My secret life. Am I really an author?

So, I confess, I’m an author. Well, a sort of unpublished author but I’m determinedly optimistic.

I’ve spent four years writing a novel very loosely based on my parents’ war careers. A parallel story of a WAAF and a Desert Rat, to say I created problems for myself, would be an understatement- it took two days to find out whether they had ginger biscuits in 1942.

I am a journalist and I work better with deadlines, so to have an unending timescale to complete my opus was not a good move but hey, it’s done. I’ve been sending it off to agents and publishers and have had, I’m pleased to say, some really nice, encouraging responses. One, in particular, has shown a recent interest. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

But then, I went to Writers East Midlands conference. I emerged from the snow-buried hills of Derbyshire to Nottingham city centre like a mole, blinded in the daylight. It was a mix of inspiration and terrifying dedication. One author made films, did digital interactivity and did podcasts to launch his books. I’m technically reasonably savvy but that may be beyond me.

I’ve dined out for four years on the kudos of writing a novel. Now, I’m revelling in the fact that people are actually responding to my tentative first three chapters but to move onto the point of being published, that’s a whole new challenge and one I hope I’m lucky enough to tackle.

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