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.
There’s a particular kind of tension that settles into a room when someone brings up AI. You can feel the fear. Yet here’s the reality check: People aren’t actually terrified of AI. They’re terrified of what it represents.
. Publishing a book is one of the most vulnerable things you will ever do. And launching that book — standing there smiling while strangers judge the thing you built from your insides — is a special kind of emotional chaos. Every author feels it. Almost no one talks about it.
We start out believing writing is a solo act. A conversation between ourselves and the page. And in the beginning, it is. But once our words leave our hands — whether they end up in a blog, a novel, a public reading, a stage, or a newsletter — the work becomes relational. That’s where responsibility begins.
The “starving artist” is not a badge of honour — it’s a harmful story that keeps creatives small, silent, and scared to ask for fair pay. To the editor who says, “Real writers don’t do it for money”: No — real writers pay rent. To the gallery rep who says, “We only work with raw, hungry talent”: That’s exploitation, not discovery. To the voice in your head whispering, “Am I allowed to want more?”: Yes. You are. You don’t have to suffer to matter. You can create, earn, and live well. Let’s bury the myth!
The more attention we give to reading and sharing local stories, the more we can foster a culture of authenticity and appreciation. If we can shift our focus from sensationalised, clickbait-driven media to the stories happening all around us, we’ll strengthen the fabric of our local communities.
If you’re writing about real people, you’re walking a tightrope over a pit of snakes — legal, emotional, and reputational. The trick is to use a safety net made of ethics, due diligence, and clear boundaries.
Because at the end of the day, protecting them is also protecting you. And if you do it right, you can tell the story with integrity and sleep at night.
Yes, the industry has shifted. Yes, some outlets pay less than they used to — or nothing at all. But plenty still pay well. The difference? The writers who get those jobs are the ones who treat writing like a business, not a pity party.
Writing hard things with integrity isn’t about confession. It’s about connection. It’s not about shock or revenge or trauma-for-clicks. It’s about shining a light into places that often get left dark. Whether you’re writing personal essays, memoirs, literary fiction with teeth or a raw blog post about what actually happened behind the scenes… there’s a way to do it that’s honest, not harmful. True, not brutal. Clear, not exploitative.
The romanticised version of writing — the one where words flow effortlessly and everything feels meaningful — leaves a lot of people out. It forgets the writers who are caregiving between edits. The ones holding down three jobs to afford time for their manuscript. The ones burnt out from writing for clients all day and then trying to squeeze in an hour for their novel at night.
