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Okay, so we’ve made it to Wednesday. At least, it’s Wednesday for those of you on Earth Time, here in Britain it’s 1588 and we’re still waiting for the Spanish Armada and a decent cup of tea. So. Gather around, my pretties, for here begins the tale....

All right, I know this tale began a couple of blogs ago, but have you never heard of Dramatic Tension?

So. I had children. I wrote. I submitted. I failed to reach publication. Although I did manage to score quite a lot of success in competitions, it was nearly always of the ‘Runner Up, nice pat on the back, maybe a box of chocolates but only the winner gets printed’ kind. This went on for another twenty years. Yep, count ‘em. TWENTY YEARS! You think you’re on the verge of giving up after a mere couple? You want to try TWENTY YEARS of rejection slips. On the plus side, the cats’ litter tray never went unlined. And what kept me going? Sheer bloody-mindedness and a skin so tough that I never need to use oven gloves.

If you want to be a writer (and see above remark about spending years and years in the unpublished wilderness, believe me I know all about wanting to be a writer without actually making it, you really have to WANT it), then one of the many things you need is the ability to smile calmly whenever rejection rears its many-horned head.

Yes, having a novel rejected is the equivalent of spending nine months pregnant, giving birth in agony so great that you actually bite off your own knees, and sitting back to nurse your lovely newborn only for some casual passer-by to remark ‘urgh, he’s really ugly isn’t he? Oh, and stupid too. And, just for good measure, you’re nothing to write home about, either.’ And, believe me, it’s tough, when you want to smack ‘em soundly in the kissing-hole, to smile sweetly and say ‘well, that’s just YOUR opinion, isn’t it?’ Neatly implying that their judgement is at fault and you remain resolute about your own ability. Even when that resolution is wobbling in the face of forty similar rejections, one of which is currently stuck to the cat’s tail.

Believe in yourself. And/or Eccles cakes, which have stood me in good stead these many years. This belief will get you through. It will also get you raisins in your cleavage and a sticky stain on the chairback, but never mind. Self belief and a thick skin, that’s what writers need. And a damp cloth.

Now. Where were we? Ah yes. By now I’d met my partner, Kit. This gave me a new direction in life, facing forwards, because up until now I had been going through life sideways in a kind of crab-like movement, which disconcerted people.

Now, it’s time for one of the Tales of Woe. Prepare yourselves, my pretties...

In 2005, here in Britain we had a competition called Lit Idol. Yeah. Dreadful title. Anyhoo. I was in the long-short-list, if you see what I mean, with my novel ‘Slightly Foxed’. Didn’t win, but did get an agent, who got me to rewrite the novel extensively, shorten it, take in the seams and lower the hems, and finally – just as we were about to start submitting to the Big Publishers – decided that she didn’t want to handle Women’s Fiction any more and dropped me and the book.

You can cry now, if you like. It’s all right, I won’t think any the less of you.

When I stopped sobbing, I made a New Year’s Resolution to send a piece a month out into the wilderness. Any piece. Poem to the local paper, novel to anywhere, articles, short stories. Anything. This gave me focus. And a little pink book to write my submissions down in, which was quite cute until the middle fell out.

For nine months, dear Reader, I slaved. Bearing in mind that, by this point, I was working part time in a local school, oscillating along corridors with dangerous chemicals and a fixed smile. I still had the five children, (they run awfully fast, children, don’t they? Especially when they see you accelerating away), dogs, cats etc. Plus, for good measure and because I had half an hour a week in which I didn’t seem to be doing anything, a part-time degree in Creative Writing. And then, imagine my delight when, in October, the fragrant and lovely people at Samhain accepted my novel Reversing Over Liberace for publication!

Tomorrow, if you’re really good, I’ll tell you how that novel came to be written. And possibly, later in the week I’ll give you a little peekeroony into what I’m working on at the moment. But only if you’re very good. Now, pass around those chocolate biscuits and sup deeply of your mugs of latte, for we shall need all our strength.

Oh, and get your hands off those Eccles cakes, you buggers.