So, the book is finished, polished; as complete as it is ever going to be.

You’re pleased, of course, relieved. It’s all over (for now). The sleepless nights, the re-writes, the endless questioning of ones writing ability beyond your partner telling you that you  have a best-seller on your hands.

You sink back in your chair, hands behind your head – you might even light that special cigar/cigarette, open that wine you’ve been saving. That’s it, the hard work is done right?

Nope. Not by a country mile. Think again.

You might as well open a drawer, slide those lovingly crafted pages into its dark confines and lock it away if you think that was the tough bit.

No book, no matter how good it is, will ever get close to a printing press/Kindle unless you have an agent; or so I am told.

So not only have us poor, struggling writers got to spend hour after solitary hour with people we don’t actually know running around our heads, getting into trouble and generally taking over our lives; but once we have tamed them, shut them up for a few months, we now have to find an agent who can breathe life into them.

So, that’s where I am now, one set of imaginary friends are temporarily silenced, whilst a new bunch of strangers (a female DCI and her live-in lover, QC Phillipa Crichton-Ward) have moved in and are currently squatting in my ever-vacant brain motel, whilst I write to agents to try and get them to represent Sugar & Spice.

I have only sent one begging letter to date and am yet to receive my first rejection, but I have no doubt there is a long way to go.

In the meantime, I will keep writing and hope that my new lodgers can get on. I wonder what Cassie White will think about living in close proximity to a convicted paedophile?

Saffina.