‘You want to be a writer? A writer?’

‘You can’t do that,’ said my uncle. ‘You’ll never make any money.’

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‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ My uncle asked one Saturday morning as I sat at the kitchen table scribbling a story in my notebook.

‘A writer,’ I said.

‘A writer?’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

He took a deep breath, sat back in his chair. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Elizabeth, but writers don’t make any money. Not unless you’re one of the famous ones.’

I looked at him but said nothing.

‘There’s just not enough money in it. You’ll not make anything from writing until you’re dead.’

‘Dead?’

He nodded and forced a half-smile. ‘That’s when your books might, if you’re lucky, do well. While you’re alive, you’ll not make enough money to live. You’ll have to do something else – a proper job – and write for a hobby.’

And with those words of encouragement, he finished his cup of tea, said goodbye, and went on his way.

I stood at the door and watched him walk away, feeling confused and wondering why I couldn’t be what I wanted to be.

I was eight or nine – just a child. And he was a grown-up who knew much more than me about the world and what was and was not possible. Maybe I couldn’t be a writer.

I’m 44 now and the conversation has stayed with me all my life – for its ignorance and thoughtlessness, but also for its honesty and truth. Despite being the most discouraging thing to say to a child, I know he was trying to help, giving me a dose of reality so that I wouldn’t be disappointed when I had to get a ‘proper’ job.

It came from a good place but was based on what he knew of the literary world and the limiting belief that people like us didn’t become authors.

We were in Barnsley, South Yorkshire, living through the turbulent 1980s. Many people were struggling to make a living, never mind making a living as a writer. The London centric publishing world was a long way away.

Despite his comments, I hung on to my dream. I imagined myself growing up to be like Jessica Fletcher (Angela Lansbury) from Murder, She Wrote. I loved the opening titles when she was bashing away on her typewriter, smiling like it was the best job in the world. And I’d spend hours flicking through the Argos catalogue, dreaming of the make and model of typewriter I would buy when I was finally a writer.

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I believed it would happen. But other than reading a lot and writing a lot, I didn’t know how to achieve my ambition. Unlike with other jobs, there is no fixed route on how to become a best-selling author.

Just before leaving secondary school in 1995, I had my careers interview. It was the perfect opportunity to get a plan together, map out my future so that I could start working towards realising my ambitions.

Unfortunately, the wonderful, encouraging and optimistic careers teacher was on long-term sick leave, and a chap from the council had been sent in as a substitute. Let’s call him Mr C.

As I walked across the playground to his classroom, I was hopeful he’d tell me exactly what I needed to do, or at the least, offer some advice and encouragement.

After the incident with my uncle, I’d been shy about telling people what I wanted to do. I’d learned that when adults asked, it was best to say something realistic, like nurse or teacher, which would get a nod and a smile. If I said I wanted to be a writer, people would often react as if I’d said I wanted to be an astronaut and fly to the moon.

I’d convinced myself that Mr C would be different; he was a careers professional, after all.

When I knocked and opened the classroom door, he was sitting at a desk taking a bite of a large pork pie.

‘Is it that time already?’ He started rifling through some papers. ‘ … Joanne?’

I shook my head. ‘Elizabeth…Liz.’

‘… Elizabeth … no ... not here...’ He took another bite of his pie, then carried on shuffling the papers. ‘…No …Oh, hang on … Yes … You’re here.’

He had a quick look at the paper, which listed my predicted GCSE grades, then finished eating.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Right.’

He took a pen out of his shirt pocket, rolled up his sleeves, and began asking questions about what I hoped to do when I left school.

‘You want to be a … what?’ he said.

‘A writer.’

‘A … writer?’

I nodded. ‘An author. Of books.’

He sniffed. ‘Have you … considered anything else?’

‘No.’

He put his pen down and stared at me. ‘Look …Joanne...’

‘Elizabeth,’ I said.

‘…Elizabeth … it’s difficult to be a writer.’

I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded and stared at his long, thin face and crooked nose, at the bits of pork pie left in the corner of his mouth.

‘Becoming a writer is like trying to become a professional footballer.’ He sat back in his chair, crossed his legs. ‘Nigh-on impossible.’

I leaned forward, trying to stay focused, but my head was swirling.

‘It’s fine to have a dream.’ He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them the other way. ‘But it’s also important to have a realistic option. Have you thought about anything else at all?’

I shook my head.

‘Like business, for example.’

‘No. Not business.’

‘We’ve got lots of youth training opportunities.’

I shook my head. I did not want one of those.

But he wasn’t listening. He started scribbling on the paper, telling me about courses I could do and what the jobs would involve and that I could even train at college, which would be cheaper than going to university. He handed me a piece of paper with my career plan written on it. Just not the one I’d hoped for.

‘Thank you.’ I looked down at it, noticing the greasy fingerprint stains from the pork pie.

‘You’re welcome, Joanne. Very welcome.’

He nodded and moved his hand, showing I was dismissed. I could go. That was my future taken care of.

After that, I lost my way a little. I went to Barnsley College to do my A-levels. My chosen subjects were English language and literature, classics, media and psychology. But I did very little study and spent most of my time chasing boys and partying at Club Hedonism. When it came to exam finals time, I didn’t even turn up for them.

This is not my proudest moment, but it made me.

As I waved my friends off on their way to university, on their way to getting their independence and starting their lives, I wondered what I was going to do with mine.

I knew I had to make a change. I had to stop the partying, get my head down, and work. Thankfully, I was allocated a new form tutor, an experienced and no-nonsense teacher called Dorothy.

‘Call me Dot,’ she said, sitting me down to chat about what I wanted to do with my life.

When I told her, she didn’t laugh or roll her eyes or suggest I think of something else. She made some notes in her notepad and listened.

I’d been lacking direction, getting easily distracted, and not focusing on my studies at all. I recognise now that fear and uncertainty were the root cause. But we didn’t talk about that in the nineties.

Dot helped me put an amazing application together for university, prepared me for the interview, and made me think I could achieve whatever I wanted.

I studied for and passed three A-levels in a year, accepted a place at journalism college in London, and then I was off.

It’s 25-years since I moved to London, and I am grateful for everything the opportunity has given me. It changed my life. The training, the friendships, the memories, the connection with the city, and, not forgetting, my career.

Within three years, I was making a living as a writer. I wasn’t an author, but I was writing and having my work published. It was a step closer to what I wanted. And all it had taken was hard work, dedication, and some self-belief and support.

If I’d listened to my uncle or the careers teacher, I wouldn’t be writing today. I wouldn’t have followed my heart and done what makes me happy.

If I could go back in time to give advice to the younger me, I’d say ignore anyone who says you can’t.

You can be a writer. You will be a writer.

Start. Keep going. Do not stop.

Yes, it will be difficult and take hard work, resilience and determination. But it will be worth it.

And hopefully, you’ll not be dead and buried before the royalties start rolling in.

Have you ever been told you can’t do something and done it anyway? I’d love to hear.