I've read Harry Potter. I've imagined myself wearing the Sorting Hat. I know the rules of Quidditch and the whereabouts of the Goblet of Fire. What's not to like.
That J.K.Rowling had a brainwave on a train. She got home, and before she even got a cup of tea she'd written the whole damn saga on three rolls of toilet paper. Six publishers later and voila! She's the richest woman this side of the asteroid belt. Now I admire that kind of kick-ass self-belief. I've had a few rejection letters myself, but I'm not about to be disheartened by the narrow-minded views of eighty-five publishers. My socio-psychopolitical novels for young adults are relevant and original. I made my niece read three of them. She said she could find not a shred of literary flair nor the remotest trace of a plot in any of my work. I said thanks for nothing. Don't be expecting a Christmas present.
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