I've decided a large glass of wine is in order. Just got my results: a distinction in my masters. Now there's just the small matter of writing the other fifty thousand words and getting the novel published. I'm happy, don't get me wrong, but I realise that this is just the start. It's fab to have some external validation that I can write, but now is when the work really begins, when I'm doing it on my own, without workshops, critiques, feedback, etc. It often occurs to me that the sensible thing would be to give up, because really, what are the chances of getting a publishing deal and being the next Joanna Trollope? But I think I'm a teensy bit addicted now, so I think I'll just keep plugging away, sitting amidst the debris of unwashed breakfast dishes at the kitchen table, huddled in cashmere (on account of the heating bills) and imagining what it was like to be a teenage girl soldier in 1942.
It'll all come good eventually, won't it?