This morning I am sending you the rewrite of my story Invisible that you asked for six weeks ago.

It took me three days to fix up the story. The rest of the time I've been sitting on it, terrified that if I send it in you might reject it. And it's so nice to be living in the place where I can tell people 'Penguin might pick it up' and have a hope that it will get published.

If you don't like my rewrites, I'll do them again. And again. And again. I'll pretty much do anything to that story if it means you'll publish it. 

Ever since the day my name was read out as the winner of the White Essay Competition at the British Overseas School in Karachi, and I felt butterflies fly from my toes to my heart, at the age of 8, I have known that I wanted to be a writer. I was in Year 3, and I beat Year 5 and 6 students to get my name engraved on that enormous cup. A few months later, in Australia, when I saw a bookshop window full of bestsellers, I decided that that was what I was going to do. Write. And get published.

Please. Send me a contract. You won't regret it. I'm quite easy to work with and I'll probably send you a box of chocolates when you sign me up.

Yours faithfully,

Desperate Wanna-be Writer.