I never liked speaking. I’m not one of those people who love the sound of their own voice and expect that everyone else will too. Being around such people tends to drive me to drink. I always preferred being in my own little world. Writing seemed like the perfect way of expressing myself, a necessity, even, as a frustrated communicator – I could choose my words precisely, on subjects that mattered to me, and I wouldn’t have to battle for airtime, or risk being interrupted. 
I imagined myself as a modern-day Bukowski, working from home and turning away anyone who came to my door. And I found it very romantic how Balzac retired from society in order to write about it. 

I knew it was a long shot, but I thought that if I became a professional writer, I might win my solitude as a gladiator might win their freedom. There would be no more talk of tabloid politics in the factory canteens, no more thoughtful souls keeping me company when I was trying to read on my dinner breaks, and no more van buddies taking my silence as an eagerness to listen to bullshit. Instead, my job would be to sit alone in a room for years in my own private heaven of peace and quiet, living a life that would be unbearable for most. I felt I was unusually equipped for this strange life of prolonged solitude.

Then I discovered the reality of a modern writer’s life. There were readings, classes, panels, workshops and events. Not only speaking, but speaking publicly, something I’d successfully avoided for the entirety of my life so far (with the exception of being my dad’s best man, a duty I’d reluctantly accepted and drunkenly fulfilled). You might be recorded while speaking, filmed even. My worst nightmare. You needed to be on social media, constantly thinking of ways to attract attention. There were networking events. Social events, where writers could hang out and talk about how lonely the whole thing was.

It was as though the noble art of the solitary individual had been hijacked by a new breed of hobbyist, who had for whatever reason decided they wanted to become writers, but had been unsatisfied with the lack of sociability involved. As a writer, it seemed I had been born into the wrong era.

I thought that if I became a professional writer, I might win my solitude as a gladiator might win their freedom

My first real publication was a piece in the Common People anthology. I was asked to take part in the promotional campaign and at first refused. I couldn’t see any way that I’d be able to speak publicly, on a panel or otherwise. But it was pointed out to me by my MA tutor that public speaking was something I’d have to get used to, and if I said no to this opportunity I might never get asked again. So when I was asked once more I said yes.

For those early events I would over-prepare, writing copious amounts of notes I’d have no way of memorising, and then boil these down to an A4 sheet of bullet points, which I would leave by my feet. I’d dull my stage fright with a few pre-performance pints. These initial appearances weren’t pretty, but I managed to get through them. I surprised myself and my fear began to subside. What had I been so frightened of? Freezing and having a public meltdown? It happened. Although excruciating at the time, I survived. The world didn’t come to an end. Most people were probably more bothered about what they were having for dinner when they got home. I realised that if I wanted to get my writing out there, this side of the life was just something I had to accept.

Part of the writer development package involved heading down to London with New Writing North for a "meet the agent" day. Beforehand, we’d had a session to learn how to pitch our books. There was a role-playing exercise. We had to pretend we were meeting agents, and then mime giving them our cards. We met the challenge with humour, even adding silly embellishments and having a laugh. Socialising with other writers wasn’t that bad, after all.

I’d been dreading the day itself, but once we were in the venue, drinking the free wine, everything was easy. The agents were awfully nice and after a couple of awkward pitches the conversations flowed naturally, in spite of the cultural differences. There I was, milling around with these well-spoken executives, half-drunk and droning on in my thick Cumbrian accent like it was just another day at the pub, and no one seemed to mind. One agent actually told me I was the most "interesting" writer there (there was a lot of wine). I learned that it doesn’t matter what walk of life you come from, if you learn to accept yourself then others will generally accept you too. As I gear up to the publication of my debut novel, Malc’s Boy, at the end of April, I try to bear this in mind. Yes, the industry can seem like a gated community with its own rituals and codes of behaviour, but respect is its own code, and a little bit goes a long way.