Remember 1999? A long time ago, wasn't it? I was 22; I had a head full of dreams (if not hair); I was yet to meet my wife while I shared a house with my brother, worked in a record shop and spent my free time writing books and short stories that I was convinced would sell the first time I sent them anywhere.
They did not.
Since I submitted my first work to agents in 1999, I've written twenty-one books, more shorts than I can recall and had rejections literally in four figures. I've self-published a couple of books and had a few published by indies. The record shop is as long gone as my hair, but not my dreams.
Cut to 2021.
After twenty-two years, I'm now represented by a literary agency. As of yesterday, I have signed with The Liverpool Literary Agency on the back of what I'm calling a speculative thriller. The idiot kid I was back in '99 can't quite believe this any more than the slightly less of an idiot adult I am now. In any case, I've got a book to edit prior to it going out on submission and another which needs a fresh draft. I best get cracking.
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