You can’t get complacent in a writing life. I already knew that, and I don’t think I have become complacent, but recently I have relearned that fact. A few months ago I’d just submitted the first draft of my third novel, my second novel was just about to be published, my Substack subscriber count was growing rapidly - giving, most pleasingly of all, my first novel a new enthusiastic readership outside the UK - and I was feeling positive about the prospect of a bumpy writing life finally yielding some results, three long decades in.

I don’t know of anything specific I’ve done wrong since then: I’ve continued to write, albeit at a marginally less frantic pace, and worked harder than ever on an edit of the novel, which I hope might be my best. But the rest has been quite humbling. My publishers appear to be going through some difficulties and still haven’t paid me money that was owed six months ago, and whether they’re going to be able to pay me due royalties next month for the other six books I’ve published with them is currently in doubt. I go into bookshops and often can’t find my second novel in there, it was wholly ignored by UK legacy media, and it’s become apparent to me that many people who enjoyed my first don’t realise it even exists. I wait for a call from my agent giving me good news, and it doesn’t come, as it once regularly did. Meanwhile, I’ve lost more than two dozen paid subscribers on Substack and my general growth here has pretty much ground to a halt (which I realise is just part of the ebb and flow of a site where there is too much to read, but on bad days somehow serves to punctuate my financial concerns regarding my books). I feel exhausted promoting my work in an effort to compensate for the lack of conventional marketing heft behind it. I don’t want to ask people to buy my books any more; I just want to write. Being a one man band takes its toll, but even more so when you are not being remunerated for your effort. I know I’m doing the best writing of my life, but the future - the future of publishing books in general - scares me. I am extraordinarily glad for Substack right now because it means I do not have to worry about keeping a roof over my head - not this winter, anyway.

Overall, I tend to just come back to the realisation that I’m extremely fortunate to be able to earn my living this way at all, especially as a person without generational wealth behind him, coming from the area and cultural background that I do. I realise this will pass, and it’s probably just a turning point - perhaps, ultimately, a positive one. The times it hurts most are when I see extremely clearly that by choosing a more independent path, by separating myself from the media, by working harder to write better books than I once did, I’ve made my life more stressful. There is absolutely no doubt that, nine years ago, when I chose a more stubborn path, it would have been better for my health to have compromised, if not for my soul. What I see too often is that the world wants me to be a lazier, louder, better-connected writer. Social media, meanwhile, of course, feels like a machine constructed to remind you (falsely) that you’re not doing as well as everyone else, and that goes for authors especially, some days. I often despair, seeing the discord between the flattering, passionate reader feedback I get and my Amazon sales rankings and the literary world’s general indifference to what I do. But those thoughts lead nowhere good or productive. Oddly, what I in fact realise is that a more positive way to look at it is this:

What I have written is simply not good enough.

I need to be better. I need to learn more, write more.

Because there is always a way to be better.

I am still (just) in my 40s: barely adolescence in literary terms.

Maybe what I thought was lunch, or afternoon tea, was in truth just elevenses.

Then, when I’ve realised that, I get excited about what I’m going to do next.

I just have to trust I will find a way to do get it out there, somehow.