Been thinking this morning—no, don't soil your pants, I do think sometimes—about being a writer. No one tells you at the start, at least no one told me, about how potentially heartbreaking it could be if you let it. Of course, twelve years ago, with no access to the internet and the vast amount of support groups for authors, I knew no one else who wrote or understood why I do it. Now I do, and with that came the realisation that writers knowingly leave themselves wide open for ridicule. We...