I’ve been granted some wonderful days as a writer. Selling my novel Cuckoo (twice), writing for Doctor Who, handing in the first draft of my Hiram Grange novella and knowing it was good. As in all things, those days are counterbalanced by the dour days. Today was one. Today, in a sixty-five minute period, I had two different novels rejected by two different publishers, on two different continents.
Ouch, frankly. Cue shadowy conspiracy theories on a grand scale.
On the other hand, just as I was cursing the fates and demanding that they throw me a fecking bone, they actually did. Ten minutes after rejection number two, our estate agent confirmed the sale of our house.
As my friend Mark pointed out, the moral of the story seems to be that it’s better to be a builder. Budding writers be warned.