Saturday, 28 November 2015


As I type this the overhead light burns into my eyes with the force of a thousand suns.  My head dances to the tune of a million jack hammers desperate to break through my cranium.  Pain lances down the front of my forehead terminating in my eye socket.  I am preparing for a big day.

On Monday I get the opportunity to pitch my novel to HarperCollins.  I still can't quite believe it and I'm hoping to come away with some excellent feedback at the very least.  And so to prepping.  I have been going over my answers to the questions I think they might ask me.  I have determined that my book has many levels and is bursting with storylines and interconnected themes making it fairly difficult to encapsulate into a few words but I'm getting there.  

I don't have the headache from prepping for the pitch, although I am excitedly nervous about it.  I have the head bursting agony from only drinking two cups of tea today and trying to use a printer. Honestly. . . . I reckon hell is an office where you teter from broken photocopiers to jammed paper trays and ink toners that have run out and not been reordered to the wrong colour/thickness/size of paper and no black pens left.  

First I ran out of ink.  Then I bought a colour cartridge by mistake. Then I couldn't find the right black ink cartridge.  Then it rained (while I was trying to carry a ream of paper back).  Then I still haven't had a god-damn cup of tea.  Then I had to share my ice cream.  Then I figured I probably ought to read the first three chapters to make sure they were actually worth submitting.  Then I did congratulate myself on a tiny bit of awesomeness.  Then I realised I printed out the first three chapters without my name in the header.  So now I have a spare copy.  I've just looked at the info bar on the bottom of the laptop and I'm almost out of battery.  And now Windows 10 wants to install.  

Deep breath.  

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