Sometimes, I reckon that being a writer really sucks, and this is one of those times.

For years, I’ve been scribbling away on a fiction manuscript, giving it all the TLC I’d give one of my babies. I’ve cooed to it, coaxed it along, and suffered through the sleepless nights it gave me. I never gave up, even when it was stubborn and horrible and spat words back in my face like clumps of mashed pumpkin. Sometimes, I wondered why I persevered, but mainly I just loved it. I loved watching it grow and I marvelled at what it taught me. Finally, my baby took shape and grew up, and it was time to send it out into the world.

Now, as a writer, I know a few undeniable truths. I know the chances of a publisher snatching up a fiction manuscript from an unknown like me are teensy-weensy. Apparently, there’s a higher probability that I’ll be mauled to death by a rabbit. Even so, when my manuscript came of age I still lovingly dressed it up and brushed its hair with a neat side-part, and sent it off for its great adventure.

I did it because of the Hope Fairy, you see. I knew that in between sending the submission and getting a response, she would come to visit. The Hope Fairy is beautiful. She shimmers with light and is sparkly and gay (in the old-fashioned sense), and she flits around the edges of your day-to-day life filling it with light and colour. “If only …” you think, “Just imagine!”

The Hope Fairy gave me the most gorgeous, glittery daydreams. She would land on my shoulder as I drove home from work, and brighten the peak-hour traffic with rays of coloured light. She darted around the kitchen as I did the dishes, and the suds in the sink sparkled with her radiance. She brightened my world.

But then, one day, something went horribly wrong. An email pinged into my Inbox at the very moment the Hope Fairy darted from bench to window to kitchen sink. A whirr, ping, an awkward landing …The Hope Fairy was gone.

Sucked down the InSinkErator with a last sad puff of glitter.

The email thanked me for my submission and said I’m obviously a competent writer, but the manuscript didn’t ‘grab’ them like it needed to.The beautiful Hope Fairy was dead, and I was left with nothing but my wretched competence.

“Competent. Isn’t that good?” friends asked. They don’t get it. Being told you’re a competent writer ranks up there with being told how nice you are by the man who’s breaking up with you. I’ve been through both scenarios, and they’re as much fun as being dunked in a vat of cold custard. In a paddock full of angry rabbits. Competent doesn’t get you published. Nice doesn’t get you loved.

This sort of situation is when being single sucks too. I’m sure the slap of rejection would sting far less with someone to put his arms around me and say “Your writing’s boringly competent, but I love you anyway.”

Being a single writer is just a recipe for gloom. (Add a tablespoon of ‘not good enough’ to three cups of ‘you’re a really nice person, but I don’t love you’ and stir with the spoon of ‘thanks but no thanks’, then heat till it all boils over and the saucepan catches fire and you slump in the corner and weep into a tea towel.)

Ahem, where was I? Okay, back on topic … Looking on the plus side for a moment, at least – being a writer – I know how to handle rejection. As long as handling rejection includes crying on the couch wrapped in a knitted blanky, listening to Janis Joplin eating Pringles. I was eating the Pringles, that is, not Janis. Oh god, I think that’s a misplaced modifier or something. Now I’m not even competent …

Anyway, even though love may elude me, I can still write stuff. Soon I’ll dust off the sour cream and onion crumbs and get back to the recalcitrant brat of a manuscript. Someday, I’ll wipe its nose and shine its shoes and send it off into the world again. Then I think the Hope Fairy might come back. She may not be quite as jaunty this time around, but I’m hoping she’ll still brighten my world.

I’ll just have to tell her to be more careful in the kitchen.