Just got back.

The weather was SHITE. Pissed down for most of the first day and as if taunting the life out of us, sprinkled on and off for the remaining couple of days. The sun battled to get through but gave up as a northwesterly wind breezed onto the land and into our resort. The nightlife consisted of a rather dodgy cabaret involving two camp muscled footballer types. At least the food was nice (this kept ‘Im indoors quiet anyway). One good thing – I didn’t think of my manuscript ONCE. That had to be a novelty. Could get used to this.

Rained as soon as we landed back in good old Britain.

The nights are longer, it’s getting colder. I still remain unpublished. 3 more reasons not to get out of bed this morning.

Did something impulsive today (if you count thinking about it for the last year, impulsive). I booked a 4-day break to sunny Tunisia. As soon as the quirky travel agent pressed the send button, I instantly regretted it. WHAT HAD I DONE? Spent money I couldn’t afford perhaps? Oh who cares? You only live once. I need some sun sea and… sand in my hair. Quite looking forward to it really and ‘Im indoors' managed to crack a smile.

Week whatever on the dreaded writing course.

Nothing new to report. Only that I think my tutor is beginning to appreciate my ‘alternative’ style of writing.

Tutor: “You seem to like writing comedy don’t you?” Err, YES. I’d been trying to tell him that for weeks!

Tutor: (Turning to the whole class) I have a challenge for you all. (Class waits with bated breath).

“I want – those of you who have the guts- to write me a sex scene from the opposite sex’s point of view. Namely, I have to write a sex scene from a bloke’s point of view. Err, easy enough…

It took me 15 minutes to produce the sex scene of the century. Now all I have to do is give it in. WILL I HAVE THE GUTS…? It’s hardly the stuff of literary masterpiece is it… and we know what the tutors like. He may not like my style of humour or.. Oh there I go with my lack of confidence rhetoric. Does it ever end? Hope not. I think one needs a level of self-doubt in order to improve, don’t you think?

A week after submission of sex scene.

After admitting he had no idea so many of us would rise to the challenge (pun intended) Tutor said he was surprised at the quality of our sexual scenes. He mentioned mine as being ‘a quite humorous scene which worked (apart from a few inconsistencies). I’m ashamed to admit that his praise pleased me no end. I FINALLY HAD THE APROVAL I CRAVED. It’s unfortunate that the course ends next week! I was tempted to take another term, but work commitments wont allow – besides, I think I have enough to be working with; get rid of clichés, adjectives and don’t hate your character. Sounds more complex than that, but I know what I mean. Promise.

Off to Tunisia in a couple of days.

I just had a thought. Its four months ‘till my birthday. Four months to get a publishing deal. No pressure.

Is it I or does it feel rather chilly these days? Did you catch Inst that Lisa off Eastenders a moody cow? No this is not two gossips on a bus engaged in mindless chatter, but my BRAIN as it attempts to avoid certain little questions … like, WHY AM I STILL UNPUBLISHED? But I’m not going to let this bother me, now way. I’m going to live my life and… hang on… is that another fluffy cover of a book staring down at me from the Central Line billboard. big red cover, bright letters… this can only mean one thing; NEW BIG ADVANCE FLUFFY CHICK – LIT AUTHOR HAS MADE IT, WHILST I REMAIN STUCK AT THIS STATION WAITING FOR NON – EXISTENT TUBE TO DAY JOB….hmmm. No, I’m not envious, bitter. I mean this book is probably an exceptional piece of writing. Probably far better than anything I could write. I bet HER sentences are not long winded. I bet SHE didn’t have to go on a writing course. I bet SHE’S never had to go through as much rejection, humiliation and hurt as I’VE HAD TO ENDURE. I bet….

Week 3 on the dreaded writing course: It had to happen didn’t it… the public humiliation, standing naked, cowering in the corner of the classroom as the tutor reads out your work. Constructive critisism? More like female castration. If I ever thought I was a crap writer before, I now think I’m a hopeless writer. Let me just go and shoot myself.

Week 4 on the dreaded writing course: I’ve come to a decision. I am not crap. The tutor is. Okay, so he has had a trillion books published and years of experience, but hey, I had some great feedback today from the last of the, erm, hum… rejection slips. Let me explain. It was actually hand written OVER the type written standard letter they usually send out. It was complimentary and gave me the ‘kick up the backside, speed injection of confidence’ I’d been missing. Publishing world WATCH OUT!!!!

Week 5 on the dreaded writing course.

Page 67 nestles in the hand of my tutor. He moves closer to my desk. Smiles. Waves the offending script. He then says the immortal words: My name.

My heart thumps… he’s going to slate me. Again…

He continues.

“Fine.”

What?

“Your script was fine this week.”

“What? No slating? No criticisms?”

“Well, maybe a few…” Oh.

“But other than that, it’s okay.”

If I’m honest I kinda missed the weekly dissing from my writing teacher. Masochistic or what?

Still no sign of the errant rejection (or not) slip. I regularly evaluate this predicament in my mind;

A; the slip could be lost in the post.

B; The agents are deliberating whether to take me on.

Agent X; “I like her style. She’s fresh funky, lets get her a book deal.”

Agent Y; “No, no, no… she’s way too cocky for my liking. No, send it back. Oh and don’t forget, I am the founder/director/proprietor of this literary agency…”

I’ve now decided to swallow what little pride I have left and sign up for a writing class. All the ‘creative writing’ classes clash with work. However, the ‘How to write a novel’ class looks intriguing…

Felt weird ‘going back to school’, but nice. I had my Nike satchel slung over my shoulder, pencil in ear, I really looked the penniless student (not hard). And let me tell you, it felt like being back at Uni, no school. Let’s see, on my left we had the Mr Know it all Annoying bastard; answering the question BEFORE it’s asked, making crap jokes to try and impress the teacher. On my right we had the gorgeous Femme Fatale (who I'm sure will get published on her looks alone) secretly making eyes at the teacher, her biggest fear? Will I chip a nail tonight? And a couple of students with no idea what they were doing there.

More disturbingly, I also noticed a few students had the LOOK of a writer. You know, tweed jacket and specs. Do I look like a writer…? NO CHANCE!

Rejection No 1 Thanks but no thanks

Rejection No 2 Not taking on any more clients right now

Rejection No 3 You write well, but the story’s not for us

Rejection No4 The story is great, but you write too clunky (Clunky?)

Rejection No5 Thanks but no thanks

I await the further 2 rejections but realise it aint gonna happen for me is it? I’m never going to make the level of Lisa Jewell et al am I? Stick to your day job love, give up the pipe dream, blah, blah, blah. Anyone got a tissue?

I still have one rejection remaining, but I must say, the penultimate one had positive overtones. It was a rejection, yes. But it did say they enjoyed it but felt my sentences were a little long winded (longwinded? Moi) anyway, the letter ended with some advice about taking a creative writing course. Now I could look at this in 2 ways; Think they are dissing the hell out of me by basically implying I can’t write or; take heart in the fact they actually bothered to give me feedback in the first place. What would you do…?

It took a bit of time, but my arrogance waded in. Thoughts such as; “”Why should I do a creative writing course? I can write.” And “Bedsides, I still have one more rejection slip outstanding. Who knows, it just might be that letter I crave – the one telling me to send in the rest of my manuscript a.s.a.p because a large publishing house is eager to purchase and…”

Dug out the Writers and Artists yearbook and randomly selected 7 agents. Bugger it, I’m sending out 7 copies to see what happens… I’m ready. I think.

Bloody expensive this writing lark. Stamps, envelopes… it all costs. But it’s worth the risk.

The first week is hell. After work, I end up doing… uggh.. I can hardly write this… CHORES! Cleaning! My entire flat, something I NEVER do. I’m trying my hardest not to think about… it. You know… the... m… manuscripts. What’s happening to them? Are they being read or being used as coasters? Hmmm… Oh how I wish I could afford another holiday…

Been toying with the idea for days now; MUST. LOOK. AT. NOVEL. You see I’d enjoyed the freedom of being in another land, a place where novels just weren’t important (finding your next meal is); Being at one with nature (stray dogs) and lazing in the sun (avoiding sun burn – yes, black people can burn in the sun!) But now I’m home, all I can do is stare at the drawer containing my masterpiece. Wonder what horrors are lurking within. Whether the pre – Africa me differed to how I am now. WHAT IF I NOW WANTED TO BIN THE FROTH AND GO FOR A MORE CULTURAL NOVEL? You know, something Ben Okrified or something.

It’s funny, when you tell your self you’re going to do something, you do everything in your power to avoid doing it. Yes, I am officially in protascanating hell. I‘m doing everything except writing. Oh, I think I’ll call Maddie (someone I haven’t called in months FOR A REASON). Oh, let me sweep under the bed, you have to be careful because lots of dust can accumulate without you knowing. This goes on for a good half hour before I finally plonk myself in front of the PC, and decide it needs a good old wipe. Then I can’t help noticing that the Eastenders omnibus has started and because I missed Tuesday’s episode, I just have to see it all or die. So nothing actually gets done today. Maybe tomorrow…

Tomorrow never comes, but the next day, I get down to it.

I’m a complete whiz, possessed by the need to ‘correct’ and improve my work. A line scrapped here, one more added there. And did I really write that line?

Luckily, I still like. The novel that is. And even though I've said this on numerous occasions, this is the final batch of correction I’ll be making to the first 3 chapters.

Decked out in huge pink shades, hair full of thin braids, tight patterned trousers and a strut to match, I breezed through Heathrow Arrival’s lounge. But my arrogance didn’t allow me to notice my strong resemblance to el Pratt, until after I bounced through the front door. Holiday clothes do not bear well in unsunny London. You just end up looking out of place. However, I predict my holiday glow to last at least 2 week’s right?

Wrong.
It’s now 5 days later and I have well and truly acclimatised. I’m cold, skint and I am still AN UNPUBLISHED AUTHOR. I should have stayed abroad. There I was, this fabulously glamorous girl from London who everyone wanted to talk to. Instead of little ol’ me from South London, I became big ol’ me from London, England. A land far off and distant. The land of milk and honey. I felt like the wisest person around as children from the local village gathered round to hear my wise tales of life in the West. (Okay, that bit’s a lie), but you get my drift.

Before I buckle down to my first full time job this century,I decide to take a break (makes sense, right?)
Holiday?
I’ve decided to go and visit the family in… wait for it… Africa. Thanks to my faithful (expensive) flexible friend, I’ve booked the flight and fly out in 2 days. It’ll be nice to get away from the bills, wet weather and the hill of rejection slips clogging up the drawer. Instead, this time next week, I’ll be sipping Mango juice whilst swatting the occasional mosquito. Bliss.

One month into my birthday and I’m still not a published author. Never mind – still loads of time! I can relax a bit. In fact, I won’t be sending out any manuscripts for a while. I’ll take a break. Leave things and then go back to it. I read somewhere it’s best to read your manuscript with fresh eyes. I totally agree coz at the moment I’m totally sick of my bloody novel. I hate it. It’s crap, total crap! All 70,000 words of it. I need a break, holiday, need to jump start my enthusiasm. Then I can get back to my masterpiece…

Something weird happened today. I went for a job interview with the NHS and actually got it (so one of the interviewers said to me in the lift on the way out; her exact words; Honey, it’s yours!”). Although, I will now be earning double what I am now earning, it is a bittersweet victory. You see I will now be working full time – less time for writing. But hey, I have bills pay (not to mention, thousands in student debt). I guess this is what is meant by being a grown – up.

I am beginning to see things more positively – people write books with a thousand kids in tow. If you’re really are passionate about something then you find a way. You just have to.