10 Things a writer can do while wondering if their work is any good…

The chipped mug waits, defiant, like it knows it’s not built for this kind of pressure.

The espresso machine coughs, hisses, sputters like a dragon with bronchitis, and then - glory - a bitter stream trickles out.

Half of it lands in the mug, the rest somehow on your hand, your desk, and the manuscript you swore you’d finish last year.

You raise the mug anyway.

One heroic sip.

Scalded tongue.

Eyes water.

A sound escapes, something between a curse and Shakespearean tragedy. (“O, treacherous bean! O, molten betrayal!”)

And then the inevitable thought: this is the ritual, isn’t it?

Not the words, not the brilliance, but the bruises of caffeine and the faith that one day the machine will stop sounding like it’s dying.

By the time you sit at the desk, heart racing faster than your plot, you’re convinced the espresso is either your greatest muse or your greatest saboteur. 

Probably both.

There’s a moment every writer knows - the blinking cursor, the half-eaten sandwhich, the sudden suspicion that everything you’ve written might actually be a spectacular pile of nonsense. 

Pull up a chair. 

Welcome back… 

Late Night Musings with Rogues & Scoundrels 

10 Things a writer can do while wondering if their work is any good.

1. Read it aloud like a Shakespearean actor in the park.

Because nothing tests prose like theatrics. If your story sounds ridiculous in a tragic baritone, it might also be brilliant.

Bonus points if you add some stockings.

Extra bonus points if your neighbours hear you bellowing about betrayal and start quietly locking their doors. 

2. Google yourself (but not yourself).

Not your name - your sentences.

Copy, paste, hit search.

If nobody else has written them, congratulations: originality achieved.

If somebody has written them, panic, delete, and then soothe yourself by remembering Tarantino probably Googled “samurai with a briefcase” at some point too.

3. Rearrange the desk.

Pens to the left, notebooks to the right. Suddenly you’re not procrastinating, you’re creating a “creative vortex.”

Order feels like progress, even if the words don’t.

If you want to feel truly productive, add a coaster.

Coasters scream “author with discipline.”

4. Interrogate the ginger cat.

“Be honest, you No-name Slob, is this garbage?”

Cats are merciless editors.

Their silence is usually a no.

Their glare is definitely a no.

Mine isn’t even mine - it’s the neighbourhood stray who wanders in while I’m pacing the garden, mumbling half-dialogue to myself.

I ask him if my subplot is nonsense; he yawns. Brutal.

But effective.

5. Stalk famous rejections.

The Great Gatsby was called “impossible to sell.”

Stephen King threw Carrie in the bin before his wife dug it out.

Tarantino? Let’s just say his scripts had more rejection slips than footnotes.

Rejection is not the enemy; it’s the prequel. Every “no” is just foreshadowing for your inevitable “yes.”

6. Rewrite one sentence seventeen times.

None of them better.

All of them different.

You’ll call this “craft.”

In reality, it’s an Olympic sport: sprinting between synonyms like a deranged thesaurus with impostor syndrome.

I do this daily.

Every writer does.

You will die on a hill called “maybe the comma goes here?” and no one will ever know.

7. Draft the award speech.

Because when the book sells, you’ll need to thank your year 7 English teacher.

You’ll also need to publicly forgive your sibling who said you’d “never finish anything.”

This exercise is cathartic, dramatic, and ensures you’ve practiced the exact cadence of humble-bragging in front of 600 strangers.

8. Imagine readers crying at the ending.

Then imagine them laughing in the wrong place.

Then imagine a critic calling it “unintentionally comic.”

Spiral briefly into despair, recover with biscuits, then keep writing.

If readers feel anything - laughter, tears, rage - you’ve won.

The only true failure is indifference.

9. Take a walk with your ghosts.

Every writer has them - the doubt, the echo, the old voice that mutters, “This isn’t good enough.” Let them walk beside you, shadowing each step.

Then outpace them.

By the third block, you’re no longer trudging with ghosts, you’re dragging them behind like tin cans on wedding string.

10. Write anyway, write a blog in a time where people hate reading.

(Even though the algorithm thinks you’re dead)

Let’s face it: reading a blog is so last century. Especially in a world where the average attention span has collapsed to the size of a man on a cold morning - reduced, pathetic, a stack of buttons clattering like loose change and entire novels are now consumed in TikTok slideshows with some doof doof music. 

You’ll pour your soul into 500 words, and somewhere out there, an influencer is making ten times the impact by pointing at captions while lip-syncing to APT.

So why do it? 

Because writing is the cosmic middle finger to the algorithm.

Because even if there are clicks, the act itself reminds you that you are not just content.

Write the blog no one asked for, the essay nobody has patience for, the story destined to be bookmarked and never opened.

Because writing is less about being read and more about remembering you exist.

And remember - if you build it…they will come.

There is always someone that will stumble across your blog at 3 a.m., eyes bloodshot from doomscrolling, and think: Holy hell, someone else feels this too, it’s not just me.

That’s enough.

That’s a purpose.

Not trending.

Not going viral.

Just surviving.

Write it anyway.

So yes, maybe it’s good.

Maybe it’s terrible.

But it’s yours.

And the only way to find out is to keep going.

Keep writing.