No January Mails This Year.

Usually, January is spent thumbing through the thick pages of the latest edition of The Writers And Artists' Yearbook, looking for agents to whom I've yet to send an upbeat, slightly grovelly covering letter together with a synopsis, and the first five chapters of my surefire bestselling thriller.



Can't be arsed this year.

And that's not me giving up. It's me giving the whole situation a much needed reality check.

How many other authors as deluded as me spent their Christmas telling themselves next year will be my breakthrough year?

How many have then gone on to mail out their manuscripts in betwixt Christmas and New Year, bemoaning the price of stamps, yet hoping their delusions turn into reality?

I reckon slush piles will be at their peak this time of year, giving whoever has the onerous task of wading through the piles of paper even less time to give each submission their divided attention.

Given most agents try to get back to you with a rejection, I mean a reply, within three months, surely that makes Easter the best time of year to start the mass mailing?

I might give it a try, only if I'm not a multi-million bestselling author by then, of course.

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