Amidst the panic and uncertainty surrounding the desperate cramming of knowledge into my ever-swelling brain in preparation for my exams, which are now upon me, I have been harboring a stealthy desire to revisit my novel.
Yes, my novel. It's hardly the great British novel, but I will continue to pursue the dream of Man Bookers and other such false idols. I wrote it two years ago whilst either unemployed (voluntarily) or semi-employed (again, voluntarily). It poured out of me and I finished it in 7 weeks. I had just read a fabulous 'chicklit' novel that had me in tears of hysterical stomach-cramping laughter, page after page. I had such a good time reading it, I wanted to write one too. So I did.
This is the part where I gloss over the fact that I sent it out to 3 literary agents and had it returned. 3 times. I've kept the rejection letters to frame, just in case (ref Man Booker dream).
So in between revision, meals and the rest of my life, I sneak in a re-read and make some edits: chunks here, words there. It's heady.
Here's to idolatry.
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