’s swirling in your soul. Carve it out or stitch it together, or play it all out on the strings. God knows, you can’t explain it in conversation. It has to grow, to explain itself.

It’s not some strange burden, this obsession to create things. You’re wrangling with a constellation. When you grasp it, and act on it, it’s a joy. If it comes along at three in the morning, so be it. That’s when you’re obliged to act.

Maybe some people think obsession’s unhealthy. For you and me though? It’s a blessing. It’s the greatest tool there is.




Writing stories requires us to build worlds. It’s a conjuring spell; a kind of alchemy.

For the spell to work, we have to make this other world feel real. Play tricks on our readers’ minds and immerse them in it, even just for a moment.

But first we need to understand how people actually see the real world around them. How we see it ourselves. Once we can do that, we can replicate this “way of seeing” in the way we write fictional worlds too. This is how we suspend disbelief.

Think about it: we’re myopic creatures. Our brains are short-sighted. While we’re capable of big ideas and long-term thinking, it’s the small thoughts and short-term matters that make up the vast majority of our lives.

We think of the world as a vast endless place. But in reality, it’s six feet across. The few feet around ourself. In reality, life is lived one moment at a time.

Our real world exists at arm’s length. It’s made up of what we can taste and feel, then reach, then smell, then hear, then see. Maybe a sixth sense too, if our tangible world gets too boring. Each sense detects the world a little further, but everything extends and returns to the centre. Our higher brain, then our primal brain, but most of all our gut feelings. We are, first and foremost, an elaborate digestive system in search of food. That’s the primary reason that we sense the world around us. Our world is whatever’s within reach – and whether we can eat or drink it to stay alive.

But how does this relate to storytelling? Well, the real world, the world within reach, also possesses a pervading sense of the mundane. Most of the things around us don’t shock or excite us. We aren’t thrilled by the novelty of a pen we’ve owned for years. We can use this mundane quality to make our fictional worlds feel real as well, and relax our readers into strange places that are still somehow familiar. We can weave in the boring and everyday with the spectacular, to strengthen that spell. A fantastical world, but one we can relate to through its sights, sounds, smells, and objects. We add clutter.

Most of the time, we don’t see the world as a vast landscape. It’s one room, then another, then maybe a wide open space. While we’re entirely capable of big ideas and huge achievements, most of the time we’re living from task to task. Chore to chore, and person to person. And, crucially, from object to object.

We don’t just “cook dinner”. That’s the wider process. In reality, we wash vegetables. We use a knife. We turn the gas on, and boil it up, and stare out the window, and wonder about our life for a while. Maybe see a small dead fly on the sill or something. Then the dust on the frame. Then decide the window’s due for a clean. Grumble at the ads on the radio. Wonder why gas flames are blue. Hope the meal’s going to taste alright when it’s done. Use a pinch of salt, or a spoon.

The point is, we move through a world of fragmented thoughts and objects. Life’s a constant string of microscopic events. A smell, a sound, a thought. One after one after one. It’s only by building up these tiny events over time that we have what we think of as “life” or “the world”. It’s not one monolithic entity, a single slab of stone, but layers and layers of experiential sediment. To make our stories feel more real, we can use words to build up this sensory sediment of its own.

The more you can focus a reader’s attention, the more you’ll suspend their disbelief. To build a convincing world, try to clutter it up with tons of tiny things that the reader, through the character, can interact with. A tool, or a passing bug; maybe an ornament over a fireplace. A cough, a scratch, a sneeze while someone’s talking. The feel of itchy robes. Tons and tons of tiny things.

Building a world isn’t just about vast landscapes. Paint the trees or buildings in the middle ground too. Make them feel real with cracks and weeds, as if we could walk up and touch them, and bring all that huge world into short focus too. The stuff we know, and see, and could touch up-close.

Our minds are hungry, and they came into your story to eat. Lay out the whole fantasy banquet, but also give us the reward of that first bite. Lay out the wider meal, then zoom us in on the main platter. Cut us a slice. Tell us about the slight steam on that glazed roasted meat. The homely smell of it, warm and welcoming while the snow falls outside. Tell us how it’s dripping with a rich gleaming sauce. Give our senses the payoff, for paying attention to your words.

As writers it’s our job to present meaning through story. That’s why people read, because it’s also why people think. But let’s not beat our readers over the head with just the big ideas; the big meanings. Present the huge landscapes in passing, then give people a closer look. Present the whole banquet of meanings, then give them a small single taste.

Walk with them slowly, right up close to the whole vast painting, and point out just one cherry in a bowl. That’s when we switch on their senses.

That’s when the fiction feels real.


I’ve been trying to achieve this with my own science fiction. If you need a new read, try it out here. Let me know if I’ve managed to do this, with the clutter in my stories – or what I should do to improve.


Creativity can be a big concept. So big, in fact, that maybe it defies exact rules and definition.

But making a living from our creativity means conducting business. And business relies on rules and definition. Boiling it all down to black and white; yes or no. Will it sell. If you don’t create what people like, you don’t eat.

If we want a viable career from our creative endeavours, then we really have to find a way to make business and creativity fit together. Square pegs in round holes, etc. etc. You get me.

As I learn more about self-employment, mainly via books and YouTube, I’m starting to see recurring themes. Authors, rock stars, economists, entrepreneurs and creative success stories are all very honest about their thoughts and processes, and the obsessive passion for what they do is always the engine of their achievements. (See: Dave Grohl.) But there’s something more than that.

It’s this ability they share, a cultivated confidence and experience, that allows them to deal in fundamental principles. The basics, at work behind the scenes of business and success. But these fundamentals aren’t anything mind-blowing. If anything, it’s more like a minefield of clichés.

Do what you love. Work every hour. Work harder than everyone else. Practise. Put in your ten thousand hours. Get out there. First impressions count. A business exists to make money. You need to make more than you spend. Nothing sells like sales. Keep things simpleIf you don’t ask, you don’t get.

There’s no rocket science here – or is there? Even rocket science relies on first principles, (that which is basic, foundational or self-evident) to build upon first. You don’t get people into space without first acknowledging the law of gravity. Those poor people won’t last long up there if you don’t first recognise that we need air, water, food and warmth, before achieving incredible things like science experiments in zero gravity.

Whether in business, creativity or indeed rocket science, beneath all the expertise and complexity is a much more basic foundation. Our tendency to overthink everything and turn our backs on the mainstream, maaaan, would probably explain our lack of success in the creative business. It’s good to feel like the outsiders, of course… but people die in the wilderness. There’s a balance.

Success seems to rely on the ability to keep these basic truths in mind, as often as possible. And, crucially, the confidence to act on them in the world of business. But we overthink everything – and the basics get lost in the noise.

If you’ve ever wondered how some people get so inexplicably far ahead in life, then wonder no more. Maybe they’re just rich, or loud, or like, really really good looking. And yes, they seem to get everything just handed to them. It’s their unfailing ability to keep things exceedingly simple.

And/or, maybe they work their arses off, every day, to be extremely good at the things people like. Whatever people might call them, they’re not lazy.

I realise that this entire post has been stating the bloody obvious. But the obvious is often ignored, especially if we’re preoccupied with creativity.

But things really aren’t as complicated as we’d often like to think. As creative people, just trying to make a sale so we can eat, we have a tendency to reinvent the wheel. Produce art so fresh and edgy and out there, that no one actually wants to buy it.

Meanwhile, success stories just learn the rules of the game, and play it. Maybe we ignore the simple stuff, the fundamentals, at our professional peril.

Now buy my book, right here. Everyone’s reading it, so don’t miss out. Grab your copy today. Yours to own on Kindle. Tell your family, tell your friends. Yours to own right now. E-everyone’s er, talking about it. Yeah. It’s like, super hot right now. It’s lit, and it’s lit. Etc.

…I must wash now.

Why introverts should work for themselves

It’s not that you dislike people.

You’re just… more cool with there being less of them around you, right this second. It drains your energy fast, and you need to be alone to recharge.

All that noise, and talking, and distraction… how’s a hopelessly withdrawn creative ever supposed to get any work done? Especially if you just want to work all day, every day, on your creative addiction projects?

People are talking to you, asking things of you, and constantly breaking off your strings of ideas when you’re in total creative flow, and you’re in absolute bliss and nothing else matters in the universe. People keep snapping you out of it, for something that’s totally not the most important thing in the universe.

When, for a minute, you’d built your entire world around what you were creating right now, and some distraction shatters that world… it’s painful. It really is mentally painful. Like starting a fire, finally… only for the wind to keep blowing it out. Or growing a flower, to see it trodden on. Best of all, no one gets just how maddening that is for you. Well, it’s only a fire. Just make another.

So, you do. And you know what’ll happen again when you try.

Sometimes you have to stop yourself screaming in frustration. And one day, maybe a thought occurs. Maybe you’ve thought it every day of your life.

There has to be another way. Something easier than this.

Your body’s telling you something. You need to work for yourself, in your own space, on your own projects. It’s the only thing that’ll stop you going insane.

Thankfully, now, we have the interwebs. You can do any kind of work you want to do. So make a plan, and go and do it. Even working towards it, while everyone else is asleep, could relieve that tense knotted mass that’s been building up inside you. It’s the only thing that’ll start to unravel it, and let you breathe.

Seriously: work for yourself. Make it work, somehow. You’ll have a happier life.

I mean, it’s not like you want to be completely isolated. Just… mostly isolated. You really, truly enjoy people’s company, in short bursts. Usually one-on-one, or in very small groups. Think of all the abstract ideas you could unpack and dissect together. Together you could put the world to rights, just like you always do when the conversation’s really going places.

And then… hole back up in your studio. Go back to your work. Your own work, that matters to you more than anything else.

See, I know exactly what kind of words you really like. Studio. Coffee. Solitude. Beach. Long walk. Idea board. Scraps. Admit it: you’re an introvert. A creative. So be that. Full-time.

Whatever it takes to get your ideas off the ground and earn a living for yourself, go and do that thing. Do it right this second, and make a plan, and keep at it every hour that you’re not at work. Take it from me, that it’s worth it. For creatives like you and me, it’s like getting up there to the pearly gates.

You’re the kind to work hard no matter what. At least make it the kind of work that’ll give you an enjoyable life. You deserve that as much as anyone else – so be good to yourself.

Now. Work out how much money you need to make for a year off, and make it. And repeat. Whatever it takes to buy back your time, and spend it on your own creations.

Do it.

How to business

No one cares about your personal journey.

People are indifferent to the company vision. They don’t give a flaming heck about the brand story. We’re people too, and we care about contrived corporate mission statements as much as anyone else.

Most people don’t care how a tech brand started, or how the gadgetry works inside. They just want a phone. It makes life better. Faster, and prettier. Maybe it makes their jobs and lives easier. It just delivers results that people like.

Be in the business of pleasing people. Not with smiles and platitudes, but by producing the things they like. They’ll buy those things, just like you do. You pay for things you like. Things that mean something to you; that please you.

Stop telling people how great you are, and let your customers speak for you. Be useful. Deliver more value than people can handle. Be of service to them.

So that’s the customer taken care of, and the customer is always right. What do you get out of it? You get the C word. You get cash.

Cash is this giant dirty secret. People pretend that they’re never really out to make it. Like it shouldn’t be talked about in polite conversation, and that money isn’t our breath and lifeblood, and what makes the world go round.

But I’m a writer, of course. I work in the arts, and such talk should be beneath me. Well, I like to not starve. I like a home to live in. I like to grow my business, to write more books, to make readers happy and grow my business some more. There’s no special funding, and I don’t deal in hope. I make money.

When I got my first job, in a supermarket, they asked us new recruits why we wanted it. Other people said they wanted to be on board and that they were people people, and that they just wanted to make a difference and help. I said I wanted the money. The interviewers were horrified, and I still got the job. I worked hard and treated every customer like a five-star guest, but I never wanted to stay in that job. I wanted to write stories. I wanted people to really enjoy what I wrote, so much so that I could do it full-time.

I wanted to go into business, and Kindle arrived at the perfect time. It took a few years of trial and error, but it happened. I don’t know exactly how a Kindle works; I just know that I enjoy using it. It’s a tool for my education, and my entertainment. It’s how I published myself and make a living.

No one cares about the corporate vision. A business earns cash, or it doesn’t. It produces things that people like and need, or it doesn’t.

The next time you take a job interview, or if you go into business for yourself, just cut straight through all the questions to what actually counts. Does this business serve people, and give them good results? Does it make more cash than it spends? How could you really improve things, for your customers and for your growth?

Maybe you don’t get the job. That’ll tell you the job was a waste of your time. If money and sales are dirty words to them, they’re allergic to running a business. That job was a waste of your time.

If that seems aggressive or shallow, there’s an issue in facing the truth. A business makes money. That’s what it’s there to do. Customers buy what they like or need, and that’s why they come to your door. It’s not ugly; it’s a transaction. The same way you pay for things yourself. Does it hurt your own feelings, to know that the people you buy from want your money for themselves? Do you think they hoard it, and don’t spend it on what they need too?

If a business isn’t growing, it isn’t making enough money. If it isn’t making money, it’s not giving paying customers what they really want.

You don’t need to choose between passion and profit. You can choose both. Love what you do, love the art and the craft of it, and make a livelihood from the money that the market deems your efforts to be worth.


If you’re looking for a new read on that Kindle, or on your shiny new phone, click here and try a free sample of my sci-fi action books in the Amazon store. 

Debunking writer’s block

Ah, humans. We can complicate simple things to the point of insanity. Being crazy talking monkeys with obscenely large brains, maybe that’s kind of our thing.

But maybe writer’s block isn’t a thing. Maybe it’s just a lack of ideas going in. Perhaps our monkey minds are just hungry for art and new things.

I don’t like to believe in the idea of writer’s block, because it feels like an indulgent myth. When my livelihood depends on writing every day, and writing the best stuff I can, being the boy who cried “writer’s block!” seems like a luxury I can’t afford.

Don’t get me wrong – sometimes it’s a struggle. Fresh ideas and frantic typing aren’t always forthcoming. But maybe we’re missing out a bit of key thinking around the whole topic of creative block: the idea of the simple machine.

We’re probably all familiar with the basic concept of a machine. It’s input, process, output. Familiar in the realms of computing, tech and production lines, but maybe less applicable in the creative world. Or is it?

We could think of our bodies as the Soft Machine. We need all manner of fuels, inputs, nutrients and lubricants to keep us thinking, talking and moving around. All those processes we’re going through, constantly: respiration, digestion, metabolism, thought. It’s the same principle: input, process, output. Calories, respiration, life. Can’t we think of our creative mind in the same way?

The brain obeys this machine principle, and the mind is a process of the brain. As well as food and water, the brain needs information to keep us alive – like learning that if you walk off that cliff over there, you may end up slightly dead. Part of the brain’s many processes takes in novel experiences and valuable lessons, to build up our experience of the environment we need to survive in. To live an enjoyable life.

In terms of evolution, we’ve never had the speed and strength of the big cats, or spines or venom to keep us from being eaten. We’ve never had claws, fangs, camouflage or safety in vast herds. But what we do have is the greatest bio-software in existence. The brain’s squishy computer is our natural defence.

Our mind, our imagination, has so much massive processing power that we can simulate deadly situations and avoid them. We developed better outcomes for the tribe, by avoiding a dangerous territory or shaping a certain tool. And we passed that knowledge on, over thousands of years. Building and refining that knowledge constantly. Until, finally, we now live in comfortable multi-caves of our own making. There’s farmed food handy, in a storing-box that makes its own ice. There’s hot running water and wired lightning in the walls. Wheels and engines, and horseless carts. There’s a mystic web of runes and pictures, the whole damn history of our shared human experience, collected from the world and beamed right into this screen you’re reading. It’s magic; it’s better than magic. All a wizard can do is taser you with a stick.

Everything we’ve imagined and achieved has relied on prior information. Some kind of input for our brain to process and improve on, and produce a better output on the other side. Put simply, our brains are improvement machines. Improving is what humans do.

In some roundabout way, and ironically proving the point about human complication that I started with, the idea I’m getting at is this: our minds can’t produce fresh improved output without the input first. If there’s no ideas going into that mind machine to process, then we don’t have any output either. Without enough fuel going in to that creative engine in your head, your creative output might just be running on the last fumes. Stretch out that scenario over hours, days, weeks and months, and what we get is the myth of writer’s block.

Maybe it’s not a blockage, but an empty pipe. A creative fuel tank that we haven’t filled up with fresh ideas in weeks.

We aren’t tortured artists. We’re imagination monkeys. And we’re hungry.

So try some unknown fuels and flavours. New music, and unfamiliar experiences; untraveled locations and fresh ways of producing art. If you’ve never trawled the online galleries of digital artists, take a look at them. If you’d never thought to write fiction to the sound of film scores, give it a try. There aren’t any limitations or conventions any more. No one’s stopping you from taking any hybrid mix of input or inspiration you like. Try a new show, or a graphic novel. Try a videogame. Or just get drunk and dance to a hardcore medieval party mix, if it helps put you in that high-fantasy frame of mind. All just new ideas.

This is the greatest time in human history for creative people to take it all in and produce fresh, exciting new art. To claim a flimsy excuse like “writer’s block”, amid a whole damn world that’s bursting with ideas like never before, just seems like a terrible waste of great talent.

How about we move past the writer’s block myth, and just feed our starving minds with all the fresh creative calories they can take?


If you like these kinds of ideas, maybe you’ll like my Kindle ebooks too. Sci-fi, fantasy, gothicness and horror. They’re cheap n’ meaty, and I’m working on more.

“Just believe in yourself.”

….Come on.

Let’s not keep crippling our ambitions with that kind of magical thinking.

It takes no work whatsoever to just believe in ourselves. It’s lazy. It’s a feel-good shortcut around the fact that we’re terrible at something. And guess what? We’ll always be terrible at it, unless we face the truth and practise.

Forget you ever heard the words “just believe in yourself”. If you want to make anything of yourself, you need to work harder. You need to impress people with the concrete results you can produce. You need commitment, discipline and rigorous practise in your chosen trade. You need to know your tools.

We also need the right attitude. People won’t buy your books just because you’ve written them. Those books need to be competently written. They need to inform, or entertain, or both. You need basic ability with spelling, grammar and good pace. None of which will be perfect in your first few books.

No one knows this stuff instinctively – it takes repetition and a great deal of learning from your mistakes. Best of all if you can self-publish, and learn from negative reviews, and see those reviewers as teachers rather than haters.

There’s no shortage of self-belief in the world. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. But if that’s all you’ve got, don’t expect to be successful at anything. Why? Because there’s nothing easier than just believing in yourself. Who couldn’t do that? There’s no effort or sacrifice involved whatsoever. There’s no practise or rigour. There’s no commitment.

Instead of just believing in ourselves, and waiting for the world to finally recognise our innate genius (and we’d be waiting a long time for something like that)… No. Just no. We need to stop telling ourselves that shit.

Stop telling yourself things. Ask questions of yourself instead. Was that the best I could do? What do readers want? Why should people pay their hard-earned money for my writing? What makes a bestseller sell? Since people absolutely judge books by their covers, because we’re all busy people and that’s what book covers are for… how can I make my book cover less shitty?

None of this happens right away. It’s a gradual process, and it happens on the job. I’m not right, or wise, or an expert, but I know more now than I did. If you want to be a full-time writer, you need to write full-time. Maybe around a day job too, because life’s hard and sometimes it sucks. (Take a job as a writer. That way you’re getting paid to practise all day.)

But when it all pays off, and you learn stuff, and you can watch your readers enjoy your writing and see your writing improve each time… and maybe even start to build your own business with it… there’s no better feeling in the world.

Stop believing in yourself, and I will too. Let’s admit that we suck at writing, and don’t know anything, and just work hard to improve.


Dealing with fear

Fear paralyses. The solution is certainty. You focus instead on what you know already – and expand your knowledge from there.

We all get nervous sometimes. Life throws big decisions at you, and there’s often no way around them. Just through.

Maybe you’re itching to quit the rat race, and tap into that well of creative energy that’s always been boiling and bubbling in the back of your mind. To make a go of it, and even forge your own creative career. But it’s a hell of a jump, to quit the safety of that day job. How do you even know you’ll succeed?

That’s where you develop your convictions. Yes, it’s a big leap to quit your day job and be a full-time creator. But it doesn’t need to be scary. Not if you’ve done some prior homework, and you’re already certain.

Certainty is worth more than gold. There’s a lot going on in this world, and there’s an awful lot of things we’re unsure of. No one has all the answers. But the ones with an answer, of any kind, are often the ones who get ahead.

Certainty, confidence, experience… it’s all pretty much the same thing. The more you know, the more certain you can be. And for certain people, life has a strange tendency to get out of the way. You just have to know a little more.

It’s like building up a mental toolkit, and keeping those tools clean, sharp and up to date. You develop certain skills and approaches. You keep a close eye on your industry. You have the right information to hand, like a tool, to handle what comes your way. It’s as simple as knowing more.

Take the study of business, for example. Watch enough speakers, gurus, experts and millionaires and you’ll find that the same patterns emerge: that while education punishes us for failing, it can be a badge of honour in the entrepreneurial world. It’s a valuable lesson, priceless experience, and often the springboard to try another venture and get it right. Since no one has a crystal ball, failure is kind of just there anyway.

It’s ok to fail – as long as you learn from it and try another way.

We may delegate our woes to the experts; to the ones who know. Or at least, the ones who appear to know. But qualifications aren’t a guarantee. Experience counts for far more. Are we judging these experts on their results, and the hours they’ve put in to getting them? Or do we believe them because they tell us to?

There are no sacred experts any more. Anyone can be an expert in anything. In our age of information, you could know more about the car you’re buying than the salesman trying to sell it. You could know more about his sales techniques than he does – and watch him using them too. You could know exactly what makes you want that car, and exactly what it’ll take to make you buy it. You could be the most certain person in that dealership… and you could walk away. Maybe you know you could buy it cheaper elsewhere. Maybe you don’t need the car at all. The point is, either way, you’re certain.

It’s the same if you want to make that jump into self-employment. You realise that some people know a lot, and you learn from them. But no one has all the answers, and there’s nothing to stop you knowing as much as anyone else.

There’s a fine line between confidence and ego, but it’s a very solid line too: it’s objective fact. Does your self-employment make enough money for you to live on? Do you sell your works for what they’re worth? Do you have the social proof (reviews, customer feedback) to demonstrate your ability, and point out where you need to improve? Subjective opinion and artistic passions aside, the numbers don’t lie – your work either sells in the marketplace, or it doesn’t.

If you commit to learning everything there is to learn about your art form, and the business, and (crucially) how to make that sale to support yourself, then there’s nothing to stop you from making the leap to self-employment.

To deal with fear, educate yourself. Strive to know more than the average bear. Get certain.

Now buy my books.

“I want to write books too.”

“That’s great!” I’d reply eagerly, once upon a time. Now, my response is an eyelid twitch. A grind of the teeth, and a thought:

Please tell me what I’m supposed to do with your statement. Please tell me what to tell you, to make this conversation end. My imaginary friends need me.

One does not simply want books into existence. There’s a long part in the middle, with tapping sounds. And coffee, and sighs. And rage. At stupid o’clock in the morning, through to headache o’clock at night. And repeat.

Writers aren’t special. They’re not tortured artists, and they’re not some ethereal class of people doing the work of the gods. We’re a keyboard peripheral, made of bones and tendons and squishy staring brains. We’re strange and often alone, and may well tick the boxes on the crazy test. But we work. We read, watch, listen, learn. Until we can never really switch off.

I want to write books too, or the closely related I really want to be an author, are fantastic aspirations. But if that’s all you’ve got in that bag of ambitions, expect people to get real tired, real quick.

An aspiring painter can want to beat the sistine chapel. The working painters of the world won’t fall prostrate before them, and wonder starry-eyed at their grand ambitions. That painter learns the sistine chapel in detail, and works.

Wanting things to happen is bullshit. We get to work like everyone else, or we don’t eat. If we don’t have the time, then we make time. There’s no easy way.

So here it is: the truth we should be told in college. There is no creative community. It’s pure meritocracy, and we’re largely in it alone. We’re in this for a love of the work itself, and for the fans we might attract along the way. There’s plenty of guidance out there, to encourage us and point us in the right direction. But when it comes down to it, you’re on your own. You work, and work bloody hard.

You don’t tell anyone that you want to write a book. It fools you into thinking that it’s already well underway. You keep your mouth firmly shut, and let your keyboard do the talking. You publish something crappy, and improve next time. That’s the only way it’s done.

Anyone can want to write a book. Anyone can want to do anything.

Be the one who stops talking about it, and do it.


On zen, writing and perfect sushi

At 91 years old, Jiro Ono is widely regarded as the world’s greatest sushi chef.

He owns and runs Sukiyabashi Jiro, a small and unassuming restaurant in Tokyo’s Ginza district – which serves only sushi, and seats only ten. Prospective diners wait months for a reservation, and include world leaders. The food’s simple, and the venue’s quite plain. It has three Michelin stars.

Walk-in enquirers, sometimes taken back by the prices for such simple food, aren’t given the time of day. They don’t get it.

Jiro Dreams of Sushia fascinating documentary, delves deep into the life and mentality of chef Jiro Ono. His work ethic, his lifelong constancy, and his absolute commitment to serving only perfectly cooked rice and only the most flavoursome fatty tuna from the market. Uncooked, of course. Again, this isn’t flashy food. But a vast wealth of experience, and near-impossible standards of quality, are hard at work behind the scenes.

His eldest son Yoshikazu, following in his father’s footsteps, worries that he’ll never escape his shadow – or live up to his legacy. Not a legacy of flashy food in opulent surroundings, but of perfect food in largely irrelevant surroundings. A legacy of the sheer time and pressure involved in doing one thing to the point of perfection. Colossal, monumental, singleness of purpose.

Jiro’s passion for simplicity is absolutely inspiring to me. I hope, in time, that I can learn from it and apply it to my writing. But hope and action are two very different things. I need to commit myself to intense practise, and years of it.

My early writing was eager to impress. It used big words that no one says in conversation. I cut them out; trimmed the fat. I learned that effective writing isn’t out to dazzle and peacock to its readers, but to communicate efficiently. There are no cornucopias here.

My first novel is wandering and verbose. I think one of my reviewers put it like that, and they’re right. Tabitha’s sequel, less so – I hope. And I’d like the third book to be even more refined. Clarity, brevity and simplicity are key. But still with the invented words and moments of sense-blurring transcendence that I believe the story needs.

I write, edit and proofread my books, without input from anyone but my Amazon reviewers. The self-reliance appeals, even if it does take more time. That’s how I like to work. I’m hardly Jiro Ono, and it’d be egotistical to think I’m made of the same stuff. But that path to perfection definitely appeals.

Some readers enjoy my writing, and some don’t. But every review teaches me to become a better writer – whether their opinions massage my ego, or kick it in the balls. It takes me much longer to accept criticism than praise, but both teach me valuable lessons. To write less, and say more.

When I look up long enough from my own world to think about it, I’m extremely grateful to these people. Because they buy my stories, and it’s enough for me to live on and write their stories full-time. I owe it to these people, to be better. I’ll never reach perfection, but I’ll try my hardest.

But that’s enough of the sentimentality. Let’s end with a lesson in zen. Nothing mystical; only plain-terms and normal-life. It’s a film quote from chef Jiro Ono, about his lifelong passion – but it seems to me like a beautiful meditation:

“Shokunin try to get the highest-quality fish and apply their technique to it.

We don’t care about money.
All I want to do is make better sushi.
I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top,
But no one knows where the top is.
Even at my age, I don’t think I have achieved perfection.
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love making sushi.”