I once watched a documentary by a renowned fertility expert. He explained, very convincingly, that the most precious thing that any of us will ever possess is our DNA. He went on to argue that passing our genes on to the next generation is the most important thing we will ever do. Indeed, he said, it is the whole point of a mortal life. I found this idea incredibly depressing. The sum value of human existence, reduced to passing on our flawed genetic torches.

Well raspberry to you Professor. I fully intend to wave my torch about a bit while it’s still burning. My words will exist long after I am dead. Admittedly at the back of some dusty broom cupboard at the British library, next to a bottle of old disinfected and a mouldy sandwich. Nevertheless, my legacy will live on, even when my family tree ends in an ugly stump. I am immortal! Muahaha!

Does that sound vainglorious? Of course, it is. I doubt more than a few dozen people will ever read my book. Eventually someone will find its decaying remains next to the mouldy sandwich and throw them both in the bin. I suppose you could argue that any kind of legacy is a human conceit. After all, how many of us even know the names of their great-grandparents? Unless you are royalty, but that’s cheating. For those of us not blessed by our ancestry, we’ll likely pass through history unnoticed and unremarked upon.

Which brings me back to my question. Why does anyone write? I sometimes wonder if all writers are all are just hopeless romantics. I doubt anyone types the first word of their debut novel and thinks “I wonder if my royalties will be enough for a prawn sandwich?” I know I didn’t. I was certain my first book would be a colossal success and my second would be written at my private retreat. A pretty cottage overlooking the sea with a rose garden and a path down to the beach. It didn’t take me long to downgraded that to a rusty campervan in a quiet carpark. Right now, I’d settle for an ice cream, without the flake, obviously.

The sad reality is that most self-published books will never break even. I would need to sell several thousand copies to pay for editing, cover design and marketing. I’ll be lucky to sale a few hundred. I know what you are thinking, aspiring writer. You will read that and shout “But I’m different. My talent shines like a red giant. Ho ho ho!” Yep, I thought that too. But unless you are an established name or have a vast mailing list of dedicated fans, it is unlikely you’ll ever reach three figures.

Urgh. Depressing. Maybe the Professor was right. If writing is unlikely to bring fame, fortune or immortality, what’s the point? You probably think I am about to say, “Because I love it!” The thing is that wouldn’t be entirely honest. Yes, I love writing short stories, but novels are really, really hard. My first draft of The Rush was a panicky, barely coherent mess. The self-doubt is crushing. It’s emotionally tough to accept that the only way forward is to delete weeks of work. Then there is editing. I still cry when I read the editorial comments from my first draft. It took me nearly two years of studying and practice before I recovered from that thrashing. And don’t get me started on the special kind of hell that is writing “Please, sir,” letters to literary agents who can’t even be bothered to reply.

Am I, and all other self-published writers, masochists, then? If we weren’t harmlessly glued to a keyboard, would we be flagellating ourselves with birch sticks and listening to painfully loud industrial metal? I am not so sure. You see, writing gives me something that I never had in my previous career. It gives me a voice. A medium to talk about the things that really matter to me. A way to pass on the small wisdoms I have learnt. An outlet where I can draw pictures in someone else’s mind. That’s a privilege I will never take for granted. I may never be able to afford a prawn sandwich, I will almost certainly be forgotten, but you read this post, and that’s enough for me.