Published books. Which makes me sigh as I think of my two novels, loitering unwanted in my desk drawer. (Or, more accurately but less romantically, on my computer disc.) Unloved except by me.
It didn't help that my visit to the library coincided with two rejections. Not rejections as such but 'delays'. Back in the summer you may remember I got very excited when a doggy mag said it wanted to use my article about Swansea Jack in its Christmas issue; come the issue no article. 'Sorry, there wasn't room.'
Similarly I submitted the psalm written by inmates of Swansea prison to the prison newspaper and was told it had been passed on to the editor with a view to including it in the Christmas issue.
'Sorry, there wasn't room.'
And as I'm considering these rejections I remember that I sent my redrafted first novel to a publisher a while ago and haven't heard anything from them. On their website in their guidelines they say it will take a long time but I can't help myself thinking, 'Surely if they weren't at all interested it would have been returned by now?'
And then I have to slap myself around the face the face a few times. 'No, no, no! Do not go there! Do not allow yourself to build up hope. It will be returned; they will not want to publish it.'
And I sigh again.
But then I remind myself that the men I'm working with in prison ready for the carol service think I'm a wonderful writer and two of them have put down their names for my book when it comes out. Bless 'em.