Confessions of an accidental crime writer with imposter syndrome
Me, write crime? I'm a GP with special interests in mental health and education, not a detective or criminologist. The old adage of "write what you know" would suggest I write medical dramas or literary fiction about meaty philosophical topics. But sometimes, life has other ideas.
I started a professional writing and editing course during the COVID-19 pandemic as an antidote to the chaos, an attempt to find some peace as the world lost its collective marbles. I'd always wanted to study writing, but the time was never right. It was pushed aside as I focused on a "real" career and family. After working in a respiratory clinic - swabbing noses in a drive-through marquee in the carpark, taking on the role of (mostly metaphorical) punching bag for a stressed and angry public - I took a time-out from medicine. I was burnt out and ready for a break.
The course gave me crucial structure, and importantly for someone with my neurotype, it gave me deadlines. For the first time in my writing career, others read my words and offered feedback, which was humbling and wonderful. I felt the first glimmer of being a real writer.
In medicine, there is often a defining moment where the role and identity of "doctor" clunks into place. For me, it was when I started training in general practice, after several years of floating around sub-specialties trying to find a fit. A patient with complex medical issues had returned for a follow-up appointment and made the off-hand comment that I was now her doctor. She was my patient. She was like a mirror, and my identity was a reflection of hers, an inverse dance. I was the doctor to her patient. A symbiosis.
Similarly, I was not able to identify as a writer until I had readers to reflect that image. This is not to say that writing for yourself, in private, is without worth; anyone who writes is a writer. But for years, I struggled to use the word for myself, and if I did, I would qualify it with various adjectives - aspiring, closet, amateur - in an attempt to express my humility, my impostor syndrome, my Australian self-deprecation.
One of my assessment tasks was a character study. The protagonist for Stillwater came to me fully formed, complete with backstory, flaws, needs and wants and goals. He was inspired by a discussion I had with a patient about how every person you meet is hiding something. Everyone has secrets; there are very few people who show their entire self to the world.
For another class, I was asked to outline a novel. I took my complex character and wrote out his story; I wrote summaries of the chapters and thought that was that.
And then the work started.
Because, obviously, no plan survives contact with the enemy. My ambitious outline lasted as long as it took me to write the first chapter, which was eventually scrapped. As anyone who has ever tried to write a novel will attest, the first three to six chapters are often a warm up; the real story starts later than you think. It turns out that I am not a planner.
I had to write the story to know what it was. My characters were disobedient and wouldn't stick to the script. This meant several rounds of iterative drafting and re-drafting as I realised what was working and what wasn't.
Eventually, I wrote THE END and thought I was done. I got some feedback, changed a few things, and then thought, what now? I was lucky enough to send my manuscript to the right agent at the right time, and guess what - more feedback.
So then, the work really started.
There is a quote - Seneca, I believe - that a gem cannot be polished without friction. This is the most apt description of the editing process I've ever heard. Editing is all about cutting out what doesn't work to expose that which does, and then buffing it to make it shine. For a writer, there is definitely friction in this. It's hard to see shards of your story on the cutting-room floor.
One of the biggest questions I had to answer was about genre. This was a rookie dilemma, one I should have put more thought into earlier. What was it that I'd written? It was a novel, but where did it fit in? Was it contemporary fiction? A coming-of-age story? A book needs a comfortable home on a shelf in a bookshop, alongside its family, in order to find the right reader.
It came as a minor revelation to me that what I'd written fit best on the crime shelf. Yes, many of the characters are criminals. And there is maybe a murder. But I'd always thought of crime fiction as police procedural or cosy mystery, which Stillwater is not.
In conversations since, many have asked why I chose to write crime, and my answer is: I didn't. It came about through experimentation, through following a story through to its logical conclusion and understanding the characters and their motivations - and it turns out that "write what you know" is still appropriate. The skills I've learned as a GP and counsellor translate well to crime: pattern recognition and analytical thinking, knowledge of the human body and psyche - not to mention a level of comfort with blood, gore and death.
So while it was not my intention to write crime, that is indeed what I've done. I'm very happy to add another identity, as a crime writer, to my list - no awkward laughs or suspicious side-eye needed.
If you'd asked me five years ago if I intended to write crime fiction, I would have either laughed awkwardly or given you a suspicious side-eye.
Me, write crime? I'm a GP with special interests in mental health and education, not a detective or criminologist. The old adage of "write what you know" would suggest I write medical dramas or literary fiction about meaty philosophical topics. But sometimes, life has other ideas.
I started a professional writing and editing course during the COVID-19 pandemic as an antidote to the chaos, an attempt to find some peace as the world lost its collective marbles. I'd always wanted to study writing, but the time was never right. It was pushed aside as I focused on a "real" career and family. After working in a respiratory clinic - swabbing noses in a drive-through marquee in the carpark, taking on the role of (mostly metaphorical) punching bag for a stressed and angry public - I took a time-out from medicine. I was burnt out and ready for a break.
The course gave me crucial structure, and importantly for someone with my neurotype, it gave me deadlines. For the first time in my writing career, others read my words and offered feedback, which was humbling and wonderful. I felt the first glimmer of being a real writer.
In medicine, there is often a defining moment where the role and identity of "doctor" clunks into place. For me, it was when I started training in general practice, after several years of floating around sub-specialties trying to find a fit. A patient with complex medical issues had returned for a follow-up appointment and made the off-hand comment that I was now her doctor. She was my patient. She was like a mirror, and my identity was a reflection of hers, an inverse dance. I was the doctor to her patient. A symbiosis.
Similarly, I was not able to identify as a writer until I had readers to reflect that image. This is not to say that writing for yourself, in private, is without worth; anyone who writes is a writer. But for years, I struggled to use the word for myself, and if I did, I would qualify it with various adjectives - aspiring, closet, amateur - in an attempt to express my humility, my impostor syndrome, my Australian self-deprecation.
One of my assessment tasks was a character study. The protagonist for Stillwater came to me fully formed, complete with backstory, flaws, needs and wants and goals. He was inspired by a discussion I had with a patient about how every person you meet is hiding something. Everyone has secrets; there are very few people who show their entire self to the world.
For another class, I was asked to outline a novel. I took my complex character and wrote out his story; I wrote summaries of the chapters and thought that was that.
And then the work started.
Because, obviously, no plan survives contact with the enemy. My ambitious outline lasted as long as it took me to write the first chapter, which was eventually scrapped. As anyone who has ever tried to write a novel will attest, the first three to six chapters are often a warm up; the real story starts later than you think. It turns out that I am not a planner.
I had to write the story to know what it was. My characters were disobedient and wouldn't stick to the script. This meant several rounds of iterative drafting and re-drafting as I realised what was working and what wasn't.
Eventually, I wrote THE END and thought I was done. I got some feedback, changed a few things, and then thought, what now? I was lucky enough to send my manuscript to the right agent at the right time, and guess what - more feedback.
So then, the work really started.
There is a quote - Seneca, I believe - that a gem cannot be polished without friction. This is the most apt description of the editing process I've ever heard. Editing is all about cutting out what doesn't work to expose that which does, and then buffing it to make it shine. For a writer, there is definitely friction in this. It's hard to see shards of your story on the cutting-room floor.
One of the biggest questions I had to answer was about genre. This was a rookie dilemma, one I should have put more thought into earlier. What was it that I'd written? It was a novel, but where did it fit in? Was it contemporary fiction? A coming-of-age story? A book needs a comfortable home on a shelf in a bookshop, alongside its family, in order to find the right reader.
It came as a minor revelation to me that what I'd written fit best on the crime shelf. Yes, many of the characters are criminals. And there is maybe a murder. But I'd always thought of crime fiction as police procedural or cosy mystery, which Stillwater is not.
In conversations since, many have asked why I chose to write crime, and my answer is: I didn't. It came about through experimentation, through following a story through to its logical conclusion and understanding the characters and their motivations - and it turns out that "write what you know" is still appropriate. The skills I've learned as a GP and counsellor translate well to crime: pattern recognition and analytical thinking, knowledge of the human body and psyche - not to mention a level of comfort with blood, gore and death.
So while it was not my intention to write crime, that is indeed what I've done. I'm very happy to add another identity, as a crime writer, to my list - no awkward laughs or suspicious side-eye needed.
If you'd asked me five years ago if I intended to write crime fiction, I would have either laughed awkwardly or given you a suspicious side-eye.
Me, write crime? I'm a GP with special interests in mental health and education, not a detective or criminologist. The old adage of "write what you know" would suggest I write medical dramas or literary fiction about meaty philosophical topics. But sometimes, life has other ideas.
I started a professional writing and editing course during the COVID-19 pandemic as an antidote to the chaos, an attempt to find some peace as the world lost its collective marbles. I'd always wanted to study writing, but the time was never right. It was pushed aside as I focused on a "real" career and family. After working in a respiratory clinic - swabbing noses in a drive-through marquee in the carpark, taking on the role of (mostly metaphorical) punching bag for a stressed and angry public - I took a time-out from medicine. I was burnt out and ready for a break.
The course gave me crucial structure, and importantly for someone with my neurotype, it gave me deadlines. For the first time in my writing career, others read my words and offered feedback, which was humbling and wonderful. I felt the first glimmer of being a real writer.
In medicine, there is often a defining moment where the role and identity of "doctor" clunks into place. For me, it was when I started training in general practice, after several years of floating around sub-specialties trying to find a fit. A patient with complex medical issues had returned for a follow-up appointment and made the off-hand comment that I was now her doctor. She was my patient. She was like a mirror, and my identity was a reflection of hers, an inverse dance. I was the doctor to her patient. A symbiosis.
Similarly, I was not able to identify as a writer until I had readers to reflect that image. This is not to say that writing for yourself, in private, is without worth; anyone who writes is a writer. But for years, I struggled to use the word for myself, and if I did, I would qualify it with various adjectives - aspiring, closet, amateur - in an attempt to express my humility, my impostor syndrome, my Australian self-deprecation.
One of my assessment tasks was a character study. The protagonist for Stillwater came to me fully formed, complete with backstory, flaws, needs and wants and goals. He was inspired by a discussion I had with a patient about how every person you meet is hiding something. Everyone has secrets; there are very few people who show their entire self to the world.
For another class, I was asked to outline a novel. I took my complex character and wrote out his story; I wrote summaries of the chapters and thought that was that.
And then the work started.
Because, obviously, no plan survives contact with the enemy. My ambitious outline lasted as long as it took me to write the first chapter, which was eventually scrapped. As anyone who has ever tried to write a novel will attest, the first three to six chapters are often a warm up; the real story starts later than you think. It turns out that I am not a planner.
I had to write the story to know what it was. My characters were disobedient and wouldn't stick to the script. This meant several rounds of iterative drafting and re-drafting as I realised what was working and what wasn't.
Eventually, I wrote THE END and thought I was done. I got some feedback, changed a few things, and then thought, what now? I was lucky enough to send my manuscript to the right agent at the right time, and guess what - more feedback.
So then, the work really started.
There is a quote - Seneca, I believe - that a gem cannot be polished without friction. This is the most apt description of the editing process I've ever heard. Editing is all about cutting out what doesn't work to expose that which does, and then buffing it to make it shine. For a writer, there is definitely friction in this. It's hard to see shards of your story on the cutting-room floor.
One of the biggest questions I had to answer was about genre. This was a rookie dilemma, one I should have put more thought into earlier. What was it that I'd written? It was a novel, but where did it fit in? Was it contemporary fiction? A coming-of-age story? A book needs a comfortable home on a shelf in a bookshop, alongside its family, in order to find the right reader.
It came as a minor revelation to me that what I'd written fit best on the crime shelf. Yes, many of the characters are criminals. And there is maybe a murder. But I'd always thought of crime fiction as police procedural or cosy mystery, which Stillwater is not.
In conversations since, many have asked why I chose to write crime, and my answer is: I didn't. It came about through experimentation, through following a story through to its logical conclusion and understanding the characters and their motivations - and it turns out that "write what you know" is still appropriate. The skills I've learned as a GP and counsellor translate well to crime: pattern recognition and analytical thinking, knowledge of the human body and psyche - not to mention a level of comfort with blood, gore and death.
So while it was not my intention to write crime, that is indeed what I've done. I'm very happy to add another identity, as a crime writer, to my list - no awkward laughs or suspicious side-eye needed.
If you'd asked me five years ago if I intended to write crime fiction, I would have either laughed awkwardly or given you a suspicious side-eye.
Me, write crime? I'm a GP with special interests in mental health and education, not a detective or criminologist. The old adage of "write what you know" would suggest I write medical dramas or literary fiction about meaty philosophical topics. But sometimes, life has other ideas.
I started a professional writing and editing course during the COVID-19 pandemic as an antidote to the chaos, an attempt to find some peace as the world lost its collective marbles. I'd always wanted to study writing, but the time was never right. It was pushed aside as I focused on a "real" career and family. After working in a respiratory clinic - swabbing noses in a drive-through marquee in the carpark, taking on the role of (mostly metaphorical) punching bag for a stressed and angry public - I took a time-out from medicine. I was burnt out and ready for a break.
The course gave me crucial structure, and importantly for someone with my neurotype, it gave me deadlines. For the first time in my writing career, others read my words and offered feedback, which was humbling and wonderful. I felt the first glimmer of being a real writer.
In medicine, there is often a defining moment where the role and identity of "doctor" clunks into place. For me, it was when I started training in general practice, after several years of floating around sub-specialties trying to find a fit. A patient with complex medical issues had returned for a follow-up appointment and made the off-hand comment that I was now her doctor. She was my patient. She was like a mirror, and my identity was a reflection of hers, an inverse dance. I was the doctor to her patient. A symbiosis.
Similarly, I was not able to identify as a writer until I had readers to reflect that image. This is not to say that writing for yourself, in private, is without worth; anyone who writes is a writer. But for years, I struggled to use the word for myself, and if I did, I would qualify it with various adjectives - aspiring, closet, amateur - in an attempt to express my humility, my impostor syndrome, my Australian self-deprecation.
One of my assessment tasks was a character study. The protagonist for Stillwater came to me fully formed, complete with backstory, flaws, needs and wants and goals. He was inspired by a discussion I had with a patient about how every person you meet is hiding something. Everyone has secrets; there are very few people who show their entire self to the world.
For another class, I was asked to outline a novel. I took my complex character and wrote out his story; I wrote summaries of the chapters and thought that was that.
And then the work started.
Because, obviously, no plan survives contact with the enemy. My ambitious outline lasted as long as it took me to write the first chapter, which was eventually scrapped. As anyone who has ever tried to write a novel will attest, the first three to six chapters are often a warm up; the real story starts later than you think. It turns out that I am not a planner.
I had to write the story to know what it was. My characters were disobedient and wouldn't stick to the script. This meant several rounds of iterative drafting and re-drafting as I realised what was working and what wasn't.
Eventually, I wrote THE END and thought I was done. I got some feedback, changed a few things, and then thought, what now? I was lucky enough to send my manuscript to the right agent at the right time, and guess what - more feedback.
So then, the work really started.
There is a quote - Seneca, I believe - that a gem cannot be polished without friction. This is the most apt description of the editing process I've ever heard. Editing is all about cutting out what doesn't work to expose that which does, and then buffing it to make it shine. For a writer, there is definitely friction in this. It's hard to see shards of your story on the cutting-room floor.
One of the biggest questions I had to answer was about genre. This was a rookie dilemma, one I should have put more thought into earlier. What was it that I'd written? It was a novel, but where did it fit in? Was it contemporary fiction? A coming-of-age story? A book needs a comfortable home on a shelf in a bookshop, alongside its family, in order to find the right reader.
It came as a minor revelation to me that what I'd written fit best on the crime shelf. Yes, many of the characters are criminals. And there is maybe a murder. But I'd always thought of crime fiction as police procedural or cosy mystery, which Stillwater is not.
In conversations since, many have asked why I chose to write crime, and my answer is: I didn't. It came about through experimentation, through following a story through to its logical conclusion and understanding the characters and their motivations - and it turns out that "write what you know" is still appropriate. The skills I've learned as a GP and counsellor translate well to crime: pattern recognition and analytical thinking, knowledge of the human body and psyche - not to mention a level of comfort with blood, gore and death.
So while it was not my intention to write crime, that is indeed what I've done. I'm very happy to add another identity, as a crime writer, to my list - no awkward laughs or suspicious side-eye needed.
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