Now, I don’t disagree with that advice. In fact, I think it’s probably essential. If I’d written a paragraph a day for the past 10 years, I’d have… well, an awful lot of paragraphs by now, wouldn’t I? And along the way I’d have had ideas and made connections, perhaps. So that on those days when I have more time, I would be primed and ready. My daily habitual paragraph would lead me smoothly into a satisfyingly productive writing session.

But somehow, it’s not that easy. Life tends to get in the way. You have an important interview to prepare for and that’s taking up all your brain power, or you’re just so busy getting stuff done that you forget. Or you’re just having a day off and ‘which of these lovely pairs of shoes will go with my new outfit?’ is as high as your brain functions go.

‘Oh, no! I’m not doing it!’ you realise. ‘I haven’t written anything for days! I’ll never be a proper writer. Does that shopping list count? It must have been about 30 words. How about the complaining letter I wrote to the phone company?’

For me, the fact is that I don’t think about my personal writing every day. Some days I’m just too busy. Does that mean that I lack commitment, passion? Will I be forever a wannabe because I’m just not focused enough?

I guess time will tell, but one thing that does bother me: feeling guilty about not writing. In what way is that a good thing? If I sit down to write, driven by a sense of unease and a pressure to perform, is that the best way to get creative? Don’t get me wrong, writing under pressure is perfectly possible – it’s something I do every day, professionally. What I’m talking about is a different sort of writing. The kind where you’re trying to dig down and find out just what you’re made of. The kind that is unique and personal, when you’re trying to surprise yourself and let something loose that is inside, itching to get out.

And then I ask this question: if that’s the kind of writing I want to do, can it be done in a few minutes every day? I think the answer is yes.  Real, honest writing is hard and that’s why we need the practice. We should write every day, (or, if you ask me and you want to keep guilt and worry at bay, as often as we reasonably can) to keep our pencils sharp and our ear sharper. And writing a letter, structuring a feature, meeting a brief, documenting a meeting, isn’t enough.

What’s needed is a daily attempt to dig into the important stuff, to stir up those ideas that really matter and shape them into words. It’s a way of making time for yourself, perhaps – a few minutes a day contemplating your own themes and issues, remembering what and why you want to write - so that when you, and I,  are ready to sit down and really, really write, we’re already halfway there.

Having read and re-read her email and wrung every nuance out of her words in the hopes of understanding exactly what she wants and having worried and sweated over every word of my manuscripts and having been obsessively reading and tweaking and reading and tweaking for days and days, I have finally put the damn things into an envelope and dropped them into the post box.

So. It’s irrevocable. I’ve done what I can and it all seems pretty feeble and hopeless. The pressure of getting this right has made every word I’ve ever written seem dull and stupid. The woman would be a fool to take me on. I’m talentless and deluded.

The envelope should be there today. Of course she won’t read it right away. She must get tons of mail. It will take a week at least for her to even open it. Then she might put it on a ‘to read’ pile and it might sit there for another week or more. No point in checking email yet. But I’ll just have a quick look. Nothing but tumbleweeds in my inbox.

And so it begins. The waiting. The checking. The wondering and guessing and drumming of fingers. The re-reading of my stories, trying to see them through her eyes. The crazy lurch every time the doorbell rings and my inner nutcase tells me she might have decided to pop round. The horrible lump in the pit of my stomach and the voice in my head that says she might already have read them and sighed and thrown them in the bin and she might not be going to reply, not ever and it might take me weeks, months, years to really accept that I will never hear from her and that she isn’t away on a long holiday or suffering a serious illness but that she just decided I wasn’t worth the time it would take to write no in an email and send it.

The worst thing of all is that I’ve just realised I didn’t send an SAE this time, so I won’t even get that fat brown envelope on my doormat to tell me that it’s all over. And so I offer this advice. Always, ALWAYS send an SAE, if only so that you know when they’ve looked at it and you can stop tormenting yourself that it went astray and wondering whether to phone and check or whether to send it again and would that seem pushy if they just haven’t read it yet, and on, and on, and on……

So now I’m feverishly worrying about what to send her. I’ve reworked the original story, as she did say she ‘rather liked it’ and her objection seemed to be that the ending didn’t leave things open for a series. Publishers want series, she says. So it becomes a series. And I’ve got another story that was always intended to be a series. I shall send her both (with lists of ideas for further adventures) and hope that she continues to be interested.

The thought of blowing this chance is terrifying, but the fact that I’ve got it at all is massively enouraging. 14 agents rejected my story completely, so why did is she interested? It seems a little random when you think about it. And so it is. Whether we are rejected or accepted depends on one person’s opinion. I think the message is that we need to keep sending things out and trying different avenues because sooner or later, someone will take notice, our work will land on the right desk at the right time and the breakthrough will come.

What happens after that, of course, is another uphill struggle to be published, to sell, to continue to be published, to continue to sell. It sounds like hard work and it is. But how brilliant!

The best thing about right now is that I’m writing like mad. I’m getting all those old ideas out and working on them. I’m racking my brain for new ones. I want to be ready, just in case this is my chance.

Will it be? Stay tuned, folks….

As I get paid to write children’s stories already (for magazines), I sent one of my own off to 16 different agents and then sat back and watched my big brown envelopes come back to me. Many of the agents sent soulless stock letters, but one or two took the time to scribble a short comment and even add an encouraging word, which was a pleasant surprise.

In fact, I find that being rejected so wholeheartedly is not the terrible, crushing experience that I had imagined. So, I sent out something that I’d written. So, nobody was interested in it. So what. I’ve got lots more ideas. I’m sure I can send out something that will capture someone’s imagination. I’m not going to give up because they didn’t want to take me on. I obviously haven’t demonstrated my potential, but that doesn’ t mean that I don’t have any potential.

And so, I’m free. The fear has gone. I will write more stories and I will send them out and, if I’m lucky, I may get some more free feedback. If I’m really, really lucky, I may even get an agent at some point. It’s not so scary, once you give it a go.

A while ago, I invested in a rather smart Filofax case, which is the slimmest one they do. It has a pen holder and some little pockets in the cover for scraps of paper, business cards and so on. It doubles as my diary and my ideas book and everything else. I fill it with plain paper and it is divided into four sections: diary, ideas, general notes (phone numbers, measurements for curtains and that sort of stuff) and a pile of paper at the back for when I want to actually write something. Whenever I have a spare moment, I pull it out and write something about my day. If I have an idea on the move, I can jot it down. I can work on a story or poem as I go. Every so often, I transfer the pages into a bigger filofax. In my dreams, I have four bigger filofaxes and each section goes into a different one. In reality, I have a very bulging single case and each year I take out the previous year’s diary pages, tie them with string and put them in a box.

I also keep a pile of paper by my bed (tied together with a ribbon) and a pen. You can keep such piles in all the places that you may get a moment to think and write. These pages can be added to the filofax whenever.

The best thing about this system is that pages can be reordered and filed as needed. Entries I make in the bedroom can be slotted in to the main diary etc. I can also file my ideas according to the project they refer to.

It works for me and I’ve been doing it for about 4 years now. That doesn’t mean it’s the right system for you. Get yourself some sort of system, though, because it is the best way to write regularly.

I’m already a writer. I’ve been freelancing for almost 10 years, since finishing at Uni. I work for various companies and they give me briefs on what they want written. I love the work, but would love to be recognised for my own stuff. Just recently, I’ve gained enough confidence to send some of my own work to agents. I’ve sent out a picture book and am waiting to see if I get any interest. I’m also looking for a job as my freelance work has dropped off to nothing during the credit crunch. I have one sole commission left at this time – to write stories for a magazine on a monthly basis. It’s not enough to keep me in printer ink, never mind to pay the bills, but it’s regular writing work, and that is always to be treasured.

Another of the speakers yesterday recounted a Kurt Vonnegut story, where he talks about teaching writing. Vonnegut describes asking students to open their mouths and then reaching in to pull out a tape. He and the student then read together what is written on the tape. I guess what I’m seeking here is to reach deep inside myself and discover what is written on my tape.