Writing When the Body Sets the Pace: Fatigue, Pain, and the Art of Continuing
For writers living with chronic illness, pain, fatigue, or unpredictable capacity, the hardest part is rarely the writing itself. It’s the grief
For writers living with chronic illness, pain, fatigue, or unpredictable capacity, the hardest part is rarely the writing itself. It’s the grief
There’s a persistent myth in writing circles that truth justifies everything. It doesn’t. Saying “it really happened” doesn’t absolve you of responsibility. It just shifts the question from accuracy to impact.
Algorithms reward speed, consistency, recognisable hooks, and emotional immediacy. Contemporary and general fiction — at their best — tend to do the opposite. They linger. They complicate. They ask readers to stay with discomfort instead of scrolling past it. This is where many writers start bending themselves out of shape.
When spelling, grammar, sentence order, handwriting or word choice become the hardest part of the process, many writers reach the same conclusion: I’m just not good at this. But that conclusion is built on a false premise.
The first five years of a fiction career are rarely glamorous. So let’s simplify this. Not into rigid rules, but into useful focus. If I were sitting across the table from you with a notebook and a flat white, this is what I’d suggest you prioritise — in roughly this order.
Editors don’t expect perfection. They expect intent. Understanding that difference can change how confidently you send your work out into the world.
Illustrating your book is not a test you can fail. It’s a collaboration — and like any good collaboration, it works best when everyone understands their role. But before tools, briefs and budgets — it helps to understand what illustrations do in a book, and what they don’t.
If reading your work aloud makes you freeze, dissociate, stumble so badly you can’t hear the sentence and/or feel self-conscious instead of analytical, you’re not broken. You’re just wired differently. There are other ways to do it— ways that respect neurodivergent (ND) brains.
Creative confidence isn’t a fixed trait. It’s relational. It exists between you and the work, between repetition and recognition. When that relationship pauses, confidence doesn’t disappear — it just stops being reinforced.
Most writers think doubt means something is wrong. But in practice, doubt shows up most reliably in writers who care deeply about what they’re making. The ones who are paying attention.
If you’re feeling unsure about how much direction to give an illustrator — or what you’re even allowed to ask — you’re not alone. And no, this isn’t something “everyone else just knows”. It’s a skill. One most writers are never taught. So let’s talk about it properly.
A portfolio career isn’t a sign you didn’t make it. It’s how writers stay long enough to make work that matters. Longevity is the quiet achievement no one glamorises — but it’s the one that changes everything. And if your career feels a little patchwork right now, that doesn’t mean it’s broken. It means it’s still being made.