Tthe entirety of my tertiary education has been given over to the pursuit of writing. Or, to be more specific, to the betterment of my craft. Six years, two degrees, and many lessons, not all of them from the classroom.

In this time, I have not only learned how to hone my own craft, from practice, reading, and the observation of others, but also have encountered and seen some of the challenges that writers face, particularly those early on the path.

It may sound arrogant to say it, but I have always known I was good at writing in comparison to my peers. Strong self-belief is often characterised as such. As a child, I knew I was better than those in my class. As a teenager, I knew the same again. And as a young adult, this confidence and lack of doubt in myself set me up for a unique experience in higher education. I encountered many who doubted themselves, many who were preyed upon by imposter syndrome, and many who felt so in awe of our tutors that it stymied their own work. I found watching their experiences astonishing – their thought paths ones that had never occurred to me. I enjoyed what I did, I knew I did it well, I knew I had more to learn, why care for the opinions of others?

This strong sense of self belief, coupled with a deep-seated knowledge that writing is what I am meant to do, and will do regardless of any obstacle, has carried me through many of the classic assaults that aspiring authors face. I am lucky to have the whole-hearted support of my family, which many do not, and I also recognise that writing, in many ways, like most of the arts, is still something that can be the preserve of the financially stable. Previously, of course, there were a few options. You were independently wealthy, and therefore had the leisure to engage in something as frivolous as the arts. You were poor, but had a wealthy benefactor. Or you died destitute, with fame and recognition only coming after your time.

This is, of course, a simplification. But I believe it is one that still has some applicability today. The arts are not an area that it is easy to make a living from. There are some countries, such as France, where artists are paid a living wage by the government on the proviso they have evidence of their work (something I think artists all over the world should advocate for). This is an act of great foresight on the part of such governments, for the arts are what enrich our culture. Artists contribute a lifeblood to people that is often underrated, and yet all of us will be easily able to find evidence of some artist’s work in our homes. Books, paintings, films, games. All of these are the products of a creative. And many creatives in today’s world are taking risks by following their passions, the benefits of these risks shared by all. To devote yourself wholeheartedly to the pursuit of your craft is a risky enterprise, and one without any stable guarantees. In many ways, the arts are vocational.

During my undergraduate degree, I encountered other writers who had faced challenges to their devotion that seemed both rude and unthinkable when I heard these anecdotes. It was a common joke to say that the students going into the Arts won’t come out of their degrees with a job. And this joke was often made by the Arts students, in a defence to beat other students to the punch. And whilst it is true that you do not come out of an Arts degree with a set job path laid before you, as you might studying economics or medicine, there are a wealth of skills and abilities that are taught which are greatly underrated. Critical thinking, the ability to craft an argument, and to write well, are all skills that come up more than we might think. Rather like maths from primary school.

One assumption that seemed to often be made about creative writing students in particular was “So when are you going to become a teacher?” There is no doubt that this question can come from a good place, but it makes assumptions that not only devalue writing as a career, but also teaching, which is as much a vocation as any art. One does not train in one area just to shove into another without consideration. There are other similar questions to this that I have encountered as an adult. “Why don’t you be a librarian?” “Why don’t you try being a journalist?” Et cetera, et cetera. Both of these jobs are seen as “easy” by those who have never looked beyond the surface. And yet both of them are jobs that require specific training. I have encountered others who, when told that I study creative writing at university, look at me with blank faces, shrug, and say that they don’t think that’s something that needs teaching, with the implication “Why are you wasting your time?”

It can be very easy to get caught up in the negativity of the barrage that any young artist faces on their path to fulfilling their passions. It can be even easier to feel the weight of all these questions, assumptions, and pressure to conform. To feel undermined by a lack of support and understanding for what it is that you are trying to achieve. There can be no understating the immense courage and fortitude it takes to strike out as an artist.

But so much for the babble that surrounds choosing a life that is different to the expected mould. This is only so much background crackle, and I urge young artists (and I use young in the sense of their journey rather than their age) to hold onto their joy and passion, and let that guide them.

My journey as a writer through university has been an interesting one, and it is only now that I have (for the time being) completed that journey that I am taking the time to look back and reflect on the path I have trodden.

I came into university having written stories for myself and for school since I was young, and in a habit of writing fanfiction which I posted online. My undergraduate experience taught me to think more critically about my craft, to consider the intention with which I did things rather than to simply create. Although this can sound rather arty-farty and simply for the benefit of reading into things that have no greater meaning that what they exactly say, I have learnt to enjoy this aspect, when I do it. I see it as building the subtlety of a work. It does not matter if a reader does not read into these deeper meanings, their subconscious may pick up on them and in any case they have the main story that I am trying to tell. But for those who do read deeper, these “Easter eggs”, to borrow a film term, are a quiet background dialogue between them and myself.

In undergraduate I was also forced to grapple with what, at the time, I considered to be my nemesis – short fiction. Now, I look back on my younger self with amusement and indulgence, with short fiction something I take great enjoyment in writing. I was used to being unfettered and expansive, and the limitation of a two-thousand-word count was one I viewed with distaste. But I knew that we would be marked out our ability to craft a complete narrative, which meant I needed a conclusion – hardly doable in an excerpt from a longer piece of fantasy. Which meant I must write short fiction, and try to do it well. The result of this was that I was forced to learn to be concise with my descriptions (something I can only recommend, even if it is simply an exercise, for the benefits are large), and to use my dialogue with impact and subtlety. In short, I honed my craft.

These skills did me great service when it came to further advancement, with the pursuit of my Masters, all the way to Scotland. There I learned to really apply those skills from short fiction to my fantasy work. To rein in my more elaborate prose, and to use that more as a purple flourish than as the body. That credit, I safely lie at the feet of my wonderful thesis supervisor. In Scotland, crafting my forty-thousand-word thesis, an excerpt of my fantasy novel, I also discovered the joy of a good writer-editor relationship, and how to apply discipline to my process in a way that meant my writing flourished. My supervisor understood that writing is not simply sitting down to write, particularly when it came to the immense fantasy work I had in my mind. A great deal of time will simply be sitting and thinking, researching, taking in the creations of others that might later form inspiration, and importantly, asking questions of myself, my characters, and the work. His understanding of this validated my experience and my process.

From this experience I do heartily recommend the experience of working with a mentor for young writers. If you have the right person, your writing and your craft, and your understanding of how you as a writer work – that is, your process – can only improve and flourish.

I do not know whether my formal writing education has finished. That is to say, whether I might yet pursue a PhD in the future, which is an undertaking that bears careful consideration. I do not believe that writers need to have a formal training to be good. And I know that I am incredibly fortunate to have had the university level education in writing that I have had. But I do think writers need to learn, as we all do, and critically engage with their work. Self-awareness is a foundation for so many things in life, and it remains applicable to writing. I know there will always be things to refine and improve on with my writing, and my style is likely to continue to transform as I age and learn. All of this is part of the journey as a writer.