Confessions of a Writer

I’m not a Roman Catholic, but I sometimes feel that being a writer is a bit like going to confession. You sit in a small booth on your own and reveal intimate things about yourself to a stranger, who is sitting unseen on the other side of a partition. You’ve no idea if the person is listening to you, has fallen asleep or maybe even slipped off to the vestry to put the kettle on. But you have to carry on regardless. Unlike actors, musicians or stand-up comedians we rarely get to see our public and have little idea of who they are or what their reaction to our stuff might be.

It works both ways. Just as we don’t know our readers, you largely don’t know us. In the flesh, that is. Most writers are not physically famous, unless they are JK Rowling or Salman Rushdie (and in their cases they’re not necessarily keen on being recognised in public). But as for the rest of us, we’re anonymous. We might occasionally get introduced to someone at a party who has heard of us and maybe even likes our work. But for the most part we can walk down the street without people hassling us for selfies.