A quiet conversation, a forgotten question, and the real reason I finally found my voice. 

During this time of year, our local pub undergoes a dramatic metamorphosis. One day, you walk in and greet everyone by name. The next, you are met with a line-up of strangers — smiling warmly, shaking hands, introducing themselves. That, it turns out, is tradition.

The reason is simple, as most explanations are. Many of the barkeeps work here seasonally, saving the piles of cash earned from generous tips. When the time is right, they exchange the pub — with its perpetual cloud of cigarette smoke — for a coastal town where waves crash and the air is clean. We rarely see them again.

Change, however, is good. I’ve always believed that. This particular change brings opportunity — to meet new people, strangers as we call them.

The problem with becoming a regular at any establishment is this: familiarity breeds entitlement. The regulars, myself included, know the best seats, the optimal time for a refill, the exact placement of the salt shakers. New barkeeps, fresh from their own lives and eager to please, are often subjected to our subtle demands, our pointed critiques, our thinly veiled impatience. It’s a delicate dance, this yearly turnover. We are simultaneously the source of their income and the potential catalysts for their swift departure. And yet, this cycle — this constant influx of fresh faces and new perspectives — is what keeps the pub alive, breathing, and just slightly interesting.

And so it was.

After a fruitful day, we decided to spend some time in the bustling pub. We walked in expecting the familiar faces — the girls we knew by name, who wore their confidence like currency, prompting older men like me to tip more freely. But not today.

A young man greeted us instead, beaming, offering a firm handshake as he introduced himself. I wouldn’t call my reaction disappointment — more surprise. We were only just getting used to the latest newcomers, and this year had already delivered its fair share of change. Still, I shook his hand and made my way to the table we always sit at.

Not long after, he returned with our drinks. It was a quiet day. I noticed he lingered, trying to strike up conversation with the young barmaids, whose eyes never left their phones as manicured thumbs danced across glowing screens. Eventually, with a sigh, he came over to check on us, surprised by how full my beer glass remained.

“What do you do?” he asked, his eyes darting between me and the empty chair beside him.

I gestured for him to sit.

“I’m a writer,” I said casually, watching his expression — because it always seems to impress or confuse people.

His eyebrow arched. “What kind of writing?”

“Technical, copy, feature, and fiction.”

His eyebrows climbed higher, like doorways into the Vatican. He leaned in, curiosity fully engaged. I could feel it — that moment when a conversation matters.

“Ah,” he chuckled. “A man of many words. Do you enjoy it?”

I paused. Enjoy felt too small a word.

“I live for it,” I said. “The stories. The research. The struggle. The joy of finishing a piece. It’s a disease — a glorious one.”

His eyes lit up. “Tell me more.”

And so I did. I spoke of hours spent alone, of dedication, rejection letters, and the quiet thrill of seeing words come alive. I spoke of the power of language — how it shapes thought, emotion, identity. The young man never lost focus. We talked for hours as the pub emptied around us, until the last pint was poured and the doors were locked.

When we finally parted, he shook my hand and thanked me, promising to remember my words. It felt as fulfilling as writing the best story of my life.

Alcohol, paired with chronic medication, is a potent cocktail. For days afterward, our conversation hovered over me — nagging, unfinished. I knew something had been missed, but I didn’t want to return just to ask. His words replayed in my mind, echoing like fragments of a half-remembered dream.

Then one night, back at the pub, the answer struck me like a jab to the stomach.

The young man wasn’t there — but his voice was.

“Why do you write?”

The question cut through the noise, the laughter, the clatter of glasses. Why did I write? It was deceptively simple, yet it had followed me for years. Writing was more than work or passion. It was a need. A compulsion. Something that demanded to be fed.

And then my own voice answered back.

“Your writing is a coping mechanism.”

I startled myself. It was only half the truth. I love writing — deeply — but I also use it to calm my overactive mind. Like reading, it silences the storm before it erupts. It keeps the volcano dormant.

Another question followed.

“Why did you wait so long to start?”

That one I had to sit with.

The answer came not in a moment of triumph, but while reading yet another rejection letter, another lukewarm review. The younger version of me would have lashed out — at agents, at readers — burning bridges before they were built. Immaturity paired with mental health struggles is a volatile mix.

People like me take longer to grow. We develop slowly, like succulents. We bloom late — sometimes only once — and must recognise the moment when it arrives.

That was when I remembered something the woman who raised me once said:

“Late bloomers have all the luck.”

Thank you, Mom.

And thank you, young man.