Why I Keep Writing (Even When It Doesn’t Always Love Me Back)

Why I Keep Writing (Even When It Doesn’t Always Love Me Back) | By Amy Roullier.

Last week was a whirlwind away from home, my partner, the dogs, and any chance to write. I’m so grateful to love my day job, but when I go too long without writing, a quiet melancholy starts to creep in.

So here I am on a Sunday evening, curled up on the sofa with my laptop, trying to make up for a low word count this week (especially since I’ve set myself an early 2026 deadline for my next book). This time, I’ve actually put together a proper launch plan… trying to lead with confidence for once.

But somewhere between chapters and cups of tea, I found myself distracted by a familiar question:

Why am I doing this to myself?

Why am I adding blogs, Substack articles, and poetry books into an already hectic life?

I certainly don’t need the stress. I don’t need another thing to think about. I lose track as it is.

Why do I persist—so stubbornly—with writing? When it hasn’t yet brought any financial reward. When it sometimes feels like it doesn’t love me back. When it demands time I could spend with friends, family, or my partner. Why do I keep showing up to create things that seem to vanish into the void the moment I release them? That quiet space where you release your words and wait for a sign that someone, somewhere, felt them, can feel infinite.

Here’s the truth:

I made a promise to myself at 36 to never stop writing again, because I’d let the dream go too easily, too many times before.

Like in my teens, when I was encouraged to take a more “sensible” path instead of pursuing journalism—the thing I truly wanted to do. It didn’t seem to matter that I’d spent my childhood writing stories, inventing comic book ideas, and crafting imaginary newspapers. For a girl from a working-class family, that dream felt too far-fetched. A fantasy rather than a future.

When I First Let the Dream Go

So, I took another path—one my dad believed would be more secure. I don’t blame him; he wanted the best for me. And pursuing Computer Science led me to being the first in my family to attend University, and even though I eventually dropped out—coding/software development/network administration, it all really wasn’t for me—that path led me to the travel industry I now love.

But I do look back and wish that younger version of me had believed in herself enough to say, “Actually, I’d like to try a career in writing.”

Although I kept writing over the years. Quietly. Behind closed doors, away from the world. I wrote in notebooks, on scraps of paper, on Word documents no one ever saw. I compiled piles and piles of half written stories. I lost evenings and weekends to worlds of fantasy and fiction. I never quite let the dream die enough to stop writing completely.

The Rejection Years

In my early twenties, I sent my first novel to publishers. The rejections came quickly. I took them as a sign that I wasn’t meant to be a writer—that a girl from a tiny Lincolnshire village had no right to such grand dreams. I once again gave up easily. Didn’t write again for years. I find my lack of talent so easy to believe. My worth, self-validation, so hard to find.

I didn’t know then that rejection is part of the process. I didn’t know Stephen King once threw Carrie in the bin until his wife rescued it. I didn’t know that so many of my favourite authors faced the same endless “no’s” while holding down full-time jobs, clinging to a hope that seemed to flicker more than it burned.

And I didn’t know that most writers don’t “make it” overnight.

It’s years of trial, failure, persistence, and showing up even when the world tells you you’re not enough.

In my late twenties, writing pulled at me again, a little stronger this time. I spent three years writing a novel. The plot was chaotic, the arc predictable, and at a point where I might show people what I’d created, I decided I was terrible at fiction. My under confidence became my greatest barrier. Every time I got close, I’d talk myself out of trying again.

You see I’m good at faking confidence day to day, but underneath it all, I’m full of self-doubt. I struggle with praise. Even maintaining this website, my Substack, my social media, it’s all a challenge. Some days, I want to delete everything and disappear.

It’s been a deeply uncomfortable journey at times to share what I’ve created. And to do it confidently? To launch a book and say, “Hey, I wrote this, please buy it!” So deeply uncomfortable that I basically didn’t do it the first time around.

Oh I put out an Insta and FB post telling people what I’d done but I left it at that. Didn’t want to take up too much space on their feeds. Didn’t want to shout about something I’d poured hours of my life, my heart, my soul into. Was scared they’d laugh, make fun, that my dream would be something they’d ridicule. And to be honest, I’m not sure my fragile little heart could take it.

Why I’ll Never Stop Writing Again

But after my divorce at 31—after losing myself for years and giving up on my dreams—I started to think about writing a lot more. As I edged closer to middle age, I thought a lot about the girl who’d dreamed of being a journalist, who’d longed to write stories that swept people up into fantasy worlds. I wondered how she’d feel about who I’d become; a woman who so easily cast aside her dreams and told herself she wasn’t good enough to chase grand ideas.

When the pandemic happened, I was 36 and part time furloughed. And it struck me that it was now or never. I finally had more time and no excuses. I wasn’t getting any younger. I would never have more time to put into writing than at that very moment. And I had a lot to say about the chaos of modern dating, surviving a toxic relationship, rediscovering myself after divorce, and the archaic ideas as a society we still cling to about being single.

The Promise I Made at 36

It was at that moment, I made a promise: when I started writing again at 36, I’d never stop. Not for anyone. Not for anything. I’d keep writing, even if it didn’t go anywhere other than that void. Even if it doesn’t always love me back. I will love it regardless, and I will never, ever now let it go.

So here I am, nearly five years later. Still writing. Still learning. Still showing up.

My first book is out in the world (you can find it via the link on my homepage), and book two is officially on its way.

Because the truth is—I don’t write for the rewards.
I write because it’s who I am.

I write because even though I’ve stopped and started again over the years, writing has always called me back. So, watch this space. The story isn’t over yet.

If you’ve ever wondered whether to keep creating, I hope this reminds you to hold on to your voice. And if you’d like to follow along as I finish book two, you can join me on Insta — we’re all figuring this out together.