Ah, Me. The Sting Of Rejection.

Tch, I've just found out that a piece of my writing, despite making it into the finalists' enclosure, has not romped over the finish line to publication. A pity, as it would have meant inclusion in a proper real book with an ISBN and indicia and everything, on sale in normal bookshops up and down the land, and I'm sure that you can imagine just how giddy that would have made me (mind you, I probably would have been pretty insufferable about it, so you good readers have probably dodged a metaphorical bullet).

Anyway, my immediate reaction was one of slight disappointment, coupled with a suspicion that, like Thomas Chatterton (pictured), I'm destined to die alone in my artist's garrett, unloved and unrecognised... but then I remembered I live in a flat, with my wife, which pretty much means that suspicion isn't exactly one which is grounded in reality.

Still, the fact it made it into the final round is pretty cool, and I have to be realistic and conclude that it wasn't quite good enough, so the solution has to be to make sure that the next thing I write is good enough... in fact, I want it to be far better than 'good enough', and there's really only one way to make sure that's the case, isn't there ?

And so: to the keyboard!

(In case you're wondering why I'm not naming the book in question, there are two reasons:

1 - I'm not really bitter about it, and I wouldn't want this post to seem like a rant, as it's more like a declaration of intent to re-double my efforts; and

2 - I know how loyal and sympathetic you good people are, and I don't want to be seen to be implicitly condoning any kind of boycott of the book in question. I appreciate your loyalty, I really do, but there's no need for consumer action, I assure you.)