Six months ago, my 12 month old son and I were having a deep and meaningful over a cup of tea and a breastfeed, discussing my venture in to the world of children’s books. I had been writing seriously for a year prior to this moment and writing for the hell of it since I was given my first crayons and discovered that they were much more useful for making interesting marks on paper (and walls and sofas) than for eating. My son had just latched off, burped, and tried to spit breastmilk back at my udders, despite the no returns policy, but had nodded approvingly at the first draft of my middle grade novel. And then he told me to start a blog. Well actually he said, “bleugh, ha, ba, baa, bleughy, blog.”
Who was I to doubt his advice? He had, so far in his twelve months of being on the planet, managed to fix my phone by bashing it with a spoon, hide my husband’s repulsive flip flops, which I still hadn’t managed to achieve in the last seven years of our relationship, and he’d cracked every baby proofing lock we had placed in our flat. He’s a bright lad. And now my advice guru.
So, six months later, here I am. Join me as I try to navigate the confusing and competitive, not-so-yellow brick road to getting published as a children’s writer, under the guidance of my toddler son.