You will have to excuse the irony of this. I’m writing about how I’ve been wasting my time writing.

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to write for a living. Since I was a child. I think it stemmed from getting The Beano and The Dandy delivered to the house, as well as MATCH! magazine. I would also have a look at my dad’s copy of The Sun on a Saturday (forgive me, I was young). I was fascinated by the different styles of writing, and how the written word could make you feel depending on how it was presented on the page. When I was around 8 years old, I made hand-drawn comics called The Jumbo for my grandad, which the wonderful man paid me the cover price for. I think I ‘borrowed’ the character of Dennis The Menace for it, too, but thankfully I never received a copyright claim from the publisher of The Beano. A couple of years after that, I was mocking up newspaper front pages.

Now, aged 30, it is clear to me that writing – communicating with the written/typed word – is probably what I’m best at. Despite being the grandson of a respected mechanic on one side and a talented carpenter on the other side, I am entirely useless at anything practical. Actually doing anything with my hands is beyond me. On one attempt to learn how to cook, I tried to crack an egg into a jug and ended up with the yolk all over the worktop and all of the shell in the jug. I also can’t communicate easily by other means. I’m debilitatingly awkward in face-to-face situations, and irritatingly inarticulate when speaking to someone. I have been asked to do a TV show and a podcast before, but tellingly never been asked to do them more than once.

I did work experience at Archant, who publish the Eastern Daily Press, Norwich Evening News and other local titles in East Anglia, in 2009. I didn’t actually have much work to do – I got a piece in the paper about a couple’s landmark wedding anniversary – but I was able to observe this huge office putting a newspaper together, as well as sit in on an editorial meeting. I really enjoyed it, and I was left feeling even more sure that I wanted to be a journalist. In 2015, the EDP advertised for contributors to a new Fan Zone page, all about Norwich City Football Club. I went for it, not expecting to get picked, but to my surprise I was chosen as one of four columnists and I’m still doing it now. In fact, I’m the only one of the original four still doing it.

The closest I’ve ever been to getting paid for writing was when I had an interview at Archant in 2017. They were looking for a trainee reporter. Unfortunately, I failed to impress in the interview (face-to-face interactions letting me down again) and I didn’t get the job. Since then, I’ve never even applied for another job, carrying on with pretending to know what I’m doing in a supermarket.

I have kept this blog going, as I like to write, but I have never pushed it to the extent that would get me noticed. As an introvert, it’s not in my nature to blow my own trumpet. In any case, when I do share what I’ve written, I don’t get many readers anyway.

This is why I think that’s the case: TikTok. I’ve never been on TikTok myself because I can’t really see the point of it. My mum, however, is borderline addicted to it. She will spend ages scrolling through the app. I’ll often be shown videos from it. I can’t really get my head around it, though, because there is just so much crap on there. I can spend hours writing something, share it, and get maybe 50 readers if I am exceptionally lucky. Someone can record a 30 second clip of their dog farting, upload it to TikTok, and get millions of views. Short attention spans have ruined the art of writing.

I’m not bitter though. That’s just how it is. After having this dream for twenty years, I have to start to wonder if my writing is really better than anyone else’s. Perhaps it is time to change tact. Do something else. I don’t know what that might be. But maybe the first step is to admit that writing is a dead end.

Thanks for reading if you’ve made it this far.