I’ve been stalking my postman. As soon as I hear him outside, I race the dog to the front door, half-dressed, extending my hand into his face. Over pints at the pub with his mates, the postman probably tells them about the scary woman who waits for the letter that never comes. This is the first competition I’ve entered and for some reason I thought I could handle it. The prize is a year’s worth of mentorship for my book. Too valuable not to attempt. Usually, I stay far away from contests. The odds are worse than the national lottery and I need confidence, not a breakdown brought on by undelivered mail. First, the deadline was scheduled for end of July. Then it changed to August. But it makes no difference, because I can honestly say (dear blog you are my witness) that there is no way I’m getting shortlisted. I’m not being dramatic or looking for sympathetic votes. I am clear-eyed about my undelivered rejection. You see, I made the mistake of rereading my submission. Oh man, oh man. Optimist that I am, I’m still waiting for my letter.