So as of 9am this morning I was still unemployed but hopeful. My proposal for a new novel was on my publisher’s desk and with every day that passed I had fallen more and more in love with the story. I wanted to start writing it but caution held me back. ‘Don’t set yourself up for disappointment,’ whispered the voice of Good Sense. ‘Keep busy. Dust the top of the wardrobe. Arrange your spice jars in alphabetical order.’
The shoe dropped just after lunch. Publisher doesn’t love my idea. As a matter of fact it doesn’t even tickle her with a passing fancy. She will expect me to come up with something much tastier to set before the accountants. And I suppose I will, mainly because I must. The alternative is to cut a deal with God, to give me an extra eight hours in every day in which I can write the book I really want to write, publish it myself and say, ‘ya booh sucks’ to publishing houses.
But right now I see a chasm opening beneath my feet.