2026/09: Poisonous Prestige
I’m a writer. An aspiring author, you might say.
My current project, V1-Lament, will be my debut novel. I should probably clarify; that’s a working title. A ‘shortname’. I haven’t fully decided on what the novel’s actual title will be yet. But that’s not what this blog entry is about. I’ll explain and explore ‘The Project’ another time.
This entry is about the prestige that comes with being a writer, and how it’s romanticised in a way that can be detrimental to those who dream of becoming writers.
There’s this prevailing myth of the ‘genius author’. The wise intellectual sitting at a typewriter, words flowing from their fingertips to the page as they create a masterpiece. It’s rustic and comfortable. Like a mug of hot chocolate with its marshmallow islands, a warm fireplace on a winter day, all knitted sweaters and cosy simplicity. Think of author portraits; the dignified intellectual with an open book before them, perhaps in an armchair by a fireplace or bookcase, maybe with a plush rug and a dog, quite possibly with a smoking pipe in hand or mouth. A presentation of refinement and class.
It’s a pretty picture. Aspirational.
There’s a respect and prestige that comes with being an author that isn’t there for your plumber or electrician, nor even for artists or musicians – fellow creatives.
A shame, then, that it’s a complete fiction.
I’ve encountered a fair number of people with the dream and goal of writing a novel, people who bought into the lie – that all you need is a good idea and the natural talent to bring it to life with words. Most of that number never finished their first draft, deciding they weren’t born with the ability to create a masterpiece. Of those few who saw their projects through to completion, none were pleased by the ensuing response – or lack thereof – from readers. Their dreams of writing as a career faded, their book series went unfinished, they became disillusioned.
There’s a common belief that writing ability, like intelligence, is something you’re born with.
Neither is true.
Writing is a skillset. Which is to say, creative writing is the culmination and expression of many different skills. Skills that can be learned, understood, practised, improved. All of which require time and patience and a willingness to endure struggle. The willingness to fail and keep trying anyway.
Writing isn’t an intellectual’s pursuit. Though, as with art and music, certain individuals are prone to adopting it as such, using it to flaunt how ‘cultured’ or ‘accomplished’ they are. Truth is, everyone has the capacity to write amazing works. One need not articulate oneself with the cadence of a ponderous intellectual. Ain't nothin' stoppin' you but you. All you need is the drive to grow and improve.
That’s the key ingredient – drive.
So long as you have the will to keep going, and the courage to accept failure, there is nothing stopping you from writing your magnum opus one day.
Too many hopeful, aspiring authors have been crushed by their belief in the myth of the natural-born writer, the illusion of prestige and talent. How many wonderful stories, I wonder, have been lost because dreamers had their eyes opened to the difficulties of creation? Unwritten novels, unsung songs, unpainted pictures; how many must be out there, abandoned forever because their makers felt unworthy to stand beside falsehood?
When the world is presented with this idealised image of writing as a craft, sold on the idea that successful authors are the product of innate talent, is it any wonder so many abandon their ambition to write novels at the first hurdle? At what point does the ‘prestige’ associated with writing warp it from a dream into a deterrent?
I’m under no illusions about my first novel. It’s not going to be some masterwork that’ll break through the static noise of the fiction publishing world, it won’t gain massive acclaim and launch me into the world of my dreams. But I will finish it, polish it to the best of my ability, and release it into the world. For now, that’s enough for me. If all I achieve is a handful of positive reviews, I’ll consider that a success. A masterpiece, it will not be.
And that’s okay. It’s my first novel. I’ll learn from it. I’ll improve. My second novel will be better, and the third after that.
The Project ensures I’ll have plenty of opportunities to grow and improve.
My point is this – if you want to write, write. Be okay with being bad; embrace it, even. Every mistake, every badly implemented idea, is a lesson. Provided you’re willing to accept those lessons, time is the only thing standing between you and success.
And, if I ever release a clichéd author portrait, go ahead and punch me in the face.