A friend of mine sent me a lovely piece of writing this week and asked my opinion on its worth. By coincidence, I’d just read a bestselling novel by someone I worked with a few years ago. I was pulled in by the intrigue and the characters of both stories straight away.  Although the styles and genre were very different, I enjoyed both pieces of writing on their own merit and not because the writers are people I like.

Another talented woman I know has just had a novel turned down by an agent – refused very politely and with encouragement, but it was her life’s work, her magnum opus, so I hope she perseveres.

I belonged to a vibrant writers’ group for over a year and I collaborated with talented wordsmiths in my master’s group. I’m surrounded by some inspirational novelists and poets and I read all the time, so I’ve a good idea of what works, up to a point. So after my friend, a novice writer, offered me this wonderful story to read, she asked me the question ‘Am I good enough to be a writer?’ I said yes, of course. She has energy, enthusiasm, talent in bucket loads. But that started me thinking about the old saying that everyone has a novel in them and I wondered: is it true? Can anyone be a novelist?

It depends what the question means. If it means can anyone physically sit at a computer and bash out 90,000 coherent words, then yes, that’s just endurance and editing. If it means can anyone get published, that’s a question of resilience, luck and the good fortune to create a saleable product. Does the question ask if all writers have talent? Subjectivity is an issue here up to a point – one person’s favourite book is another’s bin liner, although readability is an important factor.

There is so much talent waiting in the wings, ready to dive into the spotlight. I know two brilliant poets who are yet unpublished although I believe they both have the potential to rock the world. I know three novelists who could easily take the bookselling charts by storm. I’ve also read my share of really disastrous writing by people who believe that bashing out a sequence of random pretentious words makes them Gerard Manley Hopkins or Virginia Woolf. Not at all. But they can learn. We all learn as we go.

After some thought, I’ve reconsidered the answer to the question about whether anyone can write a novel. The answer is no.

So many people don’t have the time. Full-time jobs, responsibilities, hobbies, tiredness, commitments all get in the way of being a writer. Many people don’t have the desire, the patience, the resilience, the inclination to sit for hours bashing away at a computer. It may be that some people don’t have the spare thinking time to come up with and develop a novel idea, or the opportunity to find quiet time or space to write. Some people don’t have a computer or a pen. Some people are not interested – they’d never make a novelist. Why would they even want to? They have a life.

That aside, writing is not an exclusive profession. A writer’s talent isn’t measured or assessed against other writers’ work; it’s not even equal to the success or enjoyability of the novel. It may not even be a hugely important factor in the novel’s popularity, although it does help to have a love of words and the ability to tell a story. There are some useful rules to be aware of as a writer – the show don’t tell, the avoid using too many adverbs, or clichés, the vary pace and sentence length, the create characters you are interested in and a novel you’d like to read yourself advice. But all these things are teachable and learnable with experience, and all writers have to continue to develop their skills.

My friend wanted to know if the short story was good enough. What on earth does good enough mean? There isn’t a sliding scale which suggests that the better writers (whoever they are) will have more enthusiastic readers and sell more books. I can think of competent writers who have sold millions of novels and they are hardly James Joyce. But these writers satisfy what many readers want – a good story, a gripping journey swathed in interesting words. We have help at our fingertips – spellcheck, Google research, writers’ groups, buddies, editors. There’s no reason why someone shouldn’t be able to write a novel which stands up well. Anyone who wants to should go ahead and do it and believe in themselves. Without self-belief, the going will be a lot tougher.

So I’ve come to a conclusion and the answer is, to people who want to write – yes, start now. You can do it.

Books are brilliant. Hard copies, kindle, audio books, books which could become a TV series, a stage play, a film. Books which thrill, which entertain, which intrigue. There are all sorts of readers, even people who don’t know they are readers yet. There can never be enough books so it follows that there can never be enough writers. If someone wants to write a novel, they should be sure about the commitment involved – a writer needs to spend a lot of time, energy, emotion. But it’s a whole lot of fun – a privilege to step into another world, to stay there for a while and to be responsible for how it shapes up.

I’ve found the writing industry fascinating and wonderful. Agents, publishers, publicity managers – they are a breed of guardian angels and each of them is a brilliant companion on the journey to completing a saleable novel. Such people with experience and ability are to be cherished for their skills and advice. The chance to sit and write is a blessing and it’s an opportunity I would so gladly share with and recommend to anyone else. I’m 25,000 words into a fifth novel and my first is published next year, pre-orderable on Amazon. I love writing and I love books. What could be better?

So, back to my friend who asks me if her work is good enough, I want to scream YES. Her writing is entertaining, thoughtful, it has strong legs and I believe it can sprout wings and fly. I’ve heard all the warnings about how writing is an isolated profession, how it’s steeped in anxiety; how there wil be problems with writer’s block, patience, focus, crushing deadlines. But I’m shaking my head as I type. It’s a chance to work with ideas, with words, with imagination, to share something exciting with others.

There are many people who wouldn’t want to write. That’s fair enough. I can’t build houses, grow wheat, perform open heart surgery. But to those people who sniff the hint of a desire to create that novel, there’s only one answer. You are good enough. Don’t hold back. Don’t deliberate and don’t doubt yourself. Just do it.

There’s something heart-rendingly sad about my statement, that novels are like good friends. It begs the question: but what about real friends, real people, not ones who are imagined and made up? The life of a writer is essentially solitary, so the idea has developed that we are a lonely  bunch of individuals who have no-one to turn to in the long silent hours while we’re typing away. We are friendless, forced to seek solace in fabricated characters. The only excitement in our lives is found at in a new placid character we control ourselves; happiness is at the bottom of a plot. Or a glass. Such is the stereotypical image of a writer’s existence, a singular single person, focused entirely on the process and then the product we are desperate to complete before we begin the next novel.

There is some truth in the idea. There is not a great deal of instant cameraderie when you write alone at the desk each day; there’s  no office culture, no management structure, (thank goodness!) no banter. No one to share lunch breaks and jokes with at coffee time. In that sense, writers are solitary people who must seek their social lives away from the computer screen.

But when I suggest that our novels become our good friends, I am talking about the warm fuzzy feeling felt through constant interaction, through increasing familiarity. We go through a lot together, we writers and our novels. It is sometimes love at first sight, but we know pretty quickly whether we will get on together, whether we have a future, or whether early separation is inevitable. I’ve started novel number five twice, after delaying it as long as possible. The first time, I liked the new idea. I threw it away. It wasn’t good enough. The second idea clicked, started to rev like a formula 1 engine and I’m now up to 12,000 words, which is the point where I know I will write it all.

Our novels are our friends because we get to know them slowly but we will eventually know them completely. We know their flaws and their strong points. We know where the relationship will lead but we don’t know every twist and turn. That’s an exciting part of the journey, discovering the bits we don’t know yet but we know they’ll fall into place in time and surprise us.

We know we will have disagreements with our novels, but we’ll work it out. Our friendship will survive. We will cut and paste and delete chunks, chapters, whole characters. The novel will keep us up at night, arguing with us whle we scratch our heads for a pact, a solution which won’t pop in until dawn, just before we fall asleep smiling. It will cause us headaches, researching, changing, editing, aiming for the perfect phrase, the exciting plot moment, the thrilling and unexpected dénouement.

In all my novels, the main characters are people I like. I meet them in my imagination and I respect and admire them; I know their flaws, I believe in the honesty of their thoughts and actions. It’s indulgent, because I have written them, created them. But it’s also about finding out bout who they are, growing together, bonding, love: I am often at their mercy, as I have no choice but to follow their impetus. They make me laugh out loud. They make me cry. I feel sorry for their  sadnesses and I cheer when things go right for them. I root for their triumphs and I fear for their safety from page one until the end of the novel. And that’s what friends do.

But I don’t want to keep them to myself. It’s not a secret relationship, forged between brain, keyboard and blank screen. It doesn’t exist without a ménage à trois. The third person. The reader. In fact, I’m aiming for the biggest friendship group I can muster. I want lots of people to love my protagonists, and to enjoy their journey within the pages of a novel.

The important thing is that, although I write chartacters from imagination and don’t base them on real people, I’d love them if I met them. They’d be good friends. They are plucky, feisty, mischievous, women who deserve the good things which happen to them in the novel. And they don’t deserve the tragedies. I love them because of their stories, their backstories, for what happens to them and how they survive and are resilient, quirky, funny, strong.

But it’s not just the characters who are my friends. It’s the novels themselves. It is as if each one has forged itself into my subconscious, metamorphosed into a being, become real and I feel loyal. I owe each novel thanks for existing, for allowing me to work it so hard and dsipte my constant nagging, it still comes out the other end valid and credible and worthwhile.

Perhaps then, going back to my opening statement, we writers are a sorry solitary lot with only flying fingers, whirling words and made up people for comfort.

But that is only during working hours. The rest of the time, we’re all scintillating social creatures. Party animals. Table dancers. Exciting conversationalists. Midnight movers. Our lives are full, fecund, fruitful and our friends are real people we value, trust and hold close to our hearts. Writers are just like every one else.

Of course, the problem would arise if the world we created and then inhabited became more tantalising than the real world. What if our characters, our imaginary literary friends, became more important and vital to our existence than our real friends? Then what would we do?

At this point I go back to the stereotype, the lonely writer focused on the screen. She’s  blocked, frustrated, waiting for inspiration, seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle, alone and tortured and friendless. Perhaps that’s what makes a genius. Or maybe that’s just a myth…