It’s taken me two-and-a-half years to write my book. I was worried it would be looked upon as a narcissist’s diary of stupidity (Try not to comment on that one if you can)
Yesterday, Saturday February 15th. I went into town with my mates to celebrate 10 years of my marriage ending (I celebrate absolutely anything these days)
Before I did this however, I have a thing in which I insist on doing one shit job a day when I’m not on the boat (funny that I don’t even consider emptying the boat toilet cassette a shit job. No job is shit on my boat, I love her so much)
Anyway, I digress. Saturday’s shit job was sending my book manuscript off to a random publisher that ChatGPT threw at me when I asked it for publishers willing to take on a novice writer’s humorous memoir.
I emailed it at midday then got on the train just happy to tick the shit job box.
3pm and second celebratory pint in, I get an email from the Publisher in Chief of the company I had hurriedly emailed. He was interested.
I’m sure I read that it takes 12 weeks for a reply. I’m also sure I read ‘don’t waste your time, novice writers never get published’ as well.
Still on pint number 2, he calls me and we have a good long chat. Of which I can remember very little. Not because of the cider, I promise you, but because I could not believe it was happening.
2 hours after our chat, he emails me the proper writers’ contract through.
And today I’m a signed-up-fully-fledged-with-a-proper-contract-writer!
Back of the net.