i am *still* trying to be a real writer

(july writing habits, feat. online safety and internet weirdos)

I’m an over sharer, an anxious mess, an ex publishing professional, a screenwriter, short story writer, personal essayist and a novelist (The Lamb & more soon).

This is where I come to pass and receive nervous notes and be transparent about my writing and my wobbles. It’s part diary, part scrap book, but mostly a collection of extremely nervous notes scribbled down.

I don’t have a paywall (bar one handwritten letter I write to paid subscribers every year), but if you’d like to support me, there’s a paid subscription option with a couple of small perks.

Trigger warning for feeling perceived and potentially my most honest/raw diary entry yet.

On the last day of June, I finished a draft of my next book and sobbed over my laptop because writing it has been the most difficult thing I’ve done in my career yet. It’s a piece of work that’s taken me to some dark places and made me see the world differently. It’s made me pick at scabs that weren’t yet healed over (big up my therapist for helping me work through my trauma history and my writing career). It’s sometimes made me anxious that no one will care about this strange little book because of some of the weird things that happen in it. And of course, I’ve done all this, for the first time, with an audience now my debut novel is published.

It’s an audience and readership who have loved and hated and middled my novel. Most people are very normal about those opinions, written their reviews online and engaged in good faith debate - and btw, it’s vital in a post-media literacy society that good faith debates about our writing take place so people can analyse and be curious and ask questions about the world. But, on the day I handed over an early 2025 draft of my second book, only a few week or so after my first book published, one person sent me an endless ream of straight jacket pictures because they despised my work and wanted to freak me out. Another person, a few months later, sent me a long rambled message about how overrated I am (lots of colourful descriptions in there too to boot - I think they fancied themselves a writer). Another person this month, just after sending my latest draft to my editor, sent me a weirdly intimate instant message to tell me I would be a better writer if I didn’t untag myself from their hate review and that her criticisms specifically would help me grow as a person. And a few months ago, when I noticeably took a step back from social media, someone had figured out what flat and street I live on and let me know via my DMs (and not in a cute way) because of something completely silly I’d posted about going to a local cafe. Most of these occasions happened while I was still working as an assistant full time, so I didn’t even really feel like a proper writer, but the reality was, even though I was still hustling a 9-5, I wasn’t writing in isolation anymore. I was part of the capitalist machine (Argh hellscape). I was visible.

This is exposing: all these strangers with instant access to a one on one conversation me 24/7. All these voices sliding into my DMs (the same place I exchange silly reels and pet photos with my closest friends). All these opinions (with straight jacket attachments and more). Over the wall of noise, I sometimes can’t hear my own voice anymore.

People often cite writing your second published novel as one of the most difficult books of your career and I’ve been trying to understand why that might be over July. Perhaps this month was the best month for me to reflect on this question simply because I’ve got a draft in my rear view mirror, short story writing in my immediate future and a feature horror script out on submission at the moment. It’s a sensitive time and reflective time and I’ve mostly felt like a raw open wound that won’t scab over tbh.

It dawned on me, when I was speaking to another friend who is writing what will be their second published novel and struggling with the magnitude of the task, that deep down, neither of us feel like we belong here and that nothing can prepare you for the growing pains that happen between writing your novel and the day it’s put on shelves: that is the day you stop being a person who likes to write and start being a public commodity.

So here is my July writing update:

Day one of July, I pressed send on an email to my editor; subject heading: A BOOK DELIVERY! Because the manuscript finally starting to feel like a real fucking book - plot threads are twining together after years of trying to weave everything together, character arcs are more composed, and the finer details are slotting into place. I said to myself, pressing send, there is promise of a really, really fucking good novel here - and I’ve heard if you say that three times looking upon a mirror in the dark, eventually a really good book will come to haunt your career.

The July that followed was creative. I looked for story in everything: I made cyanotypes and planned the next round of books I wanted to bind. I started writing a new short story for soon to be announced anthologies, and loved going to book events. I outlined four feature films and sent them out into the universe too. Look at that, Luce. You’re a real fucking writer. You’re doing it. Stop refreshing your social media feed for a dopamine hit and hit the desk. Write. Write until your fingers hurt.

Being a writer isn’t always Publisher’s Market Place announcements and chaining yourself to your desk, or having flashy social media moments (of which, I’ve had my fair share). It’s not even reading those messages that slide into your DMs late at night (the good ones and the bad ones) because “that means you’ve made it if people give you that sort of attention.”

Being a writer is worrying late at night and mornings with flickers of small joy between the deep bouts of clinical anxiety. It’s more failures than you let on and rejections people don’t see, always. It’s worrying you won’t live up to your last piece of writing, but simultaneously worrying the you’ll be perceived. It’s going to the shop and listening in on an argument when you know you shouldn’t - not because you’re necessarily nosy, but simply because you’re genuinely curious about human beings, their choices, the consequences of them and how they communicate with each other on this tiny rock in space. Being a writer is watching a sea gull snatch a man’s fish from his fish and chip box, and then trying not to laugh as the man then chases the sea bird down the beach, despite it soaring into the sky. Being a writer is watching an old woman cry on a park bench alone, and asking her if she’s okay. Getting anxious about climate change and trans rights and Palestine because WHY IS NO ONE DOING ANYTHING? It’s recognising when you need to recluse and go inside yourself. It’s seeing your friends, and eating cake and using your spare seconds to do meaningless but deeply human creative stuff because being a writer is not all that you are.

Being a writer is experiencing being alive with the rest of the world. We just choose to note it all down.

Outside of writing, I’ve been filling my time with:

• Hanging out with my lovely Figgy (who only slightly hates it when I try to get pictures of us together).

• Making cyanotypes. So many cyanotypes. All the cyanotypes.

• Scribbling casually.

• Playing dungeons and dragons. (Literally total party kill - horrifying).

• Staying up all night to watch England defeat Mexico in a nail biting football match. (What a fucking match by the way).

• Regretting it the next day.

• Lamenting my early youth and my ability to pull all-nighters with no consequences.

• Prepping multiple book binding projects for the summer (and finishing them because I couldn’t wait).

• Resting, sleeping, eating good food and trying to be mobile despite the long covid making it increasingly more difficult.

• Climate change impacted my period. It came late with a vengeance of pain like never before. (Note to self, put on a brave face and try to go back to the doctor about whatever the fuck is going on with your uterus).

• Reading really excellent books.

• Meeting one of my closest friends in real life (after YEARS of online connection and talking every day via WhatsApp).

• Being happy for my friend’s successes and being able to cheerlead them so they can sparkle the way they deserve.

• Actively trying to document my life more in a way that isn’t superficial (AKA for myself) by starting a diary for the first time since I was little.

• Getting a GORGEOUS Brazilian edition of my novel (see above).

• Reading poems to remind myself why I write.

• Watching football with a gorgeous friend, late at night in a hotel room.

• Searching for new inspiration.