My Writing Journey
When my flat burned down, I was lost, staring at the charred remains of my old life. I didn’t know what I was doing when I started writing, but I’d always loved reading, so I threw myself into it. I poured my heart into pages, ignoring grammar, structure, or anything else. I wrote with a fire that matched the one that took my flat, scribbling in a cramped corner of my new gaff, surrounded by notebooks and empty coffee cups. I’d write through the night, skipping sleep and meals, driven by this relentless need to get it all out. After years of partying, promoting gigs, and bending over backwards to help others succeed, I cut myself off from everyone but my family. I wasn’t lonely, though—I was consumed. Writing was my world, good, bad, or bollocks 

I pushed through those solitary years, and by the time I finished my first three books, the pandemic had swept through and faded. I emerged with a stack of pages and a hunger for more. That’s when I signed up for creative writing courses at Chelsea Theatre and St. Charles. In one class, I remember nervously reading a chapter aloud, expecting criticism, but the group clapped, and the tutor said, “You’ve got something real here.” After three of those three-month courses, I was confident, and someone suggested I apply to university. Me? University? I laughed it off, thinking there was no way, but I loved the challenge. So, I applied, half-expecting rejection. Jesus, I got in.

I needed a foundation year because I lacked formal qualifications. That year was brutal—endless essays on theory that had nothing to do with storytelling. I’d sit in the library, frustrated, muttering about “pointless academia,” but I persisted. I’m still at university three years later, eager to return after the summer break. The courses have taught me a lot—form, structure, pacing—but I often wonder if they stifle my creativity. In one workshop, a tutor tore apart my freeform piece for lacking “cohesion.” I left feeling like my raw voice was being tamed. You learn so much about craft that you start overthinking every sentence, second-guessing the wild energy that got you started. Most of my fellow students are under twenty-one, their eyes bright with rules and formulas, while I’m wrestling with how to keep my writing free.

Still, I signed up for this, and it’s been a ride. If nothing else, it’s shown me what I’m capable of. I’ve always lived for experiences—the chaos of a gig, the quiet of a sleepless writing night, the shock of a university acceptance letter. That’s what keeps me going, and no amount of academic “bullshit” (sorry, it’s the word that fits) can change that. I still struggle with keeping out the swear words, though.