Sometimes, I reckon that being a writer really sucks. This is a story about one of those times.

For years, I’d been scribbling away on a fiction manuscript, giving it all the TLC I’d give one of my babies. I’d coaxed it along, cooed to it, and suffered through the sleepless nights it caused. I never gave up on it, 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 submission from an unknown author like me are teensy-weensy. Apparently, there’s a higher probability I’ll be mauled to death by a rabbit. Even so, when my manuscript came of age I still lovingly dressed it up, brushed its hair with a neat side part, and sent it off for its great adventure.

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