I first decided I wanted to be a writer back in 1986. I was sixteen and I’d just read Graham Masterton’s Night Warriors. It influenced me so much, and the sheer fact that someone could write something so wonderful and terrifying and imaginative inspired me to write my own book. It was, of course, awful, and shall never see the light of day, but I‘ve never looked back or wanted to do anything else but write.

I never tried to get my first novel published, in fact I can’t even remember its name (OK, maybe I can but even the title is embarrassing, so humour me), but my first taste of the arduous process of getting published when I met terry Brooks in Waterstones, Leeds. It was 1988 and he was at that time one of the worlds’s best selling fantasy authors... yet no one came to see him.

So I took advantage of that fact and spent a half hour chatting to him, to learn my first great lesson: the road to publishing is long, and no one will help you. Ever. If you want to become a writer you have to do it all entirely on your own.

This sobering thought had stayed with me for twenty years, and up to this day has remained true. No one, not friends, colleagues, or professionals, have helped me get published (even people in positions where they really could have given me a push in the right direction). Getting manuscripts to the people that count is a Herculean effort, and one I’ve had to do alone. Like me, you'll need to rely on luck and cunning, and pretty much all your skills to get your foot in the door.

I’m not going to talk about rejection today. That’s a story for another time after a few gin and tonics. Stephen King once said he had a six inch nail full of rejection letter before he got his first story published. While I’ve had a bit more general success, my rejection letters could keep a bonfire lit for a week. They’re in a box upstairs. I go look at them when I think I’m getting just a bit too cheerful. But I don’t ever open the lid - therein lies wallowing and much misery - I merely stare at the box. That’s sobering enough for even the perkiest of High School Musical fans.

Getting published these days is nearly impossible. It’s a nightmare just getting a commissioning editor to read your work and you can’t get an agent until you’ve been published, and few publishers will want to see your work unless solicited via an agent. It’s a chicken and egg situation for which there are few solutions.

So, if you can get someone to help you on your long and personal journey to publishing, whether it’s providing you with contacts or even setting up a meeting, then you’re far luckier than I. This industry is focused entirely on who you know. Outwardly, the publishing companies will tell you they’re not taking on any new authors, but come Spring each year there’s a slew of new writers on shelves.

What the publishers really mean is that they’re not taking on any new authors they don’t know, or, far more commonly, haven’t had sex with.

Yes. It all boils down to sex.

As you can see, this is the tone of my new column, and I’ll be updating it with some of the unfortunate things I’ve had the pleasure of encountering on my long journey to authordom. That's not actually a word but this is the only place in the world where someone can reject my work because it's too long, too short, not strong enough, too bold, too rude, too confusing, too, oh you get the idea.