Little L reading to me ‘lalalooo… oh dear… teddy daddy seesaw!’*

Hey, it’s me. Look further down. I am right down here, in the little hole. Duvet over my head, tin of biscuits in front of me, crap TV switched on.

With the manuscript finished, my main goal has been accomplished. And where I thought I’d be drifting on cloud number nine for a little while, I have found myself feeling deflated.

It’s been a month since I typed the magical words The End under the last paragraph of the novel, and I am finding it astonishingly difficult to throw myself into hunting for an agent. I am more than reluctant to get myself out there, call them up, talk to them, because… as long as I haven’t contacted all of them, there’ll still be hope. As soon as I will be through with my list though, the hope will die. It’s a bit like not speaking to the boy you are having a crush on.

Of course, there is self-publishing. But I don’t want to self-publish. I want to be published the old school way. I want, no, I need the affirmation of what I have worked on for the last eight months is worth publishing.

I am feeling old. And having tonsillitis does not help either. Why is this so hard?

*Isn’t Melissa Bank just brilliant?