Suddenly realised that I have nothing out at all. No irons in the fire. Zip. The one true thing about writing is that no one is going to tap me on the shoulder and invite me to become a successful writer.
Fired off an email to someone who advertised on the RNA's cyber chapter that she wants a novelisation of a film and rang up D. C. Thompson to find out the name of the new editor of the People's Friend Pocket Novels. I wrote a book about a florist who hurtled around London in a little green van. The old editor liked the first three chapters, but wasn't satisfied with the end of the book. It's been in a drawer for months, but with some distance I can see exactly what she means, and more importantly, how to fix it. Decided to get my head down over rewrite and EVERYTHING can go hang until it's in the post.