I’m a non-native English speaker. And I write for a living.
Admitting this costs me more than I ever thought possible.
I’m a non-native English speaker. I’m based in London. And I write for a living.
This I know well, and so do many around me; and yet, I still spend some of my days trying to learn how to hide it better.
It took me a while to realise this is such a rooted internal conflict of mine, a near dichotomy driving most of my life choices. Even now, admitting this costs me more than I ever thought possible. It’s a hard fact, yet one that has always had a certain power and influence over me.
There’s a part of me that believes I’m still not quite at the end of the road to reach full acceptance.
And I don’t mean acceptance from others; I mean it from my own self.
When I grow up, I want to be…
I remember clear as day the moment I realised I wanted to be a writer. As a middle-grader, I couldn’t fully grasp what that meant. I couldn’t know. All I knew was that my literature teacher had assigned a rewriting of a short story to the whole class, and I just couldn’t put my pen down.
When I clutched my 8-page story and hopped to my parents, who were enjoying a smoke and a chat in our only bathroom right in that moment (as they are still often wont to do today), they were both incredibly supportive. I was never the kind of kid with an interest in becoming a football player, an astronaut, or even a famous public figure— I wanted to be something else. What that would be, I never quite knew — until my teacher asked me to reimagine a short story. That was when I realised: I loved words, I loved telling stories, and it came somewhat natural to me to enjoy that process.
I loved words, I loved telling stories, and it came somewhat natural to me to enjoy that process.
But I was born in a small Italian seaside town along the coast of Sicily, where legendary fishermen still roam the streets today (one of them being my very own grandpa) and everything is focused on the here and now. In Palermo, your only duty is to love the land that cradled you — to be grateful to live in such a warm and lush heaven kissed by the golden sun. There, ambition is a much rare character trait to come upon. Alas, I have plenty.
And like all my hometown friends who had plenty themselves, there was only one logical choice for me.
Sic Parvis Magna
A small seaside town can feel like a suffocating snare to anyone with dreams larger than it can handle. It certainly felt that way to me. I dreamt of making waves, leaving something behind for those to come, and of doing so with the stories I wrote, the values I championed, the characters I cherished.
This is what pushed me to move to London just about five years ago. A burning desire to speak to the world, understand it better, be part of something bigger. But with that comes a lot of second-guessing.
I’ve come to learn over the past few years that creative people are prone to living their life in the shade of a crippling impostor syndrome. I’ve written about this before, too, during my time at Creativepool. But I’ve always believed to suffer from a different strand of self-doubt, one that has to do with my own personal status as an outsider striving to fit in.
Which makes sense, when I think about it. All my life has been about trying to fit in. But when you move to a different country, ‘fitting in’ assumes a whole new meaning. Suddenly it’s not about finding people with your same interests anymore, it’s about connecting on an even deeper level.
Now, imagine having to put all that into a writing career.
Writing for a living
It’s funny: for someone who works with words, describing how I feel as a non-native English writer is incredibly difficult. It’s almost intangible, a shadow walking by you and guiding your every step, as you navigate a job market that is clearly intended for natives.
And I believe some of that has to do with the incredibly specific career I chose for myself: when you’re smithing words, you either know how to work with the mould or you don’t. You either know which tools fit where, or you make a gargantuan mess that other people will have to clean up when you’re gone.
I see it with my partner, who works in events and logistics, and though she’s clearly a great communicator, she will never have for words the same use or love as I do. If you’re not working in comms, or advertising, or publishing, or some other word-related field, then you can pretty much get away with not remembering one word or two. Most careers for non-native workers don’t rely on such an extensive mastery of the target language.
I won’t deny I’ve always felt the weight of that on my shoulders.
When your brain is hard-wired to think in two languages, you either learn to shut down one part or you fail. And if you fail, people will notice; inevitably, they will compare you with the writer with the broader vocabulary — who also so happens to be a native. Because how many non-native writers have actually reached for the stars, and got close enough to join them? Who’s to say I’ll be one of those? Who’s to say I won’t be left in the mud?
And so, for the longest time, I paid the consequences of dreaming big.
I’ve had writing professors tell me that my prose was weak. So I worked to read more, study more, understand more. I may not be quite the master of baroque prose yet, but I keep doing what I must.
I’ve had editors and content leads read some of my writing and say “Ah, yes, I can see where the non-native bit comes from.” That always hurt. Unfortunately, I think it always will.
The non-native voice isn’t something you can quite point out in a sentence. As a piece of feedback, that’s almost rubbish. It’s some sort of vibe, a feel, like an unmistakable flurry of visual elements composing a bigger picture in the masterful hands of an artist; it’s style, and style means everything and nothing at the same time. It may have to do with syntax, vocabulary, paragraph structure, or even all of these things at once. To an extent, it’s beyond your control. Which makes it frustrating, and nearly impossible to target.
Yet I’m conscious a lot of this is just self-doubt. For the longest time I’ve been pushing away the thought that, after all, I am in fact a non-native English writer. As if I had to hide that away, store it in the farthest recesses of my mind — a creepy leitmotif underscoring everything I do, oozing in from the shadows. Because of course I can’t remember that word — I’m not a bloody native, never will be.
So what do you do when you’re the only person standing in the way of seeing yourself as a skilled writer?
You keep writing.
I’m a non-native English writer… and that’s okay
All of this will never change the fact that I’m a non-native English speaker who wants to write for a living. That is who I am. And there’s no reason to try and hide that away, as if I had something to prove to others — or myself.
In the past, I’ve said this to my partner a number of times: “I’ve applied for that writing role, but I don’t think I’ll get it. Why would anyone choose me over a native? They will always have the upper hand.”
And to an extent, I still believe this to be true. I’m sure something must click in the brains of some recruiters reading my name and bio next to my job title. I’m sure there must be some scepticism from other writers in the industry, too. I’m an Italian who wants to write in English, and to get paid for it. That can’t be right, can it? Mamma mia. It’s a recipe for disaster.
Except it only is if you choose to give up — or to bury your fears under the carpet, to let them chip at your self-confidence a bit more every day. Lately, I’ve been learning to ignore them. Last year I had an interview with a leading Silicon Valley giant for a gaming editor role. I didn’t get the role in the end, but I got far enough in the hiring process that I really believed I stood a chance. So much that I genuinely think the role went to the other person solely because they had the most experience.
I’m a non-native English speaker who wants to become a writer for a living. That is who I am. And there’s no reason to try and hide that away, as if I had something to prove to others — or myself.
Another potential employer was a best-in-class, leading magazine in the advertising and marketing industries. The final round was down to me and another candidate. By their own admission, the only reason I wasn’t chosen was that the other candidate was an internal member of the team—who only decided to apply in the late stages of my hiring process.
And just this year, at last, an incredibly forward-thinking social media agency made the (much questionable) choice of giving me a chance as a content manager. It’s already been the best year of my entire career, writing for some truly world-leading clients and organisations — fluff-free, literal world leaders in their industries. And I’m sure I’m only getting started.
More friends and colleagues have begun praising my writing in recent years. Some people have been doing that for a long time, but for a number of reasons, I just couldn’t believe them. There is always one more thing I can learn. There is always a better way to write a sentence. There is always a new structure I can try out, a new word I can steal, a new concept I can salvage from a native writer. So, how can they be right? As far as the craft goes, I’m nowhere near done with my learning journey.
But I’m starting to see the results of my hard work. Those compliments have started to seep through. And that voice telling me I’m just a non-native who wouldn’t stand a chance against his peers is farther and farther away.
So yes: I’m a non-native English speaker who makes a living from writing in London. I want to be many things in life, but never have I doubted in these five years that I will still be writing until I die.
And so I keep writing.
Because I wouldn’t know what else could ever bring me the same happiness and peace.
