Ten months ago, my boss asked what I saw myself doing in 10 years’ time. When I pictured my corporate career stretching out interminably into the desolate distance, I all of a sudden remembered that this was never my plan.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d always imagined that one day I’d be a full-time author. His question made me realise that this dream wouldn’t come true by itself.

So from April 1st until Sunday, I took a sabbatical to write a novel and test whether the reality of writing full-time would live up to my expectations. Here are my top learnings from the last three months.

1. Make time for yourself

It’s so easy to forget what matter most, to get caught up in the daily rat race to the next “milestone” (whether that’s the next degree/job/promotion/marriage/baby). If you never stop to take stock, you might end up chasing the wrong things.

2. Actively seek opportunities

My sabbatical forced me out of my comfort zone. I went to an Arvon writing retreat, attended Stoke Newington Literary Festival, spoke to strangers about my novel. Things I never would have done otherwise, that have led to contacts in the industry and a renewed confidence in myself.

3. Give yourself permission to write

My sabbatical made me feel like a “real” writer. Writing had always been on the side, squeezed into spare moments, the first thing to drop when life gets hectic. It’s what I want to do, but can’t prioritise. Yet for the last three months, writing was no longer a hobby but a profession. And it made me realise: “It’s okay to want this.” I gave myself permission to take it seriously, and need to sustain that now that I’m back at work.

4. The self-doubt never goes away…

I’ve written about the expectation barrier before: how your own fears of not being good enough can crush you from succeeding. Well, the anxiety of being a writer was all the more apparent in the last 3 months. I’ve begun to wonder when, if ever, I’ll feel validated. Will it be when I finish editing the first draft and get beta reader feedback? Will it be when I get an agent? A publishing deal? Or maybe never?

5. …so cling tight to every positive thought.

Before the Arvon retreat, I never had formal feedback on my writing. I went into my tutorials fighting back a wave of nerves… and came out the other side inspired and encouraged and giddy with disbelief. But the positive feedback burned bright and fierce, then all too quickly faded in the tide of self-doubt.

So I did something that still feels stupid, but is a reminder to myself: I wrote out all the feedback I got into one place, and make myself read it to remember it was real.

6. Most of all: keep on swimming

You can’t edit a blank page, and you can’t get better without practice. However much I doubted myself, the same amount of time passed whether I sat staring at a blank screen or actually writing. So I learned to push aside the misery, and put down one word after another.

As of yesterday, I am back to the daily grind of reality. But I’m also one chapter away from finishing the first draft of my new novel, and that means one step closer to sharing it with you.

Have you ever taken time for your personal projects?

​Last week, I rediscovered an old story.

It was a piece of fanfiction I wrote over 12 years ago and had been immensely proud of, featuring a protagonist who mysteriously looked and spoke exactly like me. She even owned my favourite t-shirt!

I settled down for an excited re-read. Then I spent twenty minutes wondering what drugs convinced my younger self that this was good writing.

Eventually the realisation hit me: this story wasn’t merely good, it was brilliant.

I’ll tell you why in a minute.

As I’ve mentioned before, my own expectations have blocked my writing. I’d decided that my current project would be traditionally published. I even had an agent who wanted to look over the finished manuscript. So the pressure mounted. I missed deadline after deadline. And now it’s too late.

Ultimately I’ve lost what could have been an amazing opportunity, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Which brings me back to my terrible fanfiction, and why that cringe-worthy story is, in fact, BRILLIANT.

You see, writing is like climbing a mountain. At the very summit are your Neil Gaimans and Frank Herberts, sipping mojitos in the brilliant sunshine. I’m somewhere along the twisting, turning crags, toiling in the shadows.

My endless expectations mean I spend most of my time looking upwards. All I want is to wrap my fingers around a mojito, but the summit is distant. Unreachable. Disheartening.

That horrible fanfiction made me stop and realise how much I’ve already accomplished.

The pressure of my own expectations can also be a force for good. It pushes me to improve. I might not be sipping mojitos any time soon, but I’m a damn sight closer than I was 12 years ago.

This experience has taught me that I might never be as good as I want to be — and I have to be okay with that.

So I’m faced with a choice:

• Keep writing stuff I’m not 100% happy with, and in another 12 years have even more stories to shudder over.

• Write nothing at all, and let the mountain defeat me.

It’s a non-choice, really.

Maybe I’ll never be the next Neil Gaiman. But if I keep writing, there’s a 0.01% chance that I’ll find myself sipping mojitos on that mountaintop.

And who doesn’t like a good mojito?

In elementary, I played the piano.

I loved it. The sound of each note, the click clack of the keys beneath my fingers. My feet could barely touch the pedals. I would listen to music and ache with an intense hunger to know how to make something so beautiful. But I dreaded recitals, performances.

In middle school, I started horse riding.

I grew to love the smell of leather, the tack room, the soft velvet of a horse’s nose. The freedom I felt when riding, how my stresses were trampled away under thundering hooves. But my riding instructor wanted me to compete, said there was no point riding otherwise.

In high school, I did cross country.

This time, I knew it was a competitive sport. I knew that the goal was to run fast, to win the race. But once again, I didn’t see it in that way. I loved the harmony of my limbs moving together, the adrenaline spike after a long run. I hated the timers, the metrics, the comparisons.

Today, I don’t play piano, I don’t ride, and I certainly don’t run.

Today, I write fiction.

I love the adrenaline rush of a new idea, of new characters unfolding. I love the freedom, how it burns away my stress. I love writing those climactic scenes that make your heart ache.

Writing gives me everything my previous hobbies gave me, and more. It’s the ONE. It matters.

Yet… I stopped writing recently.

Why?

Last month I talked about the lies I told myself: that I didn’t have time to write. I realise now that it’s my responsibility to change the status quo, and part of that will involve holding myself accountable.

Thinking back, I fell out of love with the piano, riding and running once they became competitions. Once I became good enough that either those around me — or I myself — began to expect more. Once I realised that I wasn’t as good as I wanted to be. That I might never be as good as I wanted to be.

Every time I’ve set myself targets (x number of words per day, finish the novel by this date, etc) — I’ve hit a wall, and failed.

And now that I’ve been struggling to write, I wonder: have I hit this same wall? The barrier of my own expectations, the pressure to win?

Perhaps.

So I’m going to start small, and promise myself one thing: Tuesday night is writing night. It doesn’t matter how many words I write, or which project I work on.

I’m not here to win anything; I’m here to rediscover why I love writing.

Because, after all, writing is THE ONE.