Counting chickens

Yesterday was a good day.

Following on from Monday's rant (Monday? What the hell happened to the week?) about when and where to pitch, a slim letter landed on the mat at half past eight yesterday morning. I took one look at the loopy, adolescent handwritten address and knew at once whence it had come. Over the course of too many years, I have only ever written myself rejection letters - those self-addressed envelopes never carry good news.

But this time it was different. This time it was an offer of representation from the first agent to have read The Ballad of Sir Benfro - Book One: Dreamwalker (going to have to do something about that title).

Now this is only the first step, I realise. This is no guarantee of publication; no endless round of cocktail parties and radio interviews and foreign trips; none of the razzmatazz that Mr Stuart has endured since those nice (very nice) people at HarperCollins decided they liked him. But damn, it's a start.

I spent most of yesterday wandering around with an idiot grin on my face. Pity poor Barbara - I must have been insufferable to live with.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to write to my agent-to-be explaining how I spent an evening in the company of Jane Johnson, and how it might be worth pointing my fantasy epic in her direction.

Then I have to start thinking about books three and four.