When your dream actually comes true

OK, so it finally happened. One of my novels has been accepted for publication.

I’ve been trying to get this to happen for so many years I can’t even remember, sending off thousands of manuscript month after month, and collecting rejection slips and sticking them up in my downstairs bathroom to give me something to read when…

The thing is, I imagined when it happened that the world would stop turning, or my head would explode, or I’d fall down on the floor in a swoon, or something. None of this in fact took place. I don’t even think God appeared from behind some clouds and spoke to me. All that happened was they e-mailed me, accepted the manuscript, and sent me a contract to sign.

No fireworks? No earth tilts or hurricanes?

I read the contract and it is all the usual gubbins about the publishers wanting the soul of my first born and that kind of thing, which is fine. I signed it and sent it off recorded delivery yesterday. And then I came home and did some cleaning.

It takes around a year for the book to wind up on the shelves of Waterstones. I’ve always imagined that moment – that after a trip to Richard and Judy to promote it, I’d wander in to Waterstones and stand by the pile of my books, pointing at them and exclaiming in a loud voice about how it’s a great read and everyone should have eight copies. Or pulling all my books to the front of the shelf in case they got hidden from view and I lost the 35p from a potential sale.

I’ve realised that all this activity has simply served to make me try harder. I want another book accepted, now. Preferably all the ones I’ve written, including that terrible one that I churned out first in a fit of pique after my divorce. (Particularly that one). I’m just going to write more, better, longer, harder.

I think that’s a fundamental flaw with writers is we are simply never satisfied. I’m thinking of becoming a ballerina instead. If they take overweight middle-aged women with Doc Martens, I’m going to be incredible at it.