What Does A Writer Actually Do?

Happy December, friends,

I have an old school friend who I bump into sometimes when I´m out walking in nature. Hebden Bridge, the small town I live in, is extremely busy at the weekends. Attempting a drink in a cafe, a bit of shopping, or even a walk in the park is unbearable. As a beautiful-looking place with a radical history of art and activism, it's always been popular, but as the setting for the hit TV series Happy Valley, it's reached bursting point. 

Needless to say, finding any peace or quiet is nearly impossible. But I have my ways - there isn't a nook or cranny I don't know in my beloved town. 

My school friend is a bit of a loner and a recluse like me. Sometimes, I bump into him and his Dalmatian at the strangest times and in the weirdest places. He's doing the same as me, trying to experience the outdoors with some privacy, away from the gossiping, beer-drinking and stench of designer perfume.

I've known him since infant school. When we were six, another child stabbed him in the right eye with a metal playdough knife. I´ll never forget the stillness which filled the classroom as he stood there bleeding with a knife sticking horizontally out of his eye. Miraculously, there was no long-term damage. We have a lot of shared history. I can´t recall having a one-on-one friendship, but we were in the same groups. We were in the same place at the same time when ´stuff ´ happened. Nowadays, life's harsh reality - so different from our childhood dreams - hovers like a phantom above as we stand facing each other in the woods.

He's not a big talker. I usually fill the gaps in silence. I update him on what I'm up to and the goings on with my siblings, whom he also knows. I'm unsure if he wants to know because I don't always get a firm response. The other day, I'm sure I saw him hide in the bushes as I approached (LOL!), but it seems unthinkable that we wouldn't stop and chat, not with our interwoven past.

Some years ago, on one of these accidental and remote meetups, I enthusiastically told him I was back at University studying Journalism. 

His dog was pulling the lead, which always fills me with a feeling of limbo. Will he respond to his dog and walk off, or what? He never has yet.

´I'm a writer´, he replied.

´Oh, right´, I said, surprised. ´I didn't realise. What sort of stuff do you write?´

´Well´, he hesitated. ´I don't actually write it out. I plan plotlines and scenes in my mind´, he said. His dog continued straining the leash.

´Right, ' I said as I looked down at my feet awkwardly.

I was confused and pondered it for days afterwards. Can you be a writer if you don't write? Dismissing his claim seemed judgemental, but I couldn't comprehend his meaning. But this didn't mean I rejected his statement entirely because, as a neurodivergent woman, I have spent much of my life ´not quite getting' what people actually mean. I wondered if there was something I was missing.

I mentioned it to my twin brother some days later. He laughed, then clarified it for me: ´Hannah, he's not a writer if he doesn't write.´

Ok, gotcha.

But it gave me pause for thought. Because the thing is, even though I was working for a national magazine as a Wellness Journalist and studying for an MA, I didn´t consider myself a writer deep down in my heart.

It was only in 2023 I claimed the title of ´Writer´. It took me decades to get here; I wrote at length about this in Don't Make Me Write.

In the past, I wrote articles, a blog and essays, but I didn't have a writing practice or even a commitment to one. I read extensively, but purely for pleasure; I didn't study other writers' work or wonder why I'd loved a book so much. I didn't understand the many moving parts which go into a piece of fine literature or even know they existed.

Perhaps my problem was that I had always been pretty good at writing. I can write coherently to express my ideas and communicate them. I enjoy pinning my racing thoughts onto the page to tame them. So, even as a brand-new journalist, I got my work published. I didn't try to be a better writer; colleagues told me, 'The more you write, the better you'll get,' and I put no more thought into it.

The most surprising thing I learned while working as a journalist, which isn't necessarily relevant here but worth mentioning, is that the words one leaves out of a reported story are the ones that shape it. Articles were manipulated by evading inconvenient truths - leaving out facts so the story aligned with a particular agenda, political or financial (sponsors, ads, etc.). So you're writing the truth, but you leave out other relevant facts, which turns the story into a lie, although not legally. I was deeply uncomfortable with this but eventually realised it was a regular part of the job. It was one reason I fell out of love with reporting.

Anyway, I digress. So, after claiming my title of Writer this year, hoping to be a successful published author one day and grow a well-read newsletter (this one!), I had to ask myself: What does a writer actually do? 

To find out, I did a lot of research, listening to authors on Instagram, reading Substacks, and listening to podcasts about the craft of writing. Arvon's How I Write Masterclasses proved to be the most valuable resource where famous authors spend an hour describing their writing practices.

It turns out most professional writers commit a significant amount of time to research, consult textbooks, study other writers' work, and commit to writing a certain amount of words each day.

So this is what I've been doing this year...

• I took courses in Memoir, Travel Writing, Nature Writing, Image-led Writing, and Environmental Writing. 

• I spent a fortune on books about writing as a craft and hungrily read them while underlining important points.

• I practised writing better sentences via Nina Schuyler's Substack. 

• I wrote almost every single day. 

• I entered writing competitions - one I won, one I didn't. 

• I employed a writing coach. 

• I joined a community of Northern writers.

• I visited various literary festivals to hear authors speak about their work.

• I spent hours and hours playing around with literary tools and devices.

I have done all of the above with excitement and passion; I would have done more if my health had been better. It's paid off: My confidence has grown, I can speak about my work with seriousness and pride, and my writing quality has drastically improved.

Just this week, I looked back at some work I published a few years ago. I was living on a tiny island off the coast of Sicily and documenting my experiences. There were some funny reflections, and the posts were interesting because there were so many quirky things to note. Still, the overall structure and the sentence arrangement left much to be desired. I'm better at this now.

This isn't to say that I don't think my work is crap sometimes; I do. Excruciating imposter syndrome still haunts me more than I'd like. Plus, I've experimented with a lot of work this year that will never see the light of day because I just haven't been able to make it work. But I don´t see this as a waste; they´re just little stop-offs along the journey.

I don`t think any title I assign myself is significant in the grand scheme of life, but I needed to claim the title of Writer to take myself seriously so that you would, too. 

I wanted to improve my skills, build my confidence, and move forward, and labelling myself as a writer facilitated this.

Whether we get paid or not, whether we´re successful or not, whether we write once a lifetime or once a day, whether we call ourselves a writer or not, we are all writers. 

I saw my school friend again on a quiet track in the woods early yesterday morning. It was frosty, and the air was still. His dog growled at me while pulling the lead. I told it to shut up - for the first time ever - and it did; then, it sat down and waited patiently by his owner's feet. We chatted. I told him I´d hoped to bump into him - it had been a while. We both smiled.

I hope you have a toasty week,

Love Hannah xoxo