It's been a weird time. Dreams have been vivid, ideas have been brewing, but actually having the time and inclination to write... Well, let's just say that hasn't happened much during lockdown.
Me and my agent recently parted ways, all very amicably, but it has given me cause to reassess. It reminds me of being a newbie author subbing directly to publishers and pitching to agents (and having the absolute soul-crushing misery of opening a rejection email without a side-helping of an ego-massaging comment from her).
I'm not going to lie, it's a bit scary putting myself out there again, especially as someone with anxiety. It's a competitive industry; the chances of getting a 'no' are far higher than that elusive 'yes'.
My book being on a supermarket shelf didn't mean I'd made it as an author, it meant I had one book that was bought by a supermarket. Ditto having books picked for promotions. Four novels in, I still have work to do.
So I'm going back to the beginning. Rediscovering the art of creativity, the joy of writing from the heart. And quietly crossing my fingers that, sooner or later, the words I write will, land in the lap of someone who believes in the stories I have to tell.
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