Rubbing salt into my wounds

I've been trying to get published for far longer than I care to remember.

I wish I had a pound for every submission I've made to Jonathan Cape, Harvill Secker, Chatto and Windus and Vintage over the years. If I did I'd have enough money to start my own publishing company. All I've actually got is enough form rejection slips to line the walls of my study so that it is now fully compliant with building insulation standard BS 5422:2001. At least I won't freeze this winter as I toil over my next masterpiece.

All these publishing companies are members of the giant Random House group. And the curious thing is, although they don't think I'm a good enough writer to be published by any of their imprints, they do think I'm good enough to review the books they actually do publish. I know this because some of their publicists have taken to writing to the Pundy House and offering me free books to review on this blog.

Sadly I'm too busy with my next magnum opus to take up their offers. Too busy also to explain my refusal in detail.

So whenever I receive a request for a review I've started sending them form rejection slips. On headed notepaper. Their headed notepaper.

I might freeze to death as a result but at least I'll die with a smile on my face.