What did you want to be when you were a little dreamer? While my classmates dreamt of tripping the light fantastic, or bringing back grateful patients from the brink of death, I had visions of filling out forms in red and blue biro ink.
Having a pen between my fingers was, and is, almost orgasmic for me, and now that the lowly pen has been supplanted by the computer keyboard, I struggle to find the same evocative pleasure. Still, "I write a little every day, without hope- and without despair." (Isak Dineson).
My first novel took eighteen months to write and at this stage, I think it will be eighteen years before it's finally published. The sequel was completed in three months, thanks to uninterrupted solitude amid the lush palm groves of Phuket Island. I have decided to use the publisher's rejection letters to wallpaper my bathroom and go the self-publishing route, IF I can get a loan from the bank to finance my project.
The thing is, none of the aforementioned matters. The process of building the characters and 'painting' them onto the pages thrills me, and I will never forget the pang of sorrow I felt when I typed, 'The End', on my manuscript. I was bereft for weeks and couldn't wait to reopen their lives and send them off on another adventure.
Now I want to see them in print. They deserve to be in print, and their story should be told; no impatient editor or unwilling agent will ever convince me otherwise.