5 Chaotic Ways to Write A Book

Want to write your magnum opus? Embrace mayhem.

Alright?

Before you crack on with this week’s column, here are some articles I have recently written that might tickle your fancy (apologies that the Telegraph ones are behind a paywall but I think they might let you read the first one for free.)

I wrote about being happy drunk then a sad drunk for the Telegraph

I interviewed some lads about replacing cocaine with the buzz of cold water swimming, also for The Telegraph

I wrote about Andrew Tate being a knob for The Big Issue

Wrote about how to help your teen with their mental health for The Mirror

And I appeared in this film about money and mental health for the good people at the Campaign Against Living Miserably

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Writing advice and why it is all bollocks

I’ve just read a thread on X in which people share the worst writing advice they ever received. It’s a long old list and I agree with pretty much everything on it from ‘always carry a notebook’ to ‘find somewhere quiet and tranquil to write.’ Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks - the lot of it. Pretty much ALL writing advice is bollocks. I’ve written for a living my whole adult life and am in the process of finishing my fifth book. But I’m afraid I have no insights, tips or nuggets of wisdom to offer you beyond: just sit the fuck down and write.

I knew a woman once who was always telling me that she was in the process of writing a novel. She never told me what it was about but she did tell me (extensively) about her ever-so romantic writing process: every Sunday, she sat at her writing desk with a freshly brewed pot of tea, her favourite notepad in front of her, her sharpened pencils lined up neatly in a row. Like literary cosplay. I knew she would never finish the book. She was too engrossed in the idea of being a writer rather than the business of actually writing.

It wasn’t that long ago that only the wealthy classes were taught how to read and write, which meant that only posh people wrote books. And so it was these ponces who established high-falutin legends about themselves and their craft: it was all so sumptuous, refined, indulgent and ponderous. That’s because they were rich enough to just fuck about all day until the book was finished.

The reality for most of us is that we need to earn money to survive and that writing a book is only ever going to get in the way. I’ve made a few quid out of my books over the years but, like 99% of authors, I’ve had to continue working elsewhere in order to make ends meet.

I have enjoyed the process of putting books together: shaping a story, compiling the elements, looking for bits and pieces along the way that might enlighten, charm or just connect with readers. It’s satisfying. But I always say that the two best bits of writing a book are the day you sign the contract with your publisher and the day of your launch party. That’s where the excitement and glamour is. The bits in between, where you have to find the time and space to actually get the words down on the page, often forcing yourself through tortuous lethargy and procrastination to do so, can be absolute fucking hell.

Trying to devise and stick to a routine is pointless unless you’re the sort of writer who is independently wealthy and has no kids or pets. But if you’re a normal person you need to embrace a certain amount of mayhem. A six month period of writing will be unpredictable and occur in fits and starts. There will be occasional days where the words just fire out of you onto the page; you might even get the sense that you have become a conduit for a story that has merely been delivered to you by the universe. But those days are rare. Most of the time you manage to fence off an afternoon away from all your dreary domestic and tiresome professional obligations and try to get your head down in front of the laptop, promising yourself that you will come away with a minimum of 4000 words. But then you spend 75% of that precious time titting about with fonts and formats, checking your email, drinking coffee and staring into space. You come away with 500 words, most of which you’re already sure will not make the final draft. And for the rest of the evening you feel like shit.

It can be brutal. It can be frustrating. But if you’re serious about finishing it, finish it you will: by just carving out bits and bobs of time wherever you can, cranking it out on the days you just don’t feel like it, and letting the good days - where the muse has hit you - take care of themselves.

But none of that matters: all you need is the resolve to finish it. How that is done is neither here nor there. Accept the bad days and know that, if you are serious about getting the job done (it helps if a publisher is breathing down your neck) then it doesn’t mater how.

It’s not dissimilar to quitting booze. You will do it if you really want to do it. If you’re heart isn’t in it, you probably won’t. And that’s fine. I mean, you don’t have to write a fucking book, there are plenty of other fulfilling endeavours for you to plough your energies into - many of which might well be more enjoyable.

I wrote my first book, Get Smashed, in the spare room of a bright, airy flat I shared with my wife before we had kids. I had to do other work to get the bills paid but finding time wasn’t too hard because I was freelance and had the flat to myself all day. The challenge was being a rooky: I didn’t know if I could actually do it. I struggled to actually picture the finished manuscript, much less the actual printed book with my name on it, sitting on a shelf in Waterstones. But I just tried to ignore all thoughts of failure and keep plugging away with a sort of blind faith. And in the end it ended up on a bookshelf in Waterstones. After that, however many ups and downs I’ve had as an author, I always had belief that I would finish any book I started. I’d done it before, so I would do it again.

I started my second book, Night Of The Living Dad, a few months before our first child was born. It was going okay until she popped out, at which point life became a bit like being confronted by the Viet Cong’s Tet Offensive. I was exhausted, disorientated, fearful and creatively moribund. I rented a small room in an architects office round the corner from my house in order to get away for a couple of hours a day and write. What a waste of money. I hardly ever made it round there - and typed a large part of that particular book one-handed, with my daughter cradled in the crook of my left arm. It was not romantic, it did not feel artistic or inspiring. It felt like a project that just had to be finished by hook or by crook. And in the end, I finished it.

Book three, Mad Men And Bad Men, was written during the busiest period of my whole life: I was working days in an office job, evenings on the radio and, in between, I was doing my best to be a dad to two small children. I ended up writing the book at night time, after my family had gone to bed - fulled by copious amounts of whiskey and cocaine. I might have thought at the time I was like Hunter S Thompson (who was a knob, anyway). But, in fact, I was a pitiful mess of a human being - operating off about three hours of kip a night, completely burnt out and miserable. Mind you, the book turned out pretty good, considering. This was definitely in spite of, not because of, the deranged manner in which it had been written.

My most recent book, Sort Your Head Out, was easily the most satisfying to write. I had been documenting loads of stuff about my mental health right here on The Reset for several years - which meant that most of my ‘working out’ was already done. I knew what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it and was already in the rhythm of getting it all down on the page. My kids were older and mostly self-policing by this stage. My wife was working from home which made both of us more flexible with our schedules.

My circumstances were better suited to writing a book than they ever had been before. I actually managed to enjoy the process and it’s no co-incidence that it’s the book I am most proud of.

The book I am writing at the moment is about workaholism. This is something I have suffered from in the past but feel that I have finally conquered in recent years. I am pretty sure that my need to work constantly was driven by a deep insecurity rooted in my childhood. Years of sobriety and therapy have helped me to process all that which means that I am now better able to chill the fuck out once in a while, shut the laptop and just enjoy life without feeling like I constantly have something to prove. Learning to like yourself a bit more really helps.

I suppose the point of all this is: don’t believe the spivs and bullshitters who tell you that creativity can be achieved by formula. It can’t.

There are a million different gurus flogging spurious courses out there, in which they claim that simple habits and processes can enable anyone to fulfil their creative ambitions (whether that be writing a book, making a film, publishing a volume of poetry, inventing an app or whatever). The truth is that we all have busy lives that make sticking to routines and habits extremely difficult and the application of hard and fast ‘rules’ will likely set you up for failure.

Your creative process, big or small, will happen the way you need it to. You don’t have to start at a certain time, or do it in a certain place. You just need an idea you believe in, the determination to see it through and a willingness to embrace the chaos as you do so.

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Some services, links and phone numbers to help you through the tough times

https://www.samaritans.org/ Tel 116 123

https://www.thecalmzone.net

@YoungMindsUK 0800 018 2138

@CharitySane 0300 304 7000

https://www.alcoholics-anonymous.org.uk/

https://cocaineanonymous.org.uk/

https://andysmanclub.co.uk/

https://www.nhs.uk/live-well/healthy-body/gambling-addiction/