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.