I have sent out Kilea, the first book I wrote, like noah did his wee dove across the waters; across the city of New York, to agents and interested friends.
Actually the first book I wrote was when I was ten, in a hardcover exercise book. It was called ‘Kyle the Lamb’, and was a bildungsroman of a lamb (named after the Kyle of Lochalsh, which cuts between Skye and the mainland) who wishes to leave his safe home under an overhang of ling roots to visit the big city and seek his fortune. He and a friend, Hamish the Highland Cow, make the journey, but become separated by fate, and as I remember, both are caught and butchered for fast food meat. There were illustrations, more despairing than grim.
I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever write a sweet story where all is spun sugar and light. Probably not.