The Seagull and the Chip:

What a Bin-Raiding Bird Can Teach You About Writing Persistence

There are moments in a writer’s life when inspiration soars like a hawk—graceful, majestic, effortlessly brilliant.

And then there’s the other 97%.

The part that looks a lot more like a seagull wrestling a chip out of an overflowing bin.

Not exactly a soaring metaphor, I’ll admit. But bear with me. Because if you’ve ever fought tooth and talon for a sentence that just wouldn’t come, or scrabbled around the detritus of your first draft hoping something edible might emerge, you, my friend, are that seagull.

And that’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s exactly what makes you a writer.

When Writing Feels More Bin Than Birdsong

There’s a popular image of writers out there—mahogany desks, steaming coffee, leather-bound notebooks soaking up the effortless genius pouring from our fingertips.

Meanwhile, in reality, most of us are hunched over laptops in questionable pyjamas, wrestling a scene that refuses to behave and wondering if “banoffee” is a real flavour or something we made up in the delirium.

Most days, writing isn’t about divine revelation. It’s about stubbornness. It’s about staying in the process—however messy, however disheartening—because somewhere in that glorious chaos, something worthwhile is fighting to emerge.

Much like a slightly unhinged seagull headfirst in a council bin.

Bin Diving as the Real Creative Process

Here’s the thing: persistence is creativity.

We love to believe that creativity means “getting it right the first time.” But real creativity—the kind that actually builds stories, worlds, and voices—looks much more like a scruffy gull refusing to give up on a battered chip.

Creativity isn’t a divine download. It’s a messy negotiation. It’s adaptation. It’s survival. (Which, incidentally, is how storytelling itself evolved—long before books, humans were huddled around fires, swapping tales that might just keep them alive through the night​Stories as Survival Mec….)

Your messy drafts? Your abandoned outlines? Your stubborn insistence on pecking at an idea that just won’t cooperate? That’s not failure. That’s flight training.

The Bin Is Not Beneath You

First drafts are supposed to be ugly. Revision is supposed to be frustrating. Editing is supposed to feel, at times, like rooting through a bin at closing time.

That’s not a detour. That’s the map.

No one expects a seagull to find a freshly fried, Michelin-star chip perched on a velvet cushion. Likewise, no one should expect their first draft to be a masterpiece. Bins are where the good stuff hides—and only the persistent find it.

Creativity Is Not Linear—It’s a Loop

Some days, you peck around the bin and find a whole chip.

Some days, you flap and squawk and get nothing but vinegar fumes.

Creativity is not a smooth upward arc; it’s a loop. A lopsided, battered, occasionally uplifting, frequently exasperating loop.

You try. You fail. You try again. You find a sentence that sings. You lose a scene that collapses like a badly pitched tent. You go back in. You flap a bit. You peck harder.

That’s the process. That’s the work.

You are not broken because you’re looping. You’re a writer because you’re looping.

Your First Draft Is the Bin: Accept It, Embrace It, Dive In

Let’s not pretend otherwise: your first draft is the bin.

It’s not organised. It’s not tidy. It definitely contains things you should’ve thrown away days ago.

But bins, for all their faults, contain potential.

Inside your draft are ideas scribbled in the margins. Characters who are currently nothing more than names and bad habits. Sentences that almost—but not quite—say what you mean.

Your job isn’t to have a pristine bin. Your job is to rummage until you find the chip.

Sidebar: First Draft Bin Contents You’ll Probably Encounter

A metaphor so tortured it needs counselling

A character who changes eye colour three times in one scene

A paragraph that begins strongly and ends somewhere in a different genre

Notes like “FIX THIS LATER” written six times and underlined furiously

Random philosophical tangents about the meaning of spoons

And that’s fine. It’s all part of the feast.

Writing Shamelessly: Learning from the Gull

Now, the seagull does not care that people are watching. It does not care that its head is buried in refuse. It does not care that Sandra from Kent has just muttered, “Oh, how disgusting.”

The gull has a job to do.

We would do well to adopt the same attitude.

Writing isn’t always dignified. Sometimes it means reading your terrible dialogue aloud to your cat. Sometimes it means Googling “how many potatoes to kill a man” at 2 a.m. Sometimes it means putting your weird, battered, hopeful little story on the internet and squawking proudly as it flaps its ungainly way into the world.

Shamelessness in writing is not arrogance. It’s creative virtue. It’s freedom.

It’s sticking your head in the bin and finding treasure—and not caring if anyone thinks you look ridiculous while doing it.

(And if it helps, imagine that every time you feel embarrassed about your draft, a seagull somewhere wins a chip. Circle of life.)

Victory Is a Chip in the Beak, Not a Masterpiece

Here’s the secret: sometimes the seagull wins.

After all the flapping and pecking and indignity, it flies off triumphant, chip clutched proudly in its beak like the spoils of war.

Is it the best chip in the world? Absolutely not.

Is it Michelin-starred, truffle-oil-drizzled, twice-fried perfection? No.

But it’s a chip. It’s food. It’s something to work with. And that’s enough.

Writing success is exactly that.

You don’t always get brilliance. But you get something:

A line that finally says what you meant.

A paragraph that doesn’t make you weep.

A scene that breathes, just a little.

Not enough to build a legacy on? Perhaps.

Enough for today? Absolutely.

And today is where all stories begin.

Final Thoughts From the Bin: Don’t Give Up

So if you find yourself today staring into the dark recesses of your draft, wondering if you’re getting anywhere—picture our gull.

Proud. Undeterred. Slightly ridiculous.

Remember: the bin may be messy, but there’s gold in there somewhere.

Or at least a half-decent chip.

Grab it. Squawk if you must.

Just don’t give up.

The Seagull manifesto

Before we part ways, it seems only right to leave you with a few principles to scrawl on the inside of your writerly heart (or at least on a Post-it above your desk).

Because if seagulls can survive on stubbornness, optimism, and the occasional slightly questionable chip—then so can we.

1. Peck Relentlessly: The good stuff is deeper than you think.

• Ignore Sandra: Critics exist. So do chips.

• Honour the Chip: Small victories feed future victories.

• Flap Loudly When Necessary: Passion looks ridiculous. That’s how you know it’s working.

• Return to the Bin Tomorrow: There’s always more treasure if you’re willing to look.

Final Squawk

Writing isn’t a straight line. It isn’t a heroic march to a brass band soundtrack. It’s bin raids and stubbornness. It’s hope stitched together with grim determination and a healthy dose of gallows humour.

Some days you soar. Some days you scrabble.

Either way, you’re still in the sky.

Keep pecking. Keep flapping. Keep chasing the next half-decent chip.

Because in the end, that’s how stories are built—one ridiculous, glorious, hard-won morsel at a time.