The end?

When I reached the end of my book, I thought I could close the laptop and concentrate on other projects. More fool me. The hard work was just about to begin. 

Synopses, letters, follow-up emails, and then to suffer the ignomy of being ignored while someone, somewhere decides if my book is worth publishing. 

Being a first-time novellist of no fame or renown I have decided the best avenue for an 'oik' like me is self-publishing. 

My reasoning is simple: if I can get something in print then the first hurdle, physical and mental, is over. It's there. It exists. For all to see.

With the tome in my hot, sweaty little hand, my plan is to show all the nay-sayers that I have done it; I have achieved what I set out to do. 

Now I can move on to other projects - I have many which require my attention or they shall surely dissolve in my mind before they really take form.

My novel is now in the hands of the self-publisher. Final tweaks. I have specified my cover, written my synopsis and it's only a matter of time.

"Vanity publishing is a bit of a cheat, isnt it?" A friend said with bubble bursting cynicism.

"Charles Dickens did it." I replied with smugness.

"Yeah, but.." My friend stuttered.

"And Mark Twain. Need I go on?" 

"Well, you obviously will!"

So, we will see. It's out of my hands now.

The beginning?