I have been spending a lot of time recently wondering why on earth I write. Of course, it’s rejections that bring on that ‘what’s it all for?’ mood.

I seem to have had a good few negatives explode in my in-box recently, like badly placed mines ready to tear off my writing limbs. They are somehow counterbalanced by an unequal number of positives of course, which is what keeps me going.

I carry on because, as I’ve said before, ‘Sex is good but have you ever been shortlisted in a writing competition?’ (I need to get a fridge magnet made). That thrill of knowing my story or poem stood out as proficient and entertaining, that someone besides family and friends thought my work was good – well that’s what it’s all about.

Ultimately of course I write for myself, for my own amusement and to escape into a world where I have total control, where I can be anyone, anything I want to be. It’s almost a compulsion, my need to write (I’ve been doing it since I was old enough to hold a pen). But it still matters to me that other people enjoy my writing too.

Yet writing is like many aspects of the human experience – one size does NOT fit all. Music, painting, sculpture, dance, garden design, fashion, politics, food, drink – life would be very dull if we all liked the same things.

True, some things are generally well liked and popular – think Elvis and the Beatles, think JK Rowling and Stephen King, think Monet and Picasso, think Jamie Oliver and Delia Smith, think Coco Chanel and Stella McCartney, think chocolate and colcanon.

OK, such a list could go on for ever, but you get the idea? And culture in all its guises is subjective, so I shouldn’t get hung up about someone not liking my writing. My work should appeal to someone, but not necessarily everyone. Should I mind? Probably not, but I do…

So in order to prove to myself and other people that I CAN write, I put myself through the competition mangle time and time again. Last year I’d planned to get to one hundred submissions (which included competition entries, bursary applications, magazine contributions et al). I ran out of steam after no 74, although by then I’d garnered a few wins, with some published stories to add to my portfolio. Plus, the coffers were not unduly strained (I more than broke even, although I’m not booking the round-the-world cruise just yet).

I hit the ground running in January 2016 and promised myself again to try for a century. We’re not quite half way through the year and I’ve just fired my 51^st submission off, ever hopeful of a ‘congratulations’ reply.

Meanwhile, one thing that has perked me up no end was looking through my records and discovering that some of my successes had been failures in a previous incarnation. Each one got dusted off and rewritten, then sent out again, including one story that was rejected by a very good writer (the lovely one I met in a bookshop in Cork last week!), which went on to get published in an anthology with a highly commended tag.  Which just goes to show…

And the picture? Er, squirrels?  Yes, well first off, I really miss them here in Ireland. They don’t live anywhere near me (nor do hedgehogs or rabbits, although we do have foxes, hares, badgers and polecats). This one lives in Swansea (Dylan Thomas country – see, there is a writing connection here). And this fella likes stale Cheerios, although some of his fellow tree rats don’t…

QED, eh?