Today is my fortieth birthday.
Growing up, I’d somehow convinced myself I’d never see thirty. I don’t know why. Touch wood, I have no serious health conditions. Perhaps it was just my relentless worship of Kurt Cobain that made me feel like that. Yet here I am, ten years on and still going (relatively) strong.
I think I’ve grown increasingly reflective over the last ten years. Some people might call it mindfulness but I’m not one for fads or labels. I think at any milestone birthday, it’s natural to take a look around, at both the past and the future. So, I plan to do this, to think properly, seriously about my writing to this point.
I’m fortunate. I’ve found my true love, my soulmate. We have a wonderful daughter and an insane dog. We’re happy and I’m beyond grateful for everyone’s health and joy. My family means the world to me.
When I think back to when I turned thirty, I was a bit of a fraud. I was still part of This Is Horror, fronting the podcast with Michael Wilson and interviewing awesome writers on a regular basis. I was heavily involved in the horror writing scene.
The only problem was, I wasn’t doing an awful lot of writing.
I talked a good game, but I delivered next to nothing. A few, scattered short stories and that was it. Not a good output for someone so invested in identifying as a writer.
Fast-forward to 2016. Early August. I’m sat on our kitchen step waiting for my newborn daughter’s bottle to warm up, listening to the Olympics on the radio. And then it hits me – I don’t have all the time in the world anymore If I want this, it has to be now.
I was 32 years old. A new father. Working in a challenging job. I should’ve started my writing journey properly YEARS before. The important thing is – I did start then. I got myself going. I downloaded Word onto my phone and started making notes on a story, on a novel.
Our homelife was manic and amazing and such fun, but it was always busy. Sneaking off to write when my wife had been at home with a baby all day seemed unfair and selfish. I wanted to be a writer but also a good dad. So, I sat down and identified where I could steal time. The answer was obvious – work lunchtimes. A whole hour in the middle of the day where I had nothing to do.
So, I started. Slowly, painfully, I started. I made myself write with no distractions for a whole hour. At first it was 100 words, then 200. Then 500. By the time I hit my stride, I could routinely hit 1000 (mostly bad) words in that hour, things were getting done. Stories came out. Some good, some bad. Some I’ve forgotten about. Some I’ll never look at again. Some that ended up published in brilliant places. I’m proud of them all in their own way.
In the last 8 years or so, I’ve written: –
Ten novels – one published, some still to be, one definitely never to see the light of day.
Three novellas – one published, one still to be, one will probably never make it out.
Numerous short stories, too many to count. I’ve had my short work published at Dead Ink Books (forthcoming), Weird Horror Magazine, Chthonic Matter, The Other Stories, Demain Publishing, as well as hitting the shelves in my own collection. Perhaps there’ll be another collection in the future.
Two feature films. One in production after a successful crowdfunder, one to be submitted to various places.
Two TV pilots. One hit the top 10% with BBC Writers’ Room. The other needs work but has promise.
I’ve written pitches and plots and treatments and summaries.
In short – I’ve done a hell of a lot in 8 years. I’ve probably done a fair bit if you spread it out across the last four decades.
I’ve made myself into a writer. I’ve worked hard. I’ve slogged. I’ve grafted. I’ve submitted. I’ve cheered the wins and learned to shake off the defeats.
I’ve achieved a fair bit of what I wanted to. I’ve got a novel on the shelves which has been well received. All being well, I’ll have a film made from my script in 2025. I’ve heard my work performed live, I’ve produced audiobooks, I’ve signed books, I’ve appeared on panels and podcasts.
Undeniably, I can say that I am now a writer. I have earned that tag.
Today, I am forty years old and through putting words on the page, I’ve managed to achieve a hell of a lot over the last decade in particular. From a standing start, I’m now in the race.
Now, as I sit in my little attic room and tap away at the keyboard, I don’t feel the trepidation I did when I first started, I feel excited and optimistic about where I can end up.
Another year older, another year wiser. Maybe this year will be my year, maybe next, maybe the one after… But the important thing is, I’m productive, I’m writing. I’m whole.
If you feel like giving me a birthday present, buying one of my books would be the ultimate gift! Thanks.
Dan Howarth
Birkenhead – 20th December 2024.
