I didn’t always want to be a writer, or at least, I didn’t always realize I did. For a solid eight years after high school, I deluded myself into thinking that I wanted to pursue psychology, even though I had no desire to be a therapist, and the idea of grovelling for research grants sounds like my personal hell.
In retrospect, the fact that I was at an all-time mental health low should have been an indicator that I was not enjoying myself. It wasn’t until I reached my final year and began preparing an honours thesis that I realized other people in my program were enjoying themselves. That’s the funny thing about wanting to work in research and hating doing your thesis: that’s going to be your job. Forever. And I f–king hated it.
And thus, I became a university dropout, drifting into bookstore work where I stayed for most of my working years—too anxious to attempt more schooling and suffocating with the knowledge that this would likely be the rest of my life.
My one respite was writing. During my time in university, my partner, who works in film, suggested we try writing a screenplay together. I hadn’t written for anything but academics since my teenage years and certainly had never attempted a screenplay, but what the heck—it was something new. I was reminded of the sheer pleasure of words. What had been a necessary tool, as emotionless and utilitarian as a calculator, became a paintbrush, a canvas, a song. Words became my sustenance, with every luscious line filling some hollow corner scraped dry by academia.
Eventually, however, screenwriting gave way to burnout. I still love the craft, but screenwriting presents special obstacles to storytelling. The largest of which is that you must stay in your lane and not step on the toes of the hypothetical crew producing your hypothetical film. Location descriptions can’t be overly specific or loving—that’s the domain of the set designer. Character direction can’t be given for lines—that’s a conversation between the director and the performers. Even physical character descriptions need to be kept to a minimum—after all, you have no say over casting. Once again, I felt trapped. And this time, it wasn’t even by real people or responsibilities! I decided to take a swing at novel writing and, well, here we are.
Handsome Devil was my first novel, and while I’m glad I finally found my way to something that felt right, I can’t help but feel resentful of the lost years. I published my first novel at 33. There are other authors in my genre and age bracket who already have a decade of back catalogue established. They also have the extra experience to expedite their writing and build their catalogues faster. I am moving into the editing stage of the second novel in Quantrin Nights, and it has taken nearly a year. How am I going to catch up? Why did I ever think I wanted to work in psychology? Why was teenage Gael such a flipping idiot?!
Then I remember: I’m 34. Despite what the internet and weird dudes with receding hairlines may say about women, that’s still young. Eventually, my year-long writing timetable will become tighter. Eventually, I’ll have a back catalogue. Eventually, I’ll be able to keep up. Until then, I’ll keep painting with my words. Talk to you later—I have a third book to work on.
Until next time, travellers,
Gael Romer
P.S. I suspect that stories like mine may be used by losers to justify why they need to use AI to do their writing. If you don’t enjoy writing, that’s fine. Just don’t write. I am also bad at visual arts, and I just, like, don’t pretend to be an artist. Don’t use plagiarism machines. Find something you’re actually good at or that you enjoy enough to develop your abilities. That’s the whole point of being a living, breathing human. Idiot.
