Today I have been thinking…about my novel.
As if I’ve been thinking about anything else for the last two months. It feels wrong, somehow, talking about this on the blog. I’m supposed to have a tinylife, how can that include insurmountable, unbelievable, incomprehensible ideas like writing a novel? Let alone having a novel published.
And yet, this has happened to tiny me. I wrote and wrote a story I believed in, then I sent it to lots of people who publish books, and one of them said ‘Yes.’
Clearly the last 23 words do not in any way communicate what it was like.
So now there is a whole novel out there in the wide world,
doing its level best in a world full of novels.
I wrote it. I’m proud of it. I really am a writer.