I few months ago, I confessed to writing a book.
It’s probably not a master piece. It is, after all, my first attempt. So it may not even be very good; and if its not, I will be a wee bit bothered by that, naturally. I am a perfectionist, so like to do things properly. I have tried to do this properly too.
It won’t be a disaster if its pants, because I enjoyed writing it.
It took two years, a lot of late nights, a slightly annoyed (but terribly patient Brad), plenty of red pen, and a few minor tantrums.
If it IS rubbish, then I know this writing lark might not be for me…
If it is only a bit rubbish and needs a few tweaks here and there, then this writing lark might be for me, I just need to try just that little bit harder…
And if its not rubbish at all, well WHOOOOO-WHOOOOOOOOOO *faints, raises glass of champagne, then realises she is actually dreaming*
I finally sent that book to a literary agent you see, not so she could sign me up, but so she could give me feedback on it.
I am prepared to be told:
“Helen, it’s crap.”
Though I suspect she would be far too polite for that.
But if crap is my best, then at least I have tried. I will just have to stick to the blogging lark, and forget the serious author lark.
What I am NOT prepared for is to be told about it is that it’s actually OK, needs a bit of work here and there, but you might just have something….
That WOULD be amazing, but it’s not gonna happen.