I just sent off the first chapter of my book to my agent. There are several ridiculous words in that sentence: ‘first chapter’, ‘book’, ‘agent’ – but most ridiculous of all is the word ‘my’.
I have spent most of my life wanting to write a book but never thought it would happen. Not clever enough, talented enough, yadda, yadda.
I read my favourite authors and I marvel at their turn of phrase, their humour, their ability to capture tiny details. The sheer audacity of even trying to join their ranks seems like an insult to them.
But despite all that, I would love to write a book. And now it looks like there’s a good chance that I will.