My biggest mistake? Thinking it was my destiny. After all, I’d written stories since I could hold a pencil, won every creative writing prize at school, then, as an adult, short story competitions. I joined writers’ groups, honed my craft, completed a great manuscript. I found an agent, finally. He was reputable and confident, and initially there was a flurry of interest from publishers. How could I fail?

But, over several months, my manuscript was rejected for reasons that bewildered me: often because all the slots for debut literary fiction that year were taken; once because I was a woman; but mostly because editors “just didn’t love it enough”. When I took the call from my agent saying we had no deal, I cried like a little girl.

I defiantly started a second novel. It was my masterpiece, but it bombed, too. Years of work and emotional investment wasted, I finally gave up, to save my sanity.

But I’m scarred. I still read, but stick to the classics. I have next to no interest in contemporary fiction and avoid literary debuts by British female writers, which all seem so safe and samey. I’ve a higher tolerance for American writing, which seems willing to take more risks and subvert gender expectations. I don’t go to writers’ groups any more, either: the whole scene is a complete turn-off for me now.

Four years on, I still can’t look at the new fiction tables in Waterstones; they make me feel like an infertile woman at a baby shower. I feel pity and scorn for people with dreams.

You’re writing a novel yourself? Good for you. Now please shut up about it.

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