Before you get stuck into this article, I am aware that there are a lot of people in the world who’d kill to be in my position. This isn’t a ‘woe is me’ plea for sympathy — this is an article born out of frustration and, frankly, it’s an opportunity to vent about the fucked-up tax system in the UK.
Over the past nine years, I’ve churned out nineteen full-length novels. Yep, nineteen. That’s roughly two books a year — which, by anyone’s standards, is bloody madness. I’ve waved goodbye to holidays, forgotten what weekends feel like, and ploughed through extreme bouts of man-flu.
Taxed for My Own Creativity
But here’s the kicker: despite working my arse off, I’m now giving more cash to the taxman than I pocket myself. This is because I’m self-employed. Every time I publish a new book, over 40% of my royalties vanish quicker than you can say “His Majesty’s Revenue and Fucking Customs.” At fifty-three, my time is becoming increasingly precious, yet the system seems hell-bent on ignoring that reality.
You might be thinking, “Keith, mate, just shift your novels into a limited company and dodge the worst of it.” Trust me, I thought of that too. Turns out, it’s not that simple — because of course it bloody isn’t. To transfer my nineteen novels, each one must be professionally valued individually at around £400 per title. Doesn’t sound like much until you realise that adds up to £7,600 (+ VAT, obviously). And just when you think that’s as daft as it gets, I then get hit with a five-figure capital gains tax bill — for the privilege of transferring ownership of my own sodding books. Seriously, you couldn’t make this shit up.
Then there’s the soul-crushing reality of having someone else slap a value on my work. Someone who has no clue about the late nights, the stress, the revisions, and the endless caffeine-fuelled hours I’ve poured into every story. Reducing something I’ve created from scratch to a cold, calculated figure on some accountant’s spreadsheet feels genuinely gutting.
Creativity Versus Bureaucracy
The kicker? The very thing that used to give me pride and a sense of achievement now feels like a ball and chain. The sheer joy of creating worlds, breathing life into characters, and spinning yarns that readers love is slowly being smothered by the mind-numbing complexity of UK tax law. Instead of rewarding entrepreneurial spirit and creativity, the system seems determined to kick it squarely in the bollocks at every given opportunity.
But forget the money for a moment — what really bothers me, what keeps me awake at night, is the thought of letting down my readers. They’ve stuck by me, invested their hard-earned cash, and shown endless patience and support. They’re not just customers; they’ve become friends, fellow travellers on this literary adventure.
Every message from a reader about how much they’ve enjoyed the latest novel, or their excitement about what’s coming next, reminds me exactly why I started writing. The idea of disappointing those people, those loyal readers who’ve supported me every step of the way, genuinely scares the crap out of me.
The Impossible Choice
So here I am, stuck between a rock and a hard place. I either slow down, giving myself time for other things — and risk losing readers — or I keep pushing at a pace that’s becoming increasingly unsustainable. Neither option is ideal, and both fill me with dread.
Sure, taking some time out to focus on other aspects of life sounds great in theory, but what happens if readers drift away? And if I release fewer books, will that momentum I’ve built up start to fade?
Don’t get me wrong — I’m not about to quit writing. No chance. But how long can any author, any creative person, keep up the pace when the system seems designed to punish rather than encourage us? Maybe it’s time to step back, pour myself a large glass of sloe gin, and properly consider the true cost of staying productive — both financially and emotionally.
One thing’s crystal clear: something has to change. Not just for me, but for every other man and woman slogging away and trying to build something worthwhile in a system that punishes us at every step. Until then, I’ll keep wrestling with this bloody ridiculous paradox: passionate creativity versus bureaucratic bullshit, art versus taxation.
For now, though, I need a drink. Pub?
