Are writing development programmes worth it?
A reflection essay after finishing New Writing North's A Writing Chance programme for working-class writers. Learning how to belong in a world that doesn't belong to you.
Last week marked the official end of A Writing Chance, twelve months of structured possibility dissolving quietly back into an ordinary silence, the kind that follows when something special comes to an end. As I sit in the hush, a silence that is both familiar and unsettling, I wonder if anything has changed, if I now firmly belong in the world of words or if I remain a trespasser perpetually lingering outside of literature’s cast-iron gates.
Belonging is a tricky word. Slippery. Fragile. It’s a dull ache that has never faded since my childhood of temporariness, where kindness felt transient, conditional, something lent until someone took it back. Trust became a cautious negotiation, rarely extended, often withdrawn. I’m older now, and words have become a safe house, but belonging isn’t a fixed place, and this could never be a long-term solution.
A Writing Chance is unusual. It’s not just an opportunity but the assembling of scaffolding, built explicitly to lift working-class writers like me up and over those gates. New Writing North constructed a comprehensive structure, including financial support, industry insight days, a writing retreat, workshops, Zoom sessions, and mentorship. Tools were carefully chosen to address barriers I know intimately. Tools that allow me to dedicate time to exploring my voice. But tools alone do not create belonging. That requires something intangible, beyond mere access.
As you might have guessed, I was placed on the Substack strand of the programme. Truthfully, it is the only reason why this Substack exists. Did I really need this programme to launch it? Technically, no. But emotionally, yes. I was already knee-deep in a Master’s programme for creative writing. Therefore, my writing was being developed and was growing steadily. However, the feeling of belonging evaded me and was affecting my ability to write. I would see other people in my year getting opportunities and advancing themselves. At the same time, I was left peering at the gates.
I applied during a period when I had stopped writing entirely. My personal life, work life, creative life, each layer was imploding simultaneously. Months passed without a single word written. I felt like I lost my ability to be a writer. Applying was desperation. My final throw of the dice. Sometimes validation, the assurance of external permission, is precisely what’s needed to type out the first trembling words.
Once my place was confirmed, it was on me to build this digital corner. New Writing North would support me in any way I felt I needed. But no one was going to do the work for me. I was uncertain if my voice would carry, uncertain if I belonged. I scoured Substack, looking for other care leavers, voices like mine, searching for a home here. There were a handful whose subscriber counts only reached double figures, but they are all quiet now and have faded away a few years ago. Perhaps our voices didn’t belong on this platform? Doubt clung stubbornly, like leaves in an autumn breeze.
Mentorship is the heart of the programme. A year-long lifeline, carefully tailored. Mine arrived in the form of the floppy-haired Substacker, columnist, and recently crowned Sunday Times Best Seller (he’ll hate me for that), Jonn Elledge.
Our first meeting arrived, naturally, on Zoom. My pulse quickened like a brass band tuning before the first note. Three dots bounced beneath his name while the audio struggled to connect. Seconds stretched unbearably. I’m shy with new people, shy of conversation stalling awkwardly, shy of belonging, still out of reach. None of that mattered once his tile faded from black to fuzzy blue.
Jonn immediately confessed a hatred of Zoom.
“Can we just WhatsApp and meet in person?” he asked. “I don’t want this to be formal if that’s ok with you?”
Relief flooded me quietly. Unexpected but very welcome. We discussed my plans for the newsletter, audience-building, my uncertain voice, what I hoped to get out of the mentorship. Beneath my ambition lay a simpler, quieter hope: to get to know people, to feel permanent, to belong, and not to fade away. I was struck by his confidence that we could do this.
Belonging begins this way. Unexpectedly, in tiny kindnesses, in the moments someone makes space for you. I wasn’t expecting this. My doubts were stubbornly clinging on, but his infectious enthusiasm made it hard for them to stay.
Unlike other programmes, New Writing North had considered every possible barrier to prevent working-class people from succeeding in publishing. They would cover our travel, our food, our hotels, but to think that the only barrier for working-class people is financial is incredibly shortsighted. One of the hardest obstacles is imagining yourself belonging in spaces that seem reserved for others. Industry insight days dismantled some of this. Substack, Audible, Faber & Faber, and The Daily Mirror, once distant logos, became real places with familiar faces who knew my name, my face, my contact details. I felt something shift gently, the gates quietly opening, whispering, “Come inside.” This is what makes A Writing Chance unique.
Throughout the year, my mentorship deepened beyond expectations. Jonn’s eye was sharp and generous, illuminating the fascinating aspects of my writing that I routinely overlooked. Quiet lines I almost deleted would suddenly glow under his attention. He’d share my work with his readers, and his friends would share it too. Subscribers would trickle in gently, affirming quietly that perhaps my voice did carry. There was a place for me here.
In my moments of burnout, those silences where no emails appeared in your inboxes and the pages remained blank, Jonn would quietly check in.
“Everything ok?” he’d ask simply.
I’d never known this quiet care from a mentor before. Trust remains an elusive concept, a barrier built from experience, each brick cemented by past disappointments.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he reassured as the year wound down. But my history is filled with, as Mary Poppins would call them, pie crust promises: easily made, easily broken. Mentorship had an official expiry date. Fear persisted. Without formal obligation, would this relationship continue?
At the year’s close, last Thursday’s celebration evening arrived in the form of an exclusive event at Faber & Faber. A final push to help build connections for the whole cohort while also tying off an intense 12 months. Uncertain if Jonn would attend, I waited anxiously like a child, hoping their parent would appear at a school play. When he showed, something shifted further inside me, this small act of presence, this simple validation.
Two truths remain clear from this year. First, my writing has become sharper, gaining clarity and resonance. I know this from all of you, my readers, who subscribe to my newsletter, share it with your friends, hit the like button, and let me know in the comments. I feel I’ve reached a point where words come more fluently. Second, I gained something rarer, not merely a mentor but a friend. Jonn’s voice was still there, reassuring, perhaps now freer, gentler, more genuine as it is unbound by obligation.
I’ve had mentors before from other opportunities, but this feels different. Maybe it’s the meeting in person or WhatsApp, but it feels more lasting. I can message, meet for coffee, and maybe even share new work.
Thanks to all of you who have come with me on this journey over the past year. I will continue this newsletter, and we’ll grow it together. Will I stay lingering at the gates? For now, I’m in. My agent has been in touch to say how much my writing has improved recently and how she now sees a way to get me published. I will share any updates with you as they become available.
Belonging, I now realise, it is not a permanent destination. It’s a process. It’s an exhausting one, but the small victories, quiet validation, and friendships slowly emerge from mentorship. It’s the realisation that, even when the scaffolding disappears, something intangible remains. It lives quietly, in a friend’s voice, in simple kindnesses, in risks of trust, in careful leaps of imagination.
Was it all worth it? 100%.
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I found your work through Jonn’s and I’m so glad I did
I'm so excited to read more of your work. There's so much kinship to be found as you find your voice, share your words, your point of view.